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.
Nathaniel Naste
once ate some paste
he’d taken home from school.
He scooped a bit
and tasted it
and hollered like a fool.
His face got laced
with paste that graced
his forehead and his hair.
Some paste got placed
upon his waist
which glued him to his chair.
Nathaniel cried
and, mortified,
his mother came to see.
She tugged, she tried,
she pulled and pried
but couldn’t get him free.
For she was stuck
in pasty muck
and called Nathaniel’s dad,
who raced in haste,
embraced the paste,
and pulled with all he had.
But father too
was stuck like glue
to poor Nathaniel’s mother,
and it ensued
they also glued
his sister and his brother,
his cat, his frog,
his bird, his dog
(a parakeet and spaniel),
till each at last
were fastened fast,
cemented to Nathaniel.
The neighbors came
and soon the same
was happening to all.
They faced the paste
but soon, disgraced,
they placed an urgent call
to nine-one-one
and on the run
came firemen and police,
who tried with ropes
and prayers and hopes
and bucketloads of grease.
But nothing helped
and each one yelped
to be in this position
encased in paste
to find they faced
a sticky proposition.
Across the floor
and out the door
and halfway down the street
with knees on hips,
and hands on lips,
and elbows stuck to feet.
The Army marched
but soon were starched.
The Navy gummed their ships.
The Air Force flew
but stuck like glue
to all those knees and lips.
The President
gave his consent
for every single person
to lend some aid
but this just made
the situation worsen.
And in the end
it’s true, my friend,
no solitary granule
of any worth
was left on Earth
not pasted to Nathaniel.
So don’t you fail
to heed this tale
and never taste your paste,
or you may find
you’re in a bind
Like poor Nathaniel Naste.
“Just boring old bones,” thought young Michael McLiam,
“I can’t figure out who would want to come see ’em…”
“…And here,” said Miss Jones, “if you’ll step right this way,”
And she pointed to some rather dusty display,
“We are showing a dinkysaur fossil today.
This dinkysaur skeleton’s almost complete
Except for a couple of bones in his feet
And the parts where his legs and his anklebones meet…”
Michael McLiam then let out a yawn
And he thought, “Of the places our classroom has gone
Why THIS is the boring-est trip we’ve been on.
“They haven’t got anything fun or exciting
Like raptors in cages or carnosaurs fighting.
They haven’t got mammoths or saber-toothed cats
Or cavemen with bear skins and primitive bats.
No, nothing exciting at all on display
In the Natural History Museum today.
They just have the curator, boring Miss Jones,
And a dusty display of old dinosaur bones.”
And then Michael said, “Why, I know what I’ll do…
I’ll go out and start my own dinosaur ZOO!
“I’ll find me an island my zoo can call home
With plenty of space for some dinos to roam,
And then, one by one, or perhaps two by two,
I’ll find a few dinos to put in my zoo.
I’ll bring them back home to my island and free ’em
And call it ‘The Dinosaur Island Museum.’
“I’ll get an assistant named Wilbur or Horrace
To help me to capture a brachiosaurus.
This dino’s so big and his neck is so long,
His legs are so thick and his muscles so strong
You have to be sure you don’t look at him wrong.
To calm him, we’ll sing him a lullaby song.
The brachiosaurus’s brain is so small
I’m sure he’ll be sleeping in no time at all.
“We’ll tie him up tightly and set him to float
On the deck of our dinosaur capturing boat.
Just think what the people will say when they see him
At home in The Dinosaur Island Museum.
They’ll say, ‘Why, I’ve never seen anything like it…
A dino so big you could climb up and hike it.
A dino so big you could practically ski him,
All thanks to the hard work of Michael McLiam.’
“But I won’t stop there. No, I’ll have to have more
From places where no one has traveled before.
In swamplands and jungles I’ll go and explore
And bring back a helmeted corythosaur
Who uses the duck-bill he has for a snout
To dig in the muck and to pull the leaves out.
And people will say, ‘Why, it’s hard to believe!
What else do you think Michael has up his sleeve?’
