One warm, sunny day
on a cold, snowy night,
the inky-black darkness
was sunny and bright.
The evening that morning–
that midnight at noon–
was late in December,
one April in June.
I stood where I sat
as I ran, lying still,
deep down in a valley
on top of a hill.
The people beside me
were nowhere around.
The birds in the sky were
all deep underground.
The fish in the tree
were asleep in their nest,
and watched the sun set
as it rose in the west.
Yes, that’s what I saw
when my eyes were closed tight,
one warm, sunny day
on a cold, snowy night.
There was a man who coughed a cough,
a cough so strong his head fell off.
His head fell off. It hit the ground.
It hit the ground and rolled around,
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.
I rode a rainbow unicorn.
We sailed across the sky.
(I’d fed him lots of Skittles,
since they always make him fly.)
We took off like a comet
on a long and graceful flight.
And everywhere the people stopped
and marveled at the sight.
His path was bright and colorful.
It sparkled, shimmered, shined,
as he arced across the heavens
shooting rainbows from behind.
Don’t think about a zebra
no matter what you do,
for, if you ever think of one,
then soon you’ll think of two.
And, after that, you’ll think of three.
And then you’ll think of four.
Then five or six or seven zebras.
Maybe even more.
And then you’ll think of zebra herds
stampeding down the street,
and zebras wearing tutus,
disco-dancing to a beat.
You’ll think of flying ninja zebras
practicing kung fu.
And zebra clowns from outer space.
And robot zebras too.
And zebras in pajama bottoms
bouncing on their beds,
and maybe even zebras
wearing diapers on their heads.
You’ll wish you’d never thought of them,
so do it starting now:
Don’t think about a zebra.
Only think about a cow.
It’s Opposite Day!
It’s Opposite Day!
The day to do things
in the opposite way.
I wear my pants backward.
My shirt’s inside out.
I scream to talk softly.
I whisper to shout.
I write with my foot and
I kick with my hand.
I stare with my eyes closed.
I sit down to stand.
I drink from a plate and
I eat from a cup.
I climb into bed when
it’s time to wake up.
I frown when I’m happy.
I smile when I’m sad.
I say, “I like liver,
but ice cream is bad.”
I claim that it’s dark
when it’s sunny and bright.
If something is black,
I insist that it’s white.
I stand still for dancing.
When running, I crawl.
So please understand:
I don’t like you at all.
I’d like to meet an alien.
Yeah, wouldn’t that be neat?
I’m sure there’s not another
creature I would rather meet.
I wouldn’t care if he was big,
or medium, or tiny,
or if his skin was rough and tough,
or super smooth and shiny.
I’d like him if his head were bald
or covered up with hair.
I’d like him if his face were round,
triangular, or square.
He could be colored black and white,
or yellow, red, and green.
He might be awfully dirty
or meticulously clean.
I’d like him if he whispered
and I’d like him if he yelled.
I’d like him if he used perfume
or positively smelled.
It wouldn’t matter much to me
if he was soft or scaly,
or if he danced the rhumba
or he played the ukulele.
He could look like a lizard
or be furry and mammalian.
I’d simply like to scare my mom
by bringing home an 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.
A sheep is asleep on my sofa.
A sheep is asleep on my floor.
A sheep is asleep in the closet,
and seems to be starting to snore.
A sheep is asleep on my dresser.
A sheep is asleep on my bed.
I found when I woke up this morning,
a sheep was asleep on my head.
A few can be found in the corner.
They’re soundly asleep in a heap.
There isn’t a space in my bedroom
that isn’t all covered in sheep.
With so many sheep in my bedroom,
I’m thinking I wasn’t too bright,
and maybe I shouldn’t have asked for
a sheepover party last night.
Lorenzo Liszt, non-scientist,
researches things that don’t exist.
He looks for fur from fish and frogs
and scales that came from cats and dogs.
He hunts for things like hamster wings
and walruses with wedding rings.
He analyzes famous flies
and speculates on oysters’ eyes.
He contemplates the common traits
of rattlesnakes on roller skates,
and then explores for dinosaurs
who shop in corner grocery stores.
He thinks about the desert trout.
He studies underwater drought.
He ponders how the purple cow
remained unnoticed up till now.
He scans the skies for flying pies
and tests for turtles wearing ties
and bears who buzz and beep because…
well, this is what Lorenzo does.
Although we feel that he should deal
with something that’s a bit more real,
Lorenzo Liszt just can’t resist
researching things that don’t exist.
I tripped on the sheets when I got out of bed.
I tripped on my pants when I tried to get dressed.
I tripped on the stairs and I fell on my head.
I tripped on my shoelace and injured my chest.
I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk this morning.
I tripped on a curbstone while walking to school.
I tripped on a tree root without any warning.
I tripped at the park and I fell in the pool.
I tripped on my backpack. I tripped on my bike.
I tripped on my camera. I tripped on my cat.
I tripped on my train set. I tripped on my trike.
I tripped on my baseball. I tripped on my bat.
I haven’t got money to go on vacations.
If I didn’t trip I’d go nowhere at all.
I may never see other cities or nations,
but this way, at least, I take trips every fall.