When a full moon is hanging over his bed
Little snores flutter about Dad’s baldie head.
They snicker and tweak at his eyelashes,
But he does not stir.
Not even when they flash, scuttle and whirr,
Play peek a boo from behind his large flappy ears,
Or roost in his laughter lines.
They work, rest and play on the planet of his head,
Until Monday’s dawn nears
And the little snores go to bed.