03 November 2003 - 2:06 a.m.

Squinting at a revised version of a poem, I found myself thinking, "If you tilt your head to the left you could say that it's roughly in the shape of a chai. . ."

That would be a sure sign it's time to leave the poem alone and go to bed. (Aside to M'ris and Rae: No, I haven't touched the Scotch. I didn't even get around to the scrambled eggs and salad - I've stayed rooted to this couch all perishin' evening, muttering "Just one more email. . ." and formatting submissions and staring down that recalcitrant pickled garlic poem into - well, into submission, literally.)

But as long as I'm in a silly mood, how about some Lois Simmie verses? She's Canadian, and she's got this daft little collection titled Auntie's Knitting a Baby that I picked up at the library yesterday. Here's the opener:

Auntie's knitting a baby bonnet
That looks like the lid of a pot;
If Auntie's baby fits that hat
It's not going to look so hot.

And then, four poems into the sequence:

Auntie's knitting a baby bonnet
That looks like a butterfly net;
If Auntie's baby fits that hat
It's going to be hard to forget.

And on and on, making for quite the collection of chapeaux by the time the baby arrives. It gave me the giggles.

And having said that, it's off to bed, where I don't wear a hat but a cat on my head. . .