If I like you, you get a nibble.
If I love you I’ll give a bite.
Kisses are for dogs and royal frogs.
A nose pick if it feels right.

A wink for a special someone.
If in jams there will be snuggles.
Licking’s just for fun.
Handshakes are for business.
Hugs go to anyone.

So what will you receive from me?
A handshake if there’s a need.
With jams, snuggling’s a guarantee.
Nibbles in abundance, hugs and licking, yes indeed.
Bites, winks, and picks, we’ll have to see.

When the great Welsh clock dickory docked eleventy fourt,
Flugzug down and died.
But you must give credit to that cranberry court,
Not a single Zugger cried.

When their fair King passed from the gray to the golden lands
Singing replaced their tears.
They belted out in a fine appley tune their demands
To the Keeper of the Years.

“You’ve taken the best,” they oh so quietly started,
“That we’ve ever known.
Now empty is his chest,” they sang of their beloved departed,
“And the cherry throne.”

“Keeper dig deep here,” they implored of that half-heart Lord,
“You owe an apricot life.
We’re in need of cheer,” their voices rose and roared,
“And a hero to fight strife.”

“Send us safety and hope,” they pled with a sweet kiwi sadness,
“For we fear we’re without.
We can no longer cope,” the chorus collapsed into madness,
“With love lost to doubt.”

The Keeper turned to the King and asked him what to do.
Flugzug felt a fool’s despair,
For he knew that as failures went, his had struck true –
There’s more to caring than care.

Homes for gnomes! I just insist!
The gnomes roam homeless, we must assist!
All’s gone amok. They’ve no place of their own.
No place to rest, no burrow, no nest, no little gnome zone.
They invaded the Rat Kingdom and enraged the Cat Queen.
Their lives are endangered. We must help, sight unseen.
They’re running round rampaging through gardens and underneath houses.
And the racket they make, they’re no teensy church mouses.
This is my plea to you. Build them a home and they’ll settle down,
Quiet and comfy in a normal gnome town.
Then at long last we’ll finally have peace,
And this homeless gnome poem at twelve lines can cease.

Snapper the snail
Challenged me to a race on the trail
Down by Pollywog Pail.

He jumped at the gun
And his run was done.
It was the quickest that I’d ever won.

But he claimed he couldn’t be beat!
Said I took a step back to accomplish this feat.
He’s quick as a beetle, that cheat!

I’m fast as phlegm, bud!
I’ve the speed of a spud,
And once won uphill against mud.

I’m done with him and his cohorts.
No more racing those sorts.
Slugs are much better sports.

Painted by Serge (More of his art here: snuggerrose.deviantart.com )

This morning I came to school
With a Bertle upon my back.
I hauled him to class like a mule
‘Cause he faced, fought and beat in a duel,
Before eating, my black backpack.

Also cause he gobbled my homework
And I refuse to turn it in late.
So while, I admit, you may have to wait,
My homework is here, don’t go berserk.
He’ll give it up soon, he’s not a jerk.

So you see, Ms. Honeybee?
He’s the reason for this fine mess.
Just this morning he dined on my dress.
I’m normally not one for nudity,
But it’s not that bad, I must confess.

What? No, you don’t need to worry,
Unless he wants to eat you too.
Bertles are docile, huggy and furry.
It’s not their fault they like to chew,
But if their teeth turn to you, you best scurry.

.
.
.

Looks like tomorrow will be problem free.
I’ve nothing to wear, to do or to read.
Poor Ms. Honeybee.
Poor Ms. Honeybee, indeed.
She really should have worried.

Drawn by Josh

There’s a gift in every child
That sparks the tame
And calms the wild.

It grows the more it gives,
Though never seen
Some say it lives.

This gift is ever needed
But often lost
Or left unheeded.

It brings green and gold
To the rotten
And overly old.

Gifts are as they do –
Mine is not mine,
Mine is for you.

This plays off of Jack and Jill by Mother Goose.

Jack and Jill went up the hill
And then went up a tree.
Their skill in down was naught to nil,
Up was all that they could see!

They did not stop for they had no top
And up they chased their laughter.
Down closed shop and skip by hop
Jill went up and Jack went climbing after.

From the crown of the tree they broke free.
They blew on through, throwing branches above.
Climbing every soaring twig with glee,
They flew from leaf to fly to dove.

Jill and Jack leapt to the back
Of the master of the skies.
Cloud allowed the smack of their attack
As they were headed where the pale light lies.

Stars and Moon were underfoot all too soon
And still Jack and Jill just kept going.
Up’s fetching tune brought them the boon
Of a known path and no need for slowing.

Illustrated by Jack

Crim pulled at his skin
And found it gave way.
So the question became –
Pull or let it stay?

Crim was handsome
And had always been.
Why worry himself?
Why worry his skin?

Why bother with bothers
When there was no need?
Why battle his body?
Why make himself bleed?

Why, he let the why’s fly,
And then, oh, he pulled.
Crim undid him into
Twelve buckets, all told.

Pulling was easy,
He just had to unzip
From his schnoz around
To his lower lip.

He pulled himself out.
Now you wonder, I know,
What was under his skin?
What was there below?

He had a whole band!
He was a whole band!
From his femur trombone
To his pan flute hand!

With one leg a guitar
(He knew how to strum it),
One forearm a flute,
The other a trumpet.

His tambourine head and
Belly bongo to bang
Kept him in time
As his whole body sang!

A fine saxophone spine
That could really roar,
A clanging cowbell heart
And a whole score more!

Every song is a jig!
Every step a hymn!
Make yourself happy,
Go hear Crim play Crim.

If I were a real boy
I’d know just what to do:
Yelp, crash, fall, crawl, leap, root,
Lick, scoot, laugh, toot, romp, chew.

If I were a real boy
I’d be nothing new.
I wouldn’t be “who knows?”
I’d be “you know who.”

If I were a real boy
The world would think me askew.
They would think that I’m off,
That I’m red when I’m blue!

If I were a real boy
I’d get thrown in the zoo!
But I’d be okay there,
It’s where the real girls are too.

Folks complain of rotten eggs,
Good eggs gone bad, bad, bad.
I say that means more eggs for me,
They say that I’ve gone mad! mad! mad!

This does not bother me a bit
For I don’t have to share
The glory of a ripened egg
(The best grow greenish hair).

Stew, steam, bake, boil, grind, grill,
Or have it scrambled by a clown.
Keep it simple I say,
Crack it wide and slurp it down.

Chefs should open up their minds.
Green Eggs and Ham – Have you read that book?
Say what you will of his writing,
Seuss knew how to cook!

Rotten eggs for rotten me
(We’re both sweeter than you think).
Something no one seems to get –
There’s nothing wrong with a good stink.

Drawn by Conor