One stormy night I lay in bed. I just couldn’t nod off.
The alien beside me had a most annoying cough.
He’d landed here the night before. He’d flown through space and time.
He’d brought a Snoo, a wild Faloo, and this here book of rhyme.

He said that, on his planet, it was forbidden to write prose
And, though his world was just like ours, it was different, I suppose.
There were monsters, talking animals and a person just like me.
They spoke in perfect English. “Like what we speaks,” I told he.

He’d spent his whole life writing. He’d been ridiculed and goaded.
And whilst his spaceship flew away, his planet had exploded.
He asked me, as he lay there, if I could grant him just one wish:
To take a look inside this book and possibly publish.

And then he breathed his dying breath upon that bed of mine.
But, before he died, he whispered, “I’d charge six pounds ninety nine.”
So look into your heart (and in your pocket, I’d suggest)
And help me lay that last remaining alien to rest.

Please buy this book of nonsense - you’ll be helping if you do,
‘Cause what I need is food to feed his Snoo, and wild Faloo.

buy from www.gingercatpublishing.co.uk or Amazon or Waterstones. Cheers, big ears!