The Dragon

 

He lived in a cave, all by himself,

His great big teeth, he kept on a shelf.

His wings tucked up by his side.

so he can fly anywhere to hide.

 

His scales rattle as he goes for a walk.

From his nostrils pours out smoke.

He has a weapon, his breath of flame.

This is no animal you can tame.

 

The steam rises from his back.

His tail whips with a mighty crack.

The old dragon is no longer alive.

He died some years ago at the sea-side.

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(The very first poem I wrote aged 13, in 1973.)