Old Stickler McGee,
The other alien in me.
If something takes his fancy,
He can’t leave it be.
He’s a collector of things,
But when his mood swings,
He jumps from one obsession
To the next.
He’s not quite a hoarder,
He keeps everything in order,
For this is what
Pleases him most.
He hates odd numbers
Of the things that he plunders,
So he stacks them all
In neat rows.
He can be overwhelmed
By the slightest of smells
That offend
His bulbous red nose.
He has many eyes
That he uses to find
Patterns that people
Can’t see.
He dislikes Jolly Fooker,
My other onlooker,
Who also lives
In my brain.
Where Fooker is frantic,
Stickler’s pedantic.
And they clash
All night and day.
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