Two smug and sluggish snails one day
were racing down the street.
The first exclaimed, “You’ll lose this race,
for I cannot be beat.”
The second said, “I think we’ll see
it’s you who comes in last.”
He bragged, “of all the snails in town
I’m fastest of the fast.”
The first replied, “you’re much too slow
to best the likes of me.”
The second gloated heartily.
“Just wait,” he said, “you’ll see.”
They inched along the roadway
as they boasted of their speed.
Their slowness was identical
and neither took the lead.
The two approached the finish
at the same unhurried pace
a half an inch away from
the conclusion of the race.
They never crossed the finish line
for as events transpired
a car drove by that moment
and they must have gotten tired.
The aliens have landed!
It’s distressing, but they’re here.
They piloted their flying saucer
through our atmosphere.
They landed like a meteor
engulfed in smoke and flame.
Then out they climbed immersed in slime
and burbled as they came.
Their hands are greasy tentacles.
Their heads are weird machines.
Their bodies look like cauliflower
and smell like dead sardines.
Their blood is liquid helium.
Their eyes are made of granite.
Their breath exudes the stench of foods
from some unearthly planet.
And if you want to see these
sickly, unattractive creatures,
you’ll find them working in your school;
they all got jobs as teachers!
I’ve got a lot of presents
that I’d like to give to you.
I’ll give you all my Brussels sprouts
and all my liver too.
I’ll give you all my gym socks
when they really start to stink.
I’ll give you all my pens when
they are running out of ink.
I’ll give you all my broken toys
and empty jars of paste.
I’ll give you all my bubble gum
that’s chewed and lost its taste.
I’ll give you all the dust balls that
I found beneath my bed.
I’ll give you all my batteries
as soon as they are dead.
So have a happy birthday,
you’re a special friend indeed,
and please accept this trashcan
full of stuff that I don’t need.
Mashed potatoes on the ceiling.
Green beans on the floor.
Stewed tomatoes in the corner.
Squash upon the door.
Pickled peppers in my pocket.
Spinach up my sleeves.
Mushrooms in my underpants with
leeks and lettuce leaves.
Okra, onions, artichokes,
asparagus and beets;
buried neatly underneath the
cushions of our seats.
All the rest I’ve hidden in my socks
and down my shirt.
I’m done with all my vegetables.
I’m ready for dessert!
I bought my mom an apple
but it wasn’t red or green;
it was more like bluish-purple
or some color in-between.
I wouldn’t call the blueberries
I bought her very blue;
they were rather reddish-orange
like a dark vermilion hue.
The oranges I got for her
weren’t orange as you’d think;
they were turquoise on the inside
and the outer peels were pink.
The strawberries I purchased
weren’t particularly red;
They were white with purple polka dots
and silver stripes instead.
I got all these by shopping
where I’d never shopped before.
That’s the last time I buy groceries
at the Rainbow Grocery Store!
I’d like to sail to Singapore,
Jakarta or Rangoon,
but our boat is barely moving
on this windless afternoon.
I’d steer my ship to Stockholm,
set a course for Southern Spain,
I’d be guided by a lighthouse
off the rocky coast of Maine.
I’d cut past Krakatau
and chart a course to Katmandu.
I would voyage into Venice,
and I’d cruise around Corfu.
I’d glide through the Galapagos,
and drift through the Bahamas,
where I’d navigate by starlight
in my mariner’s pajamas.
I’d skim the seven salty seas
and plow the briny waves.
I would circumnavigate the globe
exploring coastal caves.
I’ll shortly start my journey.
I’ll begin my travels soon,
in this boat parked in our driveway
on this windless afternoon.
He’s older than the oldest man
that anyone has ever known.
He’s older than the Internet;
he’s older than the telephone.
He’s older than the printed word,
the ancient Greeks, the dodo bird.
He’s older than the pyramids
and prehistoric hominids.
He’s older than the dinosaurs,
the earth, the sun, the moon and stars.
He’s old as mud, he’s old as dust;
he’s wrinkled up and turned to rust.
He’s musty, crusty, stinky, dirty.
Simply put, Dad’s turning thirty.
Hot water, hot water.
Drink it by the cup.
If you drink it slowly
it will warm your body up.
Cold water, cold water.
Drink it by the liter.
If you drink too quickly
you will need to get a heater.
Spring water, spring water.
Drink it by the ounce.
Only drink a little bit
or else you’ll start to bounce.
Our teacher’s like no other teacher we’ve seen.
She likes to wear costumes from last Halloween.
While shouting a sonnet she’ll dance with a broom,
then sprinkle confetti all over the room.
She asks the opinions of Mr. Levesque,
the mannequin head that she keeps on her desk.
She jokes with the hamster and claims he can talk.
She wrestles erasers and argues with chalk.
She likes to make sculptures from typewriter parts
and brings us her heavenly blackberry tarts.
For homework, she says that we have to go play,
and watch no T.V. for the rest of the day.
Our teacher is either completely insane
or some kind of genius with oodles of brain.
But whether it’s madness or cerebral powers,
we don’t think it matters; we’re glad that she’s ours.
The Ugly, Ugly Duckling
Snail Race
The Aliens Have Landed!
Happy Birthday
Mashed Potatoes on the Ceiling
I Bought My Mom an Apple
Sailing Off to Singapore
Ancient
Hot Water, Hot Water
Our Teacher’s Like No Other Teacher