(Dadabot is starting to sound relatively sane in his old age,
but his actions suggest that madness may be creeping in.
He has stopped listening to the mops, for one.)
The peas lie shrivelled and I lie crumpled,
An age of newspapers piled up rumpled
Blocking the exit to the front door.
Thoughts of eerie pancakes come and go.
But one escaped once,
I feel this to be true,
For I counted their twining movements
And I knew
That the tendrils of his heart-strings were longing for
He felt the pull of his fellow peas
Like the tides feel the moon,
Like a Newton’s cradle on an office desk,
That ticks slowly back and forth
Until an exciting biscuit breaks the monotony of the day,
By plunging into a mustard colour mug,
of uncertain origin,
Blazoned with adverts for entities
Whose meaning or purpose is unclear.
But he broke away.
Or perhaps was taken.
The one that got away.
Drawn by the prospect of a flash of custard cream,
Or Nice, to sugar-coat the beat of life
For a few exquisite seconds.
Cackling mathematicians grimace.
Here there are no exciting biscuits.
There is no hope.
Even of a custard cream.
I wonder if he thinks of us,
And what he has become?
Or perhaps he too lies shrivelled,
In another building, surrounded by the floating detritus
Of a life unredeemed even by an exciting biscuit.
I do not think the mops can be as intelligent as I once thought.
So, against their advice I painted each pea a perfect polished chrome,
In several coats with careful sanding of the cracks inbetween,
And they shone like perfect planets in a divine system,
While inside their green cores rot and shrivel to a different sludgy beat.
I tied them up,
In perfect symmetry,
And set them beating a perfect rhythm,
Loud, clear and deadly
To bring him home again.
Seize tarmac, philanthropists!
The pea that got away.
The mops are uncertain. They nod their sage heads
And murmur disapproval.
But one is starting to wonder,
If it could manoeuvre itself through the letterbox
And find him.
Plunge, orchestral backgammon.