It’s raining in my bedroom.
It’s been this way all week.
I think the upstairs neighbor’s plumbing
might have sprung a leak.
They may be on vacation.
They must be out of town.
And, all the while, my bedroom rain
continues pouring down.
My shoes have gotten soggy.
My bed is growing mold.
A pond is forming on my floor.
It’s all so wet and cold,
that frogs have started spawning.
An otter wandered through
with salmon splashing upstream,
and some guy in a canoe.
Now waves are growing larger.
The weather’s turning grim.
A tide is rising rapidly.
I’m glad that I can swim.
My parents called the plumber.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
Does anybody know where I
can buy a submarine?
Before I go to sleep each night
I first remove my head,
and set it gently down upon
the nightstand by my bed.
And every morning when I wake,
I stretch my arms and yawn,
then pick my head up carefully
and put it right back on.
I put my head on backward
when I woke up yesterday,
and, every time I turned my head,
I looked the other way.
I started walking into walls
and falling down the stairs.
I stumbled into tables
and I tumbled over chairs.
Today is looking even worse;
I woke up in my bed
and felt around my nightstand
but I couldn’t find my head.
I hope I find it shortly.
I’d be sad if it were gone.
From now on when I go to bed
I think I’ll leave it on.
I found an empty cardboard box.
I made myself a fort.
I had to squeeze and twist and turn
and crumple and contort
to climb inside, but now I’m quite
embarrassed to report
I’m stuck inside this cardboard box
that’s clearly much too short.
Has anybody got a box
that’s bigger than a quart?
The Bagel Bird, by all accounts,
is said to lunch on large amounts
of sticks and twigs and sand and stones
and plastic parts from broken phones.
He’ll nibble bits of copper wires
and rubber from discarded tires.
He’ll chomp on tops of cuckoo clocks
and swallow shorts and stinky socks.
He’ll chew your shoes and eat your hat.
He’ll bite your books and baseball bat.
He’ll stuff his lips with poker chips
and snack on sails from sailing ships
and gobble poles and bowling balls
and pick at bricks from fallen walls
and graze on grass and feed on weeds
and dine on twine and strings of beads.
But bagels… whether white or wheat,
or salted, savory, or sweet,
or topped with lox or luncheon meat,
are something he will never eat.
At least that’s what I’ve always heard
about the crazy Bagel Bird.
But I don’t mind because, you see,
that leaves more bagels just for me.