Easter Feaster
Hard-boiled eggs for breakfast
and deviled eggs for lunch.
Plus pickled eggs for dinner
and eggs on toast for brunch.
Some eggs at every meal.
An egg for every snack.
They’re always in my lunchbox,
my pockets, and my pack.
We colored eggs for Easter
but might have made too many.
And now we’re kind of wishing
we hadn’t colored any.
When Easter comes next year,
I hope that we remember.
This year we made enough
to last until December.
Costume Classroom
I came to class dressed
as a dragon today.
And Joe was a soldier
and so was Renee.
Nick dressed as a pickle,
and Bree a T-Rex.
A few kids were Grinches
and several were Shreks.
We had a few Frankensteins,
witches and wizards,
Luigis and Yoshis,
and parrots and lizards.
You might think it’s weird
that we dressed up this way
to come to our classroom
on St. Patrick’s Day.
But none of us had any
clothes that were green
except for our costumes
from last Halloween.
How Not to Cook
To be a chef, you need to learn
techniques for cooking foods.
I have a list of those techniques
and here’s what it includes…
It’s perfect if you fry the fries.
It’s great to toast the toast.
It’s alright if you char the chard.
It’s good to roast the roast.
It’s fine to pickle pickles
and to smooth the smoothies too,
and stuffing stuff in stuffing
is a splendid thing to do.
It’s true that you can stew the stew
and you can shake the shakes,
and dip the dips and whip the whips
and maybe stake the steaks.
Why, you could even grill the grill,
and you could spice the spice,
and microwave the microwave,
and ice the ice with ice.
But one technique that isn’t found
in any guide or book
is something you should never do…
Don’t ever cook the cook.
A Random Poem
I read a random poem.
It was full of random text.
I couldn’t tell banana what
words might come pencil next.
In donut nearly every line,
it had a random word.
This poem was the cat most
football random I had heard.
I wondered fish who wrote it.
Was the poet spoon insane?
What pickle sort of person
had this baseball kind of brain?
The more I doorknob read it,
the more house cow it became.
It also square spaghetti frog
gorilla gumball game.
At last, it uncle soccer cheese
in over why no what,
until explosive chicken helmet
uh-oh sparkle butt.
Random Recipe
If you want to make a muffin,
first you need a jar of juice,
and a pickle, and a peanut,
and a marble, and a moose.
Then you add a dozen doorknobs,
and a boy with a balloon,
plus the sound of summer thunder
from a Thursday afternoon.
Then you mix them in whatever
bowl or bucket you can find.
Oh, wait. That’s not the recipe.
I’m sorry. Never mind.
We Ate All the Cheetos
We ate all the Cheetos
and all the Doritos
and all of the chocolates and cheese.
We still have some greens
and a can of sardines
and some pickles and parsnips and peas.
We swallowed the sweets,
all the puddings and treats,
and we finished the ice cream and jam.
What’s left is a trout
and a jarful of kraut
and what looks like a turnip or yam.
We drank all the shakes
and we ate all the cakes
and the pies and the fries and the custard.
And yet there’s a lime
and a few sprigs of thyme
and a half-empty bottle of mustard.
It seems we were hasty
in eating the tastiest
snacks we had purchased before.
Now all that’s on hand
is the food we can’t stand.
We might have to go to the store.
The Story of Laurie
Perhaps you shouldn’t read this story.
It isn’t sweet and hunky-dory.
It isn’t even just okay,
or nice or kind in any way.
In fact, it’s gruesome, grim, and gory,
and all about a girl named Laurie.
See, Laurie is a cannibal.
She’ll eat no plant nor animal.
She’ll eat no vegetable nor fruit,
no leaf, no seed, no sprout, nor shoot.
And if you offer fish or fowl
she’ll stare at you and start to growl.
It’s not that Laurie’s mean or mad.
She simply thinks that beans are bad.
She says, “No thanks” to chips and cheese,
bologna, carrots, parsley, peas,
bananas, bagels, sauerkraut,
arugula and rainbow trout.
She doesn’t care for Christmas roast,
or pie or pumpernickel toast,
or rigatoni, ravioli,
mustard, custard, guacamole,
pickles, yogurt, sirloin steak,
or even candy bars and cake.
She’ll never feed on frozen food.
And any entree, steamed or stewed,
from any package, box, or bag,
is guaranteed to make her gag.
It’s not part of her diet plan;
the only thing she eats is Man.
I truly hope I never meet
with Laurie, for I know she’ll eat
my feet, my legs, my arms, my head,
and then, of course, I’ll end up dead.
And that’s the one thing I would hate:
To be the poet Laurie ate.
I Made a Wish
I found a lamp. A dirty lamp.
I rubbed it to a shine.
A genie from the lamp said he
would grant a wish of mine.
I made a wish. A simple wish.
It practically came true.
I wished I had a million dollars
and a pickle too.
I got the million dollars,
but I really can’t say why
I never got the pickle.
I think I’m going to cry.
Nate the Creative
I’m Nate the Creative
and here’s what I do:
I wake up each day and
create something new.
I might bake a pickle
and skyscraper pie.
I might take a nickel
and teach it to fly.
I might paint a picture
of checkerboard cheese,
or fashion a statue
from typewriter keys.
Or dream up a dance
where you stand very still,
or buy all of France
with a nine-dollar bill.
So look all you want
but you won’t ever see
a person on earth
as creative as me.
Tomorrow, I might make
a hat out of you.
I’m Nate the Creative.
It’s just what I do.
Glurp the Purple Alien
I’m Glurp, the purple alien.
I come from outer space.
I have a purple body.
I have a purple face.
I use my purple tentacles
to dine on purple food.
The treats I find the tastiest
are purely purple-hued.
I’ll eat a purple burger.
I’ll slurp a purple shake.
I’ll feast on purple pickles and
partake of purple cake.
I’ll nosh on purple noodles.
I’ll feast on purple fries.
I’ll munch on purple macaroons
and purple pizza pies.
I haven’t seen your planet,
but, if I ever do,
you’d better not wear purple.
I might just dine on you.