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Our blotch

There's a blotch on our ceiling,
It is very strange;
Every night we stare at it,
Its shape appears to change.

Every night it's different,
We wonder what it means.
As we start to slumber,
It comes into our dreams.

It's an odd old blotch,
The one that's on our ceiling;
We see some funny faces,
It's a truly eerie feeling.

The faces seem to smile,
Not one of them are sad:
Our blotch is a happy one,
Of this we're very glad.

So if you come to visit,
This strange thing you shall watch.
I'll bet you'll go home wishing,
You had your very own blotch.

by Brian Farrant

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