I went to the lunchroom, and there,
last week on a double dare,
I said the meat was too gross to eat
and smelled like my underwear.
I shouldn’t have been rude
by making such fun of the food,
for though they were riled,
the lunch ladies smiled,
and said I had started a feud.
Today when I went there to eat,
they served up some monkey meat.
I ran out quick when I nearly got sick,
but then I went back to my seat.
The lunchroom ladies sighed
to see that I practically cried,
then served up a hunk of
barbecued skunk,
and that was the reason I died.
I died! I died! I died!
Sunday’s somewhat melancholy.
Monday’s slightly sad.
Tuesday’s quite disheartening.
Wednesday’s just as bad.
Thursday’s filled with gloominess.
Friday’s rather glum.
I wish it didn’t take a week
for Saturday to come.
Our family’s not from Mercury.
We’ve never been to Venus.
I’m certain, if we had been, that
somebody would have seen us.
We’ve never flown to planet Mars
and never gone to Jupiter.
Suggestions that we’ve traveled there
could not be any stupider.
We’ve never stood on Neptune’s shores.
We’ve never circled Saturn
or seen its lovely colored rings
in their concentric pattern.
We haven’t been to Uranus
and Pluto’s much too distant.
(Our folks refused to take us
even though we were insistent.)
It wasn’t up in outer space
our parents gave us birth.
They had us right here safe at home
on dear old planet Earth.
So what I simply can’t explain
is why my sister, Janet,
behaves as if she were a creature
from another planet!
I’m arranging all my pencils
in a pattern on the table
and I’m putting all my papers
in a pattern on the floor,
so I’m certain that my teacher
thinks I’m mentally unstable
and I’m hoping that she won’t
assign me homework anymore.
But my teacher doesn’t notice
and assigns me lots of reading,
so instead I’ve started coloring
my fingers and my face.
Now my plan to make her see me
is undoubtedly succeeding
and she probably believes
that I belong in outer space.
Yet again she hasn’t seen me
acting dingy as a doorbell
as I’m coloring my elbows
and my ankles and my knees,
so I’m dancing like a dodo
as I whistle and I warble
and she has to think I’m bonkers
or my brain is made of cheese.
Still she doesn’t bat an eyelash
as she gives me lots of writing
and she doesn’t even giggle
when she’s handing out the math.
So although my little plan was
undeniably exciting,
now I have to get my papers
and go home and take a bath.
I am a clam.
A clam I am.
I often engage in foolery.
I dress in hats
and coats and spats
and gaudy flamboyant jewelry.
The clothes I wear
with flash and flair
are part of my notoriety.
I fancy furs
and boots with spurs
and vests of a wide variety.
So bring me suits
and hats and boots
and cover me up in finery.
Then buy me gowns
and capes and crowns
befitting a dandy dinery.
Yes, give me shirts
and sequined skirts
and swaddle me all in flashiness.
I do not care
if what I wear
is truly the height of trashiness.
I need a dress
of such excess,
it couldn’t be any louder.
There’s just one thing
you mustn’t bring;
I’m really not fond of chowder.
You won’t believe the crazy things
I’m learning how to do.
I’m learning how to juggle,
ride a unicycle, too.
I now know how to twist balloons
in many different shapes
and how to make a costume
out of multicolored drapes.
I’ve learned to run in floppy shoes
and how to dye my hair.
I’ve even learned the graceful art
of dancing with a bear.
For when we moved, my parents looked
at many different towns,
but chose a place with just one school:
a school for circus clowns.
My doggy likes to disco dance.
He boogies every night.
He dances in his doghouse
till the early morning light.
The other dogs come running
when they hear my doggy swing.
A few will play their instruments.
The others dance and sing.
They pair off with their partners
as their tails begin to wag.
They love to do the bunny hop,
the fox trot and the shag.
You’ll see the doghouse rockin’
as a hundred dogs or more
all trip the light fantastic
on the doghouse disco floor.
At last, at dawn, they exit
in the early morning breeze,
and stop to sniff the fire hydrants,
bushes, lawns and trees.
I just don’t understand it
for although it looks like fun.
I can’t see how they fit inside
that doghouse built for one.
At history I’m hopeless.
At spelling I stink.
In music I’m useless.
From science I shrink.
At art I’m atrocious.
In sports I’m a klutz.
At reading I’m rotten.
And math makes me nuts.
At language I’m lousy.
Computers? I’m cursed.
In drama I’m dreadful.
My writing’s the worst.
There’s only one subject
I’m sure I would pass,
but they don’t teach
video games in my class.
Oh, I had to write a poem, ’cause my teacher said I should,
but the poems that I tried to write weren’t coming out so good,
and I figured everything I wrote would be misunderstood.
Instead I wrote this song.
CHORUS
Teacher, teacher, how’s my singing?
Is is fine or is it stinging?
Have your eardrums started ringing?
I hope you like my song.
Yes, I had to write a poem, but I couldn’t get it right,
though I sharpened all my pencils and I stayed up half the night,
so I grabbed my dictionary and I chucked it out of sight,
and then I wrote this song.
CHORUS
I’m staying at home
and I’m staying in bed
and I’m not gonna go into school.
I’m tired of coaches.
I’m tired of teachers.
I think they’re all crabby and cruel.
So try if you like
but you can’t make me go,
whatever you do or you say.
They’re having a party?
With cupcakes and presents?
Well, maybe I’ll go just today.
Revenge of the Lunch Ladies
Sunday’s Somewhat Melancholy
Our Family’s Not from Mercury
I’m Arranging All My Pencils
I Am a Clam
My New School
My Dog Likes to Disco
At History I’m Hopeless
Teacher, Teacher, How’s My Singing
I’m Staying at Home