Somewhere

Somewhere,

there's a planet

where Einstein's gutting fish,

Hawking is a dustbinman

and Da Vinci's work is pish.

In a chip shop,

near a comet,

just where Elvis used to work,

The King is Rigel's Nigel,

and Dylan's just some berk.

There are planets

made of cheddar,

round a giant that is read,

where the body is the brain

that is nourished by the head.

There's a box

that has no cat in,

or maybe there's no box

and all the laws of physics

will never start the clocks.

Somewhere,

there's a planet

where people make things up,

where maybe there's a poem

and maybe that's enough.