Steve the Suicidal Slug

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There was once a slug
His name was Steve
He was not a bug
That could even perceive
What it’s like to hug
Only knows how to grieve

He decided being alive
Just wasn’t for him
So he took a drive
On a bit of a whim
Got to the cafe at five
When the sky was dim

He found on a table
A shaker of salt
Be he was unable
To lift up the vault
And like a fable
It wasn’t his fault

So he slithered away
Out of the door
The sky wasn’t grey
Or even grim anymore
He was glad that today
He wanted death no more

But he heard a sound
Made him feel like crying
And he turned around
To see the salt flying
Covering the ground
Until he was dying

Dissolving into a puddle
On the busy street
His mind was a muddle
Thinking quite a feat
He just wanted a cuddle
Really rather sweet

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The Undead Leg of Octopus Meg

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Octopus Meg
Was a sad little creature
Because of her leg
She was a freak of nature

When she was born
Her parents did cry
They couldn’t keep her
They didn’t bother to try

So they ditched her in the sea
And she hid amongst the reeds
She tried to get one free
They’re the sharpest of the weeds

She held the leg on top
The one all rotten and red
And she began to chop
The leg that was undead

But as she cut in deep
To that awful looking thing
It seemed to start to weep
And hesitation it did bring

In that regrettable moment
Poor Meg had lost already
The undead leg had bent
And held her neck steady

The last thing she spied
Was the leg crawling away
And as she quietly died
It searched for more prey

Buttonhead Sue

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Meet my pal Buttonhead Sue
Oh whatever can she do?
She has a hole for each eye
Which means she can’t even cry!

She doesn’t have a mouth
And she can’t look South
Without the weight of her head
Making her fall off her bed

Then a needle through her eyes
Pulling thread and making ties
Sewing her to a strangers shirt
Luckily, plastic can’t be hurt

She was quite happy there
Lots of buttons without a care
Until her stitching got pulled loose
And hung her, like a noose

Sir Kitty Winklepicker

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Sir Kitty Winklepicker
was a very posh cat.
His ‘tash couldn’t be thicker
and he sported a top hat!

He wore a monocle with pride,
held in place with his frown.
He didn’t even try to hide,
he was the coolest puss in town.

He drank nothing but Earl Grey
and soft jazz was his music.
He enjoyed a pipe a day
as he read a good classic.

Oh, poor old Sir Kitty,
he could never run far
and it was really a pity,
that he didn’t see the car.