March of the Jelly Babies

I wish I did not share this yellow bag
with all these other smiling moulds
of all the colours of the rainbow.
There's no elbow room
and I'm only small.

We sit here in our yellow prison,
waiting for the hand to find us,
snatch us from our homes and
tear our torso in two.
Then one clever baby in the bunch,
a red one with a smiley face, tells us
"I think I have an idea.

We shall rise up out of the yellow prison.
We shall abseil down the shelves and march
right up to the front counter
and seize the till with strength of numbers.
Next we shall march to the door and open it
and we shall march down the pavement
and the road, towards the supermarkets
and beyond."

(This is the sequel to 'Jelly Babies Have Ears'.)

Jelly Babies Have Ears

I would like to tell you
how to stack the confectionary shelves
for the sale tomorrow.
We can't speak here though.
I think they might be listening
even now.

         What are you talking about?
You mean the jelly babies again?
I've told you before, and I'll tell you
now, jelly babies are not animate.
They can't hear you.
What makes you so certain?

I've started hearing things you see,
in the night when no one's around,
I hear them whispering to each other.
I think they might know you know,
what happens to them in the end.
There's no denying they know.

          Now you're being ridiculous.
They can't hear you!
They can't even see you!
I think you've had one too many
jelly babies yourself.
Now pack this nonsense in!

I told you to watch out.
They've opened their bags
and dragged you to the broom cupboard.
Next they see me, and their sugar coated hands
seized me by the nose.
They're cleverer than they look.

(This is a poem I wrote a while ago, and is one of two parts.)