When nothing makes sense

The biscuit tin's gone fishing with a purple Thursday,

While my kettle's having words with the neighbour's cat.

The postman delivered seventeen clouds today,

And I've hung my umbrella on a bowler hat.

My wellies are discussing quantum physics,

With a marmalade jar that speaks Welsh.

The garden gate's gone off to join the circus,

And my teacup's writing novels on the shelf.

The weather forecast called for scrambled eggs,

But all we got was sideways-falling rain.

My bicycle's developed chicken legs,

And the bus stop's gone completely mad again.

So I'll pop the kettle on for half past blue,

And wait for sense to knock upon my door...

Though knowing luck, it'll likely be a shoe

That's come to hoover the
crumbs up off the floor.