In the tiniest speck of quite miniscule dust,

Were a whole race of Whos with a tiny size just

Like electrons, where they were the smallest iotas.

Elections were won by diminutive voters.

But then, once they’d been saved by a grey elephant,

From a boiling, they all needed deodorant,

As the pot’s near proximity had made them sweat.

But their troubles were over, and they calmed down yet.

Well at least, most calmed down, but a lad with a brain

Quite unequalled, experienced ongoing strain.

He could hardly be senile, while still in his prime.

So why was his whole life narrated in rhyme?

It was true. He had somehow tuned into a voice,

Which described all his actions, as if he’d no choice.

He had listened as all of his life was narrated,

In much poetry, thinking, “My future’s dictated.”

Then he looked at his neighbours, with chills in his bones.

Like himself, they resembled the art of Chuck Jones.

As he struggled to shake what was in his mind loose,

He remained the sole Who, that had heard Dr Seuss!

There were times, when the Doctor’s mind wandered elsewhere,

And the little Who lad found the whole thing unfair.

He could still hear an oratory, highly involved,

Of a buttered bread battle, not ever resolved.

As he already knew, from their time near the pot,

This mysterious voice told the wackiest plot,

Every time that it spoke; and the Little Who knew,

That the Grinch was no safer than Roald Dahl’s Rhyme Stew.

So, aware of his tininess, he stopped to think:

It was time for appointments with Who’s only shrink.

While in therapy, Little Who told what he’d heard,

But then even their sessions became rhyming word.

The psychiatrist told him, “No ifs and no buts.

My clear diagnosis is: You’ve gone quite nuts.

I don’t know if you’ve drunk of too many a flagon;

But right now I shall send for the Who paddy wagon.”

So the Who was then placed in a Who funny farm,

Just in case his assertions may do further harm,

To himself or to others, as no-one believed

That he’d heard Doctor Seuss. They just thought him deceived.

But when Horton grew old and decidedly lazy,

His old duties passed on, to a grown adult Mayzie,

Who had wondered why she had a flower on her head.

Now the dust speck Who planet was her charge instead.

So the tiniest planet was able to settle

In the safest of places: a single flower petal

On Miss Daisy-Head Mayzie’s quite floral head piece.

For as long as she lived, they’d acquired a new lease.

Institutionalized, Little Who sorely protested;

But their doctors believed that the poor lad had jested

Far too often in youth and become quite unhinged.

In the smallest of nut houses, Little Who whinged.

Then the tiny Observer who’d erstwhile contacted

Their first rescuer, Horton, took stock and then acted.

By the use of devices, he contacted Mayzie,

And then learned things that proved Little Who wasn’t crazy.

Back when Mayzie was teenaged, and oh so endearing,

Her developing eardrums had also been hearing

What the good Doctor spoke in his rhymed publication.

She had not faced her own institutionalization.

Mayzie’s silence protected her from the straight jacket.

But the Doctor’s narration became quite a racket,

Up until the time came, when he also passed on,

Just like Horton; and then all the light really shone.

When the Whos learned all this, they so quickly released

Little Who from the rubber room. Name calling ceased;

For both Mayzie and Little Who shared a rare gift

They could use, with the dust speck no longer adrift.

For they now heard each other, without the device

That Observer had used. Then there came winter’s ice.

While the Whos took to skating, or riding toboggan,

Their entire world continued, atop Mayzie’s noggin.

Back at home, Little Who spoke, forever without,

Any need for his vocals to raise to a shout.

Mayzie heard everything he orated quite clearly,

Just as he did, when she spoke. He liked her voice dearly.

So they courted, just verbally. Size would prohibit

Any chances for face-to-face dating exhibit.

Lovely Mayzie had hope, each time he would contact her,

That they’d simply rely on the Doctor Seuss factor.

Although Mayzie’s and Little Who’s talented ears

Could no longer hear Seuss, who’d used up all his years

On the earth as a writer, now snug in his grave,

They believed some new poet was willing to rave.

As the pair of them hoped that they’d somehow go steady,

And they whispered more sweet nothings, just to be ready

For the chance when their first proper date would begin,

Perhaps that’s where this author (myself) would come in.

Would the flower topped lady and well hearing Who

Tune their ears into hearing my poetry too?

If they did, could I think of a way to surmount

Their size barrier? That needs more verses to count.

I could think of solutions, and then make them oral,

But ‘though each Doctor Seuss tale, contained a weird moral,

Some of them left their last pages quite open ended.

On this fact then, a size challenged marriage depended.

With my readers now scraping what’s under the barrel,

They’re all dumping this yarn, to go read Lewis Carroll,

Whose intelligent verses were not so off tap.

And since I couldn’t blame them, I’ll go take a nap.

But before my new readers become slightly bored,

With the way a long dead writer’s works were explored,

They’ll concede, that no matter how big or how small

These two are, their adventures had breached the Fourth Wall.