I am wearing a hat that’s two sizes too big for my head;
I wear it all day, and, at night, I wear it in bed.
.
It’s tall like a funnel,
and has a bird perched atop,
in the Winter –
in the Summer, it flies off,
for a southern clime stop.
.
It’s stripy and rigid,
reinforced by a band,
who are playing ‘Jerusalem,
Will you please lend a hand?’
.
It’s too tall for tunnels,
too hot for toast;
I wear it at weddings,
and when I visit the coast.
.
Surfing is fun, when you’re dressed for the board,
and my hat gets such compliments,
it’s widely adored.
.
I got my hat from a man in the Strand,
he said it was new,
but it seemed second hand –
there were receipts in the lining,
for a supper at the Ritz;
so, I went there to ask them
whomever the hat fits.
.
They remembered it
from a thousand and one times
that Dali had dined there
whilst wearing this hat,
acting suave and refined,
his entourage laughing along to his joke;
and then the clocks melted:
‘He was such a fine diner,
and such a nice bloke.’
.
So, my hat has a history,
a story to tell,
it’s no longer a mystery
on which I must dwell;
and it’s famous to me,
and heard of by some;
and, another detail;
it was a present to Dali,
from Picasso’s mum.
Graeme Sandford 