When flowers wake each morning
they don’t have to make their beds.
And lettuce leaves aren’t told to comb
the hair upon their heads.
You’d never tell asparagus
it shouldn’t play with spears.
You’d never ask a stalk of corn
to wash behind its ears.
A mushroom doesn’t have to
clean its room, and you’ll agree
a tree won’t have to study hard
to learn geometry.
I guess it should be obvious
from listening to my rant.
I’m tired of being a person;
I would rather be a plant.
Our mother threw the pie away.
She dumped out all the Cokes.
She kept the beans and leafy greens
and leeks and artichokes.
She chucked the cheese and chocolate chips.
She pitched the pudding out,
but kept the beets and broccoli
and jars of sauerkraut.
She canned the cakes and cookies
and she ditched the doughnuts too,
but kept the kale and carrot sticks
and celery and tofu.
She jettisoned the junk food.
She tossed out every treat.
So now our house has only foods
that no one wants to eat.
This happens to us every year.
It seems to be our fate.
Our mom goes on a diet
and we all start losing weight.
My kitty likes my goldfish.
My kitty likes my mice.
My kitty likes my parakeets.
She thinks they’re all so nice.
The way she mews so sweetly,
the way she sits and stares,
I’d have to say it’s obvious
how much my kitty cares.
She doubtlessly adores them
and thinks so highly of them.
She treats them so attentively
it’s clear that she must love them.
But, tragically, they disappeared
the other afternoon.
My kitty seems so lonely now.
I hope they come back soon.
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.
Clippity cloppity bippity boop.
Flippity floppity slippity sloop.
Hippity hoppity dippity doop.
Zippity zoppty pippity poop.
Mippity moppity trippity troop.
Lippity loppity vippity voop.
Nippity noppity grippity groop.
Tippity toppity quippity quoop.
Drippity droppity jippity joop.
Blippity bloppity sippity soop.
Yippity yoppity whippity whoop.
I wrote this whole poem so I could say, “poop.”
I named my dogs the strangest names,
not simply “Spot” or “Rover.”
Instead I named them “Fetch” and “Stay”
and “Here Boy” and “Roll Over.”
Not “Lassie,” “Patch,” or “Fido.”
No, instead they’re “Shake” and “Crawl”
and “Turn Around” and “Take a Bow”
and “Come” and “Wave” and “Ball!”
I gave them these abnormal names
to see what they would do.
I thought it would be fun but,
sad to say, that isn’t true.
And now I’m sort of sorry for the
crazy names I used.
My dogs cannot do any tricks;
they’re all just too confused.
Our neighbor is a werewolf
and I know this for a fact.
He may look like he’s human
but I’m certain it’s an act.
I figured out his secret
on my own the other day.
And now I’m warning everyone
to scream and run away.
I know that he’s a werewolf now.
I have no doubt because
who else would want to live inside
a were-house like he does?
The clock-maker Finnegan Flanagan Fox
makes nothing but genuine grandfather clocks.
As soon as you see them you’ll know that it’s true;
His clocks all have children and grandchildren too.
I’m Bloome, the human boomerang.
I soar up in the sky.
My skill is quite remarkable.
It’s fun to watch me fly.
To start, I grab my ankles
and I lift me off the ground,
then swing myself in circles
till I’m spinning ’round and ’round.
And when I’m spinning fast enough
I say a little prayer,
then heave myself with all my might
and launch me in the air.
I fly a giant circle
and return right back to me.
Except today I missed and now
I’m stuck up in a tree.
Today I walked into my big brother’s room,
and that’s when I saw it: The Armpit of Doom.
I wasn’t expecting The Armpit at all.
I shrieked and fell backward and grabbed for the wall.
The Armpit was smelly. The Armpit was hairy.
The Armpit was truly disgusting and scary.
I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry.
I wanted to flee from its all-seeing eye.
My skin started crawling with goosebumps and chills.
My brain began screaming to head for the hills.
I tried to escape but I knew I could not.
In horror, I found I was glued to the spot.
“Will somebody help me!?” I started to shout,
till fumes overcame me and made me pass out.
And that’s why I’m here in this hospital room;
it’s all on account of The Armpit of Doom.
I’m still feeling shaken. I’m queasy and pale,
but lucky I lived and can tell you my tale.
So take my advice… If you ever go near
your big brothers room, bring a whole lot of gear:
A gas mask and goggles, a helmet and shield,
or maybe a space suit that’s perfectly sealed.
And then, only then, when you’re fully prepared,
step in very slowly and hope you’ll be spared.
But, if you’re afraid of the Armpit of Doom,
stay far, far away from your big brother’s room.