I baked a dozen cookies
and I put them on a plate,
and I set them out for Santa Claus,
except for one I ate.
That cookie was amazing
and I couldn’t quite resist…
so I ate another one
that I was sure would not be missed.
I knew it wouldn’t matter
if I only ate one more.
Then I gobbled up another one.
Why not? That’s only four.
I accidentally dropped
another couple on the ground.
I knew Santa wouldn’t want them
so I swiftly scarfed them down.
Another couple disappeared.
I may have eaten those,
though I couldn’t say for certain,
but I guess that’s how it goes.
I figured four was likely more
than Santa Claus would need
so I polished off another few
with unexpected speed.
Before I knew what happened
all the damage had been done,
and I realized I’d accidentally
eaten every one.
I guess it’s best, since Santa
sort of needs to watch his weight.
When he visits us this Christmas
I sure hope he likes the plate.
I have an invisible dragon.
She’s such a remarkable flyer.
She soars through the sky on invisible wings
exhaling invisible fire.
My dragon is
She soundlessly swoops through the air.
Why, she could be flying beside you right now,
and you’d never know she was there.
And if you should reach out to pet her,
I don’t think you’d notice too much.
Her body is simply too airy and light
to sense her by means of a touch.
And just as you don’t see or hear her,
and just as she cannot be felt,
my dragon does not have an odor at all,
which means that she’ll never be smelt.
Although you may find this
you just have to trust me, it’s true.
And, oh, by the way, did I mention I have
an invisible unicorn too?
In Yankee Stadium they seat
a hundred people, more or less.
That total could be incomplete;
it’s really just a ballpark guess.
A pair of potatoes were talking,
discussing what might be for lunch.
One turned to the other and told him,
“I think that I might have a hunch.
As long as we stay near the kitchen
and don’t wander too far afield,
I’m sure that we’ll see what they’re serving.
We just have to keep our eyes peeled.”
I bought a new banana suit
and new banana shoes.
I stickered up my body with
I also bought banana socks,
a big banana hat,
banana scarf and jewelry,
banana this and that.
Around my face I wrapped
a yellow handkerchief/bandana,
then walked into the market
like an over-sized banana.
I filled a cart with every last
banana in the store,
and when I’d gotten all of them
I headed for the door.
The managers all stopped and stared.
They nearly flipped their lids.
But I just smiled and said to them,
“I’m rescuing my kids.”
It happened once, I don’t know how,
I found myself upon a cow.
The cow was startled, too, to see
that she was sitting under me.
And underneath the cow, a hog
was resting right atop a dog.
Below them in this lofty heap
were piled a goat, a duck, a sheep,
a buffalo, a horse, a yak,
and at the bottom of the stack,
a rather worried-looking cat,
extremely wide and very flat.
So if you never want your cat
to wind up wide and round and flat
then learn this lesson here and now:
Don’t ever sit upon a cow.
I’m Arthur. I’m an artist,
and I love to paint and draw.
I paint portraits on my forehead.
I draw landscapes on my jaw.
There’s nothing quite as fun
as making sketches on my skin,
so I color on my elbows
and I scribble on my chin.
I’m known for doing doodles
on my fingers and my toes,
and my belly and my back are brushed
with beautiful tableaus.
I hope you’ll come and see me
to appreciate my scrawls.
I am always in museums
where I hang upon the walls.
Just find the guy with ink and paint
on every body part.
Or, instead, just ask for me by name;
my friends all call me “Art.”
I’m Floyd, the coin collector.
It’s coins that I collect.
I’m really not too finicky
with which ones I select.
I like collecting pennies;
they’re all I get sometimes.
But often I get nickels, too,
and frequently it’s dimes.
I’ll gladly keep a dollar coin,
a quarter, or a pound.
I’d even save a rupee
or a ruble that I found.
A euro here, a guilder there,
a peso or a franc;
I’ll happily collect them all
and put them in the bank.
My hobby is a simple one;
it’s not the least bit strange.
And all you have to do to help
is give me all your change.
Fearless Frederick had some hot sauce
and it set his mouth afire.
It made flames fly from his nostrils
and his upper lip perspire.
It ignited all his taste buds.
It made steam shoot out his ears.
He turned redder than a stop sign.
He burst out in boiling tears.
He was hopping on the table.
He was running ’round the room
as his hair began to sizzle
and his face began to fume.
He tried sucking on a popsicle
and gargling in the sink.
He drank everything he found
inside the fridge that he could drink.
He tried glugging tubs of ice cream.
He poured ice cubes on his head,
but it didn’t help to quench
the flaming mouth of Fearless Fred.
He tried all that he could think of
to exterminate the blaze,
why he even stuck his tongue inside
in a jar of mayonnaise.
And then when at last his mouth was cooled
by bucket-loads of water,
the first thing that he said was,
“May I please have something hotter?”
He’s “Mr. Athletic,”
the coolest of jocks,
the school’s fastest runner:
His name is Jim Sox.
He’s fearsome at football,
terrific at tennis.
At baseball and basketball
Jim is a menace.
He’s always the winner.
There isn’t a sport
where Jim doesn’t rule
as the king of the court.
He’s equally blessed
on the field and the rink,
but all of that exercise
gives him a stink.
And so in our schoolyard
the greatest of knocks
is telling a person,
“You smell like Jim Sox.”