If books were people I’d keep me closed,
A done tale is a safe one.
A done tale doesn’t bite.
This dovetails nice with my fear of foes –
The fierce fishmoth (both bug and fish?)
And the termite’s mighty blight.
I must protect my poemy prose
By trusting that no one can fight
A thing that no one knows.
Indeed I’d be forever closed
If need – yes need! – however slight,
Of knowing where the next tale goes
Had not been so polite as to impose.
But for that, I suppose,
I’d be forever closed.
Our train has left the track!
It hopped right off, it will not stop,
And it’s never going back!
Should I confess? It’s all my fault.
I wouldn’t sit, ran back and forth,
Rocked it out of balance and knocked us off our course,
And now this disastrain isn’t gonna halt!
It’s not that bad, I guess.
Where we were headed I didn’t really want to go,
Though I can’t recall just where it was
It must have been so bad I didn’t want to know,
So to our new course I say, “Yes and yes!”
Oh, no and no! We’ve gone over a cliff!
The ground is dropping off!
Dropping off? This here’s no train.
I’m pretty sure we’re on a plane.
You can’t forever fail.
You mustn’t always win.
The only choice to ever make is try and try again.
I raced myself down Drury Lane,
I paced myself with hasty grace
For this great race was ace on ace
And I could only face first place.
Though some complained, “Explain this brain!
It’s plain this boy’s in and outsane!
To think he’s two is painful vain!”
But I’d take no nasty sass.
So I and me tore torward the end full blast,
Gassing to the finish dastardly fast
When we both stopped short aghast –
Me and myself were in a race for last.
All the other other mes had long ago run past…
There was an old lady whose dress,
Was the ugliest thing, I confess;
It sent critters running,
No matter how cunning,
They all feared that old lady’s dress.
There was a young lad whose mustache,
Gave his face a most terrible rash;
But he wouldn’t shave,
Rather go to the grave,
That prideful young lad and mustache.
There was an old man of Bilbao,
Who married himself to a cow;
Conversation was dull,
But the milk pail was full,
That oddball old man of Bilbao.
Plink was always warned to wear her shoes.
Her mums would say, “If you don’t you’ll lose
Your toes to nails or bees or you’ll meet
A borrish grumpkin who’ll gladly eat your feet.”
But feet stayed bare ’til a deep field stirred
And something so much worse occurred.
(Or better, depending on your view.
Funny how my likes might not be true for you.)
Every green thing growing in that field
Adored the feel of feet unpealed
Of awful straps all trapping
Little jailed piggies in need of unwrapping.
When that field felt unfurled toes
It grew straight up into her bones.
Her feet became a grassy green
And flowers crowned her like a queen.
Plink put down roots and threw up branches
With golden leaves and berries in bunches.
She’s now home to birds, bugs and squirrels,
Who knew shoe losing would flip worlds?
Her mums still tries to keep her trimmed,
But Plink was never known as prim.
That field will never give her back
And Plink is happiest with that.
Drawn by Jen
There was a young lad of Hoboken,
Who only had cups that were broken;
He’d pour and he’d pour,
The floor always got more,
That thirsty young lad of Hoboken.
There was an old man in a shack,
Perched precariously over a crack;
They said he’d fall in,
He just gave ’em a grin,
That unworried old man in his shack.
There was an old lady of Godric,
Who developed an awfully odd tic;
Whenever she’d cough,
Her eyebrows would pop off,
That peculiar old lady of Godric.