On my gravestone it must say
Here lies Mike, who rhymed all day.
He had so many in his head,
He’s even rhyming when he’s dead.
Unlike the sensible Mike Lucas, the silly Mike Lucas is quite mad. Oh, he’s not mad in the ‘evil, wicked laugh, take over the world’ sense of the word. Though he has been known to issue a slightly bad chuckle at times and would consider taking over the world if the world was really small and made of chocolate and if he didn’t have to get up early in the morning to do it.
He lives in Adelaide, Australia and can see the sea from his house. Sometimes he sees a whale swim past and waves and sometimes the whale waves back. Sometimes the waves wave back too. And once a wave wailed.
He likes cheesecake and the number 12 and cats. He doesn’t like chicken soup, but he doesn’t mind chickens or soup by themselves. And he writes very funny poems and stories and visits schools and shops and libraries and farms and forests to read to children and animals and trees. The trees are very rude and never applaud. The animals are very rude and go to the toilet whilst he’s reading to them. So he prefers to read to children.
Anyway, he’s mad. He does things that are mad. He sees mad things around him that nobody else sees. He talks mad, he walks mad, he squawks mad. He even smells mad (it’s like a cross between the scent of bananas, corned beef and flamingo poo). And because he’s mad, he can think of things that other people who aren’t mad can’t think of – unless they try really hard and screw up their brains and stand on one leg and poke out their tongues and say in a squeaky voice:
But I warn you – that’s a secret very few people know and it can be very risky. It should only be tried by a trained mad professional. Or a child.
And being mad is what helps him pen his fantastical poems and tell his fabulificent tales. It opens a bright orange door with purple elephant door handles and farting door hinges to a weirdly wild and wonderful world where anything can happen – anything at all.
And then he steps through it. And the things he sees…
But, you’re not mad, I’m sure. You wouldn’t be interested in peeking through that door; in smirking ever so slightly at silly subjects; in sniggering quite sneakily at strange stories; in giggling somewhat disgustedly at ghastly goings on.
You would? Oh, my! Oh, I wasn’t expecting that. Not at all.
Well, you know what to do, don’t you. But one last thing: being mad can be catching. You may never be the same again. Now, screw up your brain, stand on one leg, poke out your tongue and (in a squeaky voice)…
© Copyright Mike Lucas