Search Results for: art

Sea Monster's Complaint by Kenn Nesbitt Sea Monster’s Complaint

My breakfast never varies;
it’s the same thing every day.
And lunch and dinner likewise
make me yawn and turn away.

I’m craving something different.
I’m in need of something new.
Some pickles, some lasagna,
or a chocolate cake or two.

I’d like a dozen pizzas
and some carry-out Chinese,
a turkey, ham and pot roast
with potatoes, pies and peas.

I want a bag of burgers,
and a barrel full of rice.
I’ll wash it down with twenty quarts
of soda pop on ice.

My taste buds need variety
to pass between my lips.
No more of just the same old thing!
I’m sick of fish and ships.

My Sneakers Are Speaking in German by Kenn Nesbitt My Sneakers are Speaking in German

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.”

My Dog Is Not Like Other Dogs

My dog is not like other dogs.
He doesn’t care to walk,
He doesn’t bark, he doesn’t howl.
He goes “Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

He beeps each day at half-past nine.
At noon he starts to chime.
I have a strong suspicion
that my dog can tell the time.

Another dog might run and play,
or smother me with licking,
but my dog just annoys me
with his beeping and his ticking.

Should you decide to buy a dog,
consider my remarks:
When looking for a “watch dog,”
get yourself the kind that barks.

Digging a Tunnel to China by Kenn Nesbitt Digging a Tunnel to China

I’m digging a tunnel to China.
A vertical shaft in the ground.
A passage bisecting the planet.
A cavern so deep, it’s profound.

I’ve picked out the perfect location.
I’ve started out back in the yard.
I think it may take me all summer.
I’m certain the work will be hard.

I’m using a coal-miner’s helmet
for working in darkness or shade.
My work boots are perfectly suited
for breaking the earth with my spade.

I’ll pummel the rocks with a pickaxe.
I’ll dredge up the dirt with my hands.
I’ll suction the sludgy deposits.
I’ll scoop out the pebbles and sands.

I’ll shovel out mountains of gravel.
I’ll excavate acres of soil.
I’ll dig ’til I feel like collapsing
from endless and backbreaking toil.

I’ll dig ’til I reach molten magma
and smash through the Earth’s outer crust,
then don my protective equipment,
as onward and downward I thrust.

My tunnel will come out in China,
or maybe Tibet or Japan,
and people will come from all over
to witness its breathtaking span.

And when my achievement’s completed
I’ll dust myself off with a grin,
then step to the edge of my tunnel
and throw all my Brussels sprouts in.

I Bought a Maserati by Kenn Nesbitt I Bought a Maserati

i-bought-a-maserati

I bought a Maserati
and a new Mercedes-Benz,
plus a brand new Lamborghini
I could show off to my friends.

I purchased a Ferrari
and an Aston Martin too,
and a Porsche and a Jaguar
and a BMW.

I had them all delivered
to my mansion in the hills.
I like to sit and look at them,
imagining the thrills.

For though it’s fun to be
the richest nine-year-old alive,
I’m sure I’ll like it better
when I’m old enough to drive.

When Larry Made Lasagna

When Larry Made Lasagna by Kenn Nesbitt

When Larry made lasagna
all his neighbors stopped and stared.
His lasagna was the largest
that had ever been prepared.

He used ninety yards of pasta
and a half a ton of cheese,
and the sauce, he spread with spatulas
that looked a lot like skis.

With a hundred pounds of vegetables
and wagon-loads of meat
plus a tiny sprig of parsley
his lasagna was complete.

So he lifted that lasagna
with a forklift and a crane
and he placed it in an oven
that was longer than a train.

For a week, while it was baking,
its aroma filled the town,
till he took it from the oven
piping hot and golden brown.

All the neighbors came and tasted it
but frowned at him, and then
they complained, “It needs a bit more salt.
You’ll have to start again.”

Back from Mars by Kenn Nesbitt Back From Mars

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?

The Cowtown Ballet by Kenn Nesbitt The Cow Town Ballet

This here is the story of Jed Beaudelay,
who once was the head of the Cow Town Ballet,
the greatest of all of the old western sights,
for Jed would take milk cows and dress them in tights.

In tutus and slippers his cows would sashay,
they’d spin pirouettes, they’d glissade and plié.
And cowpokes from Boston to Monterey Bay
would journey to Cow Town to see the ballet.

And every night how his cattle would dance!
They’d act out a musical cattle romance,
with skill and precision, with grace and with flair,
they’d glide ‘cross the stage and they’d leap through the air.

And when it was over the cowpokes would cheer
and even the manliest men shed a tear
for nowhere on Earth but the Cow Town Ballet
had anyone ever seen cattle sashay.

Old Jed Beaudelay would still run the ballet,
if not for the fact that when cattle sashay,
and all of their tutus are flapping around
their costumes make sort of a shuffling sound.

And some no-good cowpoke, on hearing that sound,
was rather unhappy; he stopped and he frowned,
then ran to the sheriff, deciding to tattle,
so Jed was arrested for rustling cattle.

Noah Lott

Noah Lott is awfully smart
and loves to share his knowledge.
He’s only in the second grade
but ought to be in college.

His brain is like a dictionary
or encyclopedia.
His photographic memory
is also multimedia.

Our teacher thinks he’s wonderful.
She showers him with praise.
On every test and every quiz
she always gives him A’s.

But students, on the otherhand,
consider him a nerd.
We think the things he knows
are more than just a bit absurd.

He bores us all with endless lists
of truly useless trivia,
like names of craters on the moon
and insects in Bolivia.

It’s probably embarrassing
to know as much as him,
but not as bad as being
just a little bit too dim.

Like when the teacher calls on me
and I say, “I forgot.”
I wish that I could be
a little more like Noah Lott.

I’ve Seen My Kitchen Sink

I’ve seen my kitchen sink.
I saw my garden rose.
I’m not sure why my eye drops
but I think my nostril knows.

I’ve had a root beer float.
I’ve watched a lemon drop.
I’ve listened to a ginger snap
and heard a soda pop.

I’ve seen a hot dog stand.
I saw a salad bowl.
I’ve even seen a pretzel twist
and watched a dinner roll.

I’ve seen a great home run.
I saw a big house fly.
I’ve even seen a barefoot race
and watched a bolo tie.

I’ve seen a long ski jump.
I’ve heard a loud bell hop.
I saw a birthday party
and I watched an antique shop.

I’ve seen a belly dance.
I’ve seen a quick fox trot.
I think that’s what my chain saw
but I’m sure my rope did knot.