Of all the things we anthropomorphize, you might be most iconic.
Of all the toys I step on nightly, your injuries, most chronic.
Lacquered in a shade of blue, matched perfectly to the sky,
You seem to jump out, underfoot, for grown-ups passing by.
Why can’t it be a cuddly toy, or blankie in my path?
Instead, I trip on only you. Have I incurred your wrath?
I begin to think it’s all a plot, schemed up on skeevy Sodor.
I’ve always felt Sir Topham Hatt gives off malicious odor.
First, they slandered Lego; quite destroyed their reputation.
Those bricks can’t catch a break from all the painful condemnation.
But Legos are not the enemy, you must trust me when I say,
These attacks upon your soles create confusion and delay.
While you coral those colored bricks, to keep from nightly tripping,
They steam their way into your path to begin their fretful nipping.
Because, if parents, far and wide, were incapable of walking,
Those wily locomotives could expand their steamy flocking.
They’d leave Sodor upon Bulstrode, his hull the shade of rubies.
Bulstrode is a grumpy barge, for all you Thomas newbies.
Braving sea and storms, they’d come ashore, and build tracks from here to there.
No foot would find it safe to walk, any time or anywhere.
And so my little wooden friend, your face as grey as smoke,
While you delight my little boy, I know what your grin cloaks.
Your evil is not welcome here, and I beseech your name!
RETURN, and take that Percy with you,
Back to Sodor, from whence you came.