“I’ll go to the farthest of far-away places
And bring back some creatures with very strange faces.
Like a stygimoloch, with a head like a dome;
I’ll capture a dozen and bring them back home.
“I’ll travel the world with occasional stops
To pick up some beast like a triceratops.
A stegosaur too, with those spines on his back
And the long, spiky tail, like a whip he can crack.
You have to be careful he doesn’t attack
So I’ll bring him back home in my stegosaur sack.
“Iguanodons too! Why I’ll catch them in scores!
And maybe a few dozen apatosaurs.
“A few that have armor and clubs on their tails.
And maybe a few that are bigger than whales.
I’ll bring back some dinos that travel in herds,
and some that look something like featherless birds.
“I’ll bring back so many and set them all free
That folks from all over will have to come see.
“They’ll travel from Fairbanks and Juno, Alaska,
From Omaha, Kearney, and Lincoln, Nebraska.
From China, Afghanistan, India too,
From Egypt, New Zealand, Tibet and Peru,
They’ll travel by airplane, by ship and canoe,
By sub and by sailboat to visit my zoo.
“And won’t they be stunned! They won’t know what to say
When they see all the dinos I have on display.
They’ll bring all their friends and their relatives too,
To show them the world’s only dinosaur zoo.
“But that’s not enough. No, not hardly enough!
I’ll have to get some that are terribly tough.
“I’ll head to the desert on one of my treks
And capture the biggest and meanest T. Rex.
“I’ll even come back with a cageful of raptors
To show I’m the bravest of dinosaur captors.
These beasts are so fierce that most people would flee ’em,
But raptors are no match for Michael McLiam.
“When folks see those raptors locked up in their cage
My dinosaur zoo will become all the rage
With people all over, no matter what age.
Old people, young people, teenagers too
Will want to come visit this wonderful zoo.
“And just when they think that I couldn’t get more
I’ll find some that swim and some winged ones that soar
Like an icthyosaur and a dimorphodon.
Then people will say ‘Oh, the places he’s gone!
Just look at the marvelous creatures he’s caught!
We’d gladly pay TWICE for the tickets we bought.
Why this Dinosaur Island’s the world’s greatest zoo!
Is there NOTHING that Michael McLiam can’t do?’
“And when I’ve brought every last dinosaur there
From the desert, the jungle, the sea and the air
I’ll open my Dinosaur Island Museum
And people will flock to my island to see ’em.
“Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” thought young Michael McLiam,
“As soon as we’re done in THIS dusty museum.”
There was a girl named Wendy Wise,
who didn’t like to exercise.
She wouldn’t ever lift a weight,
or skip a rope, or roller skate.
You’d never see her ride a bike,
or bounce a ball, or take a hike.
She wouldn’t run, or trot, or jog,
or go outside and walk the dog.
She wouldn’t skip or climb a hill,
or practice any kind of skill
like jumping rope or playing ball.
She wouldn’t exercise at all.
It’s no surprise that Wendy Wise,
who didn’t like to exercise,
would pass away one fateful day,
and in a rather tragic way.
You see, that day, up in the sky,
a tiny bird was flying by.
It lost a feather, small and brown,
that slowly, slowly, drifted down,
and landed right on Wendy’s head.
It knocked her down and killed her dead.
She was, it seems, so frail and weak,
with such a sickly, sad physique
that, when that feather touched her hair,
it did her in, right then and there.
Poor Wendy! What an awful shame.
If only she had played a game,
or went outside to run around,
or practiced jumping up and down,
or had a swim, or took a dive,
today she might still be alive.
Regrettably, it’s now too late,
and Wendy Wise has met her fate.
But I, my friend, would much prefer
that you do not end up like her.
So please go out and play a game,
because, you see, despite her name,
to never, ever exercise
like Wendy, isn’t very wise.
and rolled around and rolled away,
away into a field of hay,
a field of hay that caused a wheeze,
a wheeze that turned into a sneeze,
a sneeze he sneezed from dusk till dawn.
At dawn he sneezed his head back on.
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