A NIGHT AT HOOTERS

The village is buzzing,

TV people are coming,

yet no-one’s nipping up to the moon.

What we’ll shoot is much cuter,

winked the balding producer,

then turned back to his camera crew.

The auberge is booked up,

they’ve brought all sorts of stuff

just to film by the light of the moon.

This is unprecedented,

just so utterly splendid,

the man gushed, as the bustle resumed.

This level of fervour

is so far unheard of

for fowl dancing under the moon.

Yes, you read that quite right,

they let loose when it’s bright

at the Cute Chickadees’ Last Saloon.

An owl sets the mood

in a tree near the coop,

as he hoots by the light of the moon.

This nocturnal MC –

a Carl Cox devotee –

is the bees’ knees in fowl pleasing tunes.

The hens are a-grooving,

the cocks cockadoodling

as they rock by the light of the moon.

The turkey is sloshed,

his girlfriend’s in a strop,

he’ll be nuggets –

that stewed dude is doomed!

Now some rude paparazzi

have gate-crashed the party,

tickled pink by the light of the moon.

The owl is twit-twooing,

every bonbon is moving,

in a dazzling feathery swoon.

By dawn it’s a wrap,

and the trucks are all packed –

the sun’s stolen the light of the moon.

But tonight, we’ll all cheer

In front of our TVs

As the owl’s rhythmic hooting resumes.

I have several signed copies of my poetry book, Illicit Croissants At Dawn available. It would make a wonderful Christmas gift! Contact me at Francesca.bossert@gmail.com