Poetry rocks

I just read a hilarious book called Notes on an Orange Burial. It's about a slightly insane unpublished poet trying desperately to get his magnum opus into print.

I thought of it when looking at this poem Max wrote recently at school.

But it wasn't until he insisted I take this picture of him 'being a rock' in one of Chris' sweaters that I started getting really concerned.

For the record (and kindness to eyes) the poem goes like this:
My dad is so nice poem
by Max Braithwaite

My dad is so nice
he dosn't try to kill mice
Once he put me to sleep
and told me a story about a peep
I like his rice because he cooks it with spice.