‘Dali’s Hat’

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.


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