The pretzel, the pig and the baby baboon
went sailing away in a cardboard balloon.
They floated from Tuesday till sometime in June
on the vapors of valentine mints.
The baby baboon and the pretzel and pig
were happy at home in their bell-bottomed rig.
The flung off their caps as they jiggled a jig
over mountains of satin and chintz.
The pretzel played banjo and wiggled about.
The baby baboon gave a whoop and a shout.
The pig ate a pickle and polished his snout.
as they flew through a candy cane sky.
They soared on the breeze over cinnamon seas
and counted the stars in the sassafras trees,
then dined on spaghetti and strawberry teas
with bananas and Boston cream pie.
So give me your hand and we’ll stroll down the strand.
We’ll splash in the surf and collapse on the sand,
to wait near the spot where they’re planning to land
for I hear that they’re coming home soon.
We’ll watch for the pig and the pretzel as well,
commanding their craft over billow and swell,
to guide them home safely by ringing a bell
by the light of the indigo moon.
Willie had a stubborn wart
upon his middle toe.
Regardless, though, of what he tried
the wart refused to go.
So Willie went and visited
his family foot physician,
who instantly agreed
it was a stubborn wart condition.
The doctor tried to squeeze the wart.
He tried to twist and turn it.
He tried to scrape and shave the wart.
He tried to boil and burn it.
He poked it with a pair of tongs.
He pulled it with his tweezers.
He held it under heat lamps
and he crammed it into freezers.
Regrettably these treatments
were of very little use.
He looked at it and sputtered,
“Ach! I cannot get it loose!
“I’ll have to get some bigger tools
to help me to dissect it.
I’ll need to pound and pummel it,
bombard it and inject it.”
He whacked it with a hammer
and he yanked it with a wrench.
He seared it with a welding torch
despite the nasty stench.
He drilled it with a power drill.
He wrestled it with pliers.
He zapped it with a million volts
from large electric wires.
He blasted it with gamma rays,
besieged it with corrosives,
assaulted it with dynamite
and nuclear explosives.
He hit the wart with everything
but when the smoke had cleared,
poor Willie’s stubborn wart remained,
and Willie’d disappeared.
Today we had some weather
like I’ve never seen before,
so I pulled on my galoshes
and I headed out the door.
It sprinkled, first so lightly,
it could easily be mist.
A tornado then came dancing by,
it swung and did the twist.
The fogbanks opened up their vaults
and let out all their fogs,
and the dog pound took a pounding;
it was raining cats and dogs.
It started raining buckets,
then the rain came down in sheets.
I had never seen so many
sheets and buckets in the streets.
I’d planned to watch the weather
and, though gallantly I tried,
when it started hailing taxis
I gave up and went inside.
A strange old man fell out of bed,
and hit the floor and bonked his head.
It bonked so hard, to his dismay
his head fell off and rolled away.
And when he found he’d lost his head
and realized he must be dead,
he fell back into bed and then
he bonked his head back on again.
My sneakers are speaking in German.
I find it completely dismaying.
I’ve tried but I cannot determine
a thing that my sneakers are saying.
They’re blabbering blithely and loudly
as if they think no one can hear them.
They’re jabbering jokingly, proudly
as if there were nobody near them.
I’ve never heard sneakers more oral,
like preachers engaged in a sermon.
It’s frustrating hearing them quarrel;
I simply don’t understand German.
They like to converse when I’m walking.
They scream and they yell when I’m pacing.
I finally got sick of their talking
and sat down and started unlacing.
I set them both up on the table,
and saw on my shoes with chagrin,
“American Made” on the label
but tongues marked with “Made in Berlin.”
I am Levitating Lester.
I am lighter than a feather.
I’m as buoyant as a bubble.
I am weightless altogether.
If you carefully observe me
you will see me floating soon.
I will rise up from my mattress
like a helium balloon.
Yes, it happens every morning:
I awaken in my bed,
and I drift up to the ceiling
where I sometimes bump my head.
If I wake before the sunrise
it’s a miserable flight,
for I cannot see the ceiling
when there isn’t any light.
So I always keep a flashlight
on my bed where I recline,
so in case I wake in darkness
I can simply rise and shine.
I’ve recently returned from Mars
I went for several years.
I rode in Martian motorcars,
bought Martian souvenirs.
I went to Martian movies
and saw Martian movie stars,
attended Martian concerts
and heard Martians play guitars.
I ate in Martian restaurants
and went to Martian schools.
I played on Martian tennis courts
and swam in Martian pools.
I hung around with Martian girls
and talked to Martian boys.
I went to Martian shopping malls
and played with Martian toys.
At last I’m back on planet Earth
from out among the stars.
So why does everyone I see here
act like they’re from Mars?