I’m Frank, the friendly alien.
From deepest outer space.
My face is fairly friendly.
It’s such a friendly face.
My teeth are sharp and pointed.
My eyes are big and red.
I have such friendly features
upon my friendly head.
My horns are green and shiny.
I have exactly three.
My nose is long and crooked,
the way a nose should be.
My ears are huge and scaly.
My tongue is brown and blue.
The people from my planet
all look friendly like I do.
My claws are shaped like daggers.
My hands are huge and hairy
I’d love to stay and tell you more
but you look much too scary.
Nobody touch my tarantula sandwich.
This sandwich is only for me.
And please stay away
from my cockroach soufflé
and my cobra and rat fricassee.
Don’t take a drink of my spider-blood cider,
or nibble my lizards on rye.
And don’t make a meal
of my barbecued eel
or my rattlesnake-jellyfish pie.
Please keep your mitts off my octopus pudding.
Don’t dine on my porcupine dip.
And don’t take a chew
of my centipede stew
or a sip of my scorpion whip.
If I had Snickers, or Hershey’s, or Reese’s,
I promise I’d offer to switch.
But there’s no good eating
for kids trick-or-treating
outside of the home of a witch.
Our teacher’s not a zombie.
She’s not the living dead,
although she’s looking ragged
and her eyes are rather red.
She shuffles to the classroom.
She slowly drags her feet.
She shambles to the whiteboard
looking broken-down and beat.
We listen to her plaintive moans.
We see the way she strains.
We hear her mumble mournfully
about the students’ brains.
But we know not to worry.
We never get upset.
She’s always like this when she
hasn’t had her coffee yet.
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.
The man called Mr. Mirror
is a most peculiar guy.
He looks a bit like everyone,
though no one quite knows why.
Mr. Mirror looks like you.
He also looks like me.
When anybody looks at him,
it’s just themselves they see.
The President will tell you
Mr. Mirror looks like him.
My Uncle Jim is certain
he resembles Uncle Jim.
To people with a mustache
Mr. Mirror has one too.
He looks like people wearing hats
and those who never do.
He looks like someone five years old,
and someone ninety nine.
He looks like someone with a cold,
and someone feeling fine.
He looks like someone very short
and someone super tall.
but Mr. Mirror doesn’t look
like Dracula at all.
Betty met a yeti
in the mountains of Tibet.
She cooked him some spaghetti
and she baked him a baguette.
And when the food was ready
and the dishes all were set,
the yeti swallowed Betty
and said, “Mmmm. The best one yet.”
So that’s the end of Betty,
but you needn’t be upset
unless you meet a yeti
in the mountains of Tibet.
Then just stay calm and steady.
Don’t be nervous. Never fret.
And don’t cook him spaghetti
or, who knows what you might get?
The three of us are widely known.
We’re each a horrid, haggard crone.
We croak and cry a mournful moan.
A glance at us, you’ll turn to stone.
Our hair is made of living snakes.
To hear their hiss will give you shakes.
We love the savage sound it makes.
We’ll laugh until your spirit breaks.
But solitude is all we crave,
So don’t intrude within our cave.
Regardless if you’re strong or brave,
We’ll send you swiftly to your grave.
As we draw near, your heart will thud.
Your breath with stop, your brain will flood.
Our wicked wail will chill your blood,
And cause your veins to fill with mud.
And if there is the slightest breeze,
Our stench will make you choke and wheeze.
You’ll gasp and tumble to your knees.
We smell like Gorgon-zola cheese.
I have an invisible dragon.
She’s such a remarkable flyer.
She soars through the sky on invisible wings
exhaling invisible fire.
My dragon is utterly silent.
She soundlessly swoops through the air.
Why, she could be flying beside you right now,
and you’d never know she was there.
And if you should reach out to pet her,
I don’t think you’d notice too much.
Her body is simply too airy and light
to sense her by means of a touch.
And just as you don’t see or hear her,
and just as she cannot be felt,
my dragon does not have an odor at all,
which means that she’ll never be smelt.
Although you may find this outlandish,
you just have to trust me, it’s true.
And, oh, by the way, did I mention I have
an invisible unicorn too?
I think I’m related to Bigfoot,
though nothing has ever been proved.
I sort of suspect he’s a cousin,
just seven or eight times removed.
It’s not that I’m apelike or hairy.
It isn’t the size of my feet.
It’s more on account of my family.
We’re all fairly far from petite.
My sister is kind of a Bigmouth.
My brother could go by Bigsmelly.
My mother is known for her Bighair.
My father? You guessed it: Bigbelly.
And as for myself, I’m attractive.
You might even call me a cutie,
except for one obvious feature…
My family all call me Bigbootie.
Our neighbor is a werewolf
and I know this for a fact.
He may look like he’s human
but I’m certain it’s an act.
I figured out his secret
on my own the other day.
And now I’m warning everyone
to scream and run away.
I know that he’s a werewolf now.
I have no doubt because
who else would want to live inside
a were-house like he does?