Made from Scratch

When it comes to homemade cooking there is no-one who’s my match,

I use all the best ingredients; my food is made from scratch.

Yes, my food is made from scritches, and this lovely cheddar cheese

Has been crafted from mosquito blood and little flecks of fleas.

There are scabs in all these scallops, there are pox marks in the pears,

While the bread is given texture by some bristly thistly hairs.

Would you like some nice risotto? It has crunchy munchy bits

As the rice has lots of lice inside, and also several nits.

Now, these eggs are cooked with eczema, and I keep them in my fridges

Where I also store these mushrooms which are fried with tiny midges.

These baked beans are boiled with bedbugs, which is why they tend to hop.

And dessert? It’s made with dandruff, just a sprinkling on the top.

What a range of good ingredients my recipes have in!

But the thing they have in common is these little flakes of skin.

As I’ve said, with homemade cooking, there is no-one who’s my match,

So I’ve made some special cakes for you. Do stay and taste this batch.

 

 

 

 

 

Blinds and Certains

Mrs Tara Toffeenosed

Keeps her certains firmly closed,

And shuts down every drape and blind

In case the windows on her mind

Are opened up to let in light,

And prove that she’s not always right.

What Really Happened

Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet,

Eating a large piece of cake.

A spider came by, but the girl said ‘Nice try!’

And she flattened it – SQUASH! – with a rake.

On Typos

Sometimes my brain and my fingers

Don’t seem to completely connect.

That’s why when I right, the words aren’t quite write,

And the spellings aren’t always correct.

Marked Late Again

Fred always loses his black lace-up shoeses;

He never knows quite where they are.

He says when he snoozes, he reckons his shoeses

Must walk out the house and go far.

In fact, Fred accuses his socks and his shoeses

Of really appalling behaviour.

For Fred never chooses to mislay his shoeses,

And so they’ve been dropped from his favour.

This lack of his shoeses, Fred tells us, excuses

The fact that he’s late every day.

For he never refuses to put on his shoeses;

It’s just that his shoes run away.

Heavy Weather

Look up at the sky above; no wonder it’s so grey!

It isn’t raining cats and dogs, but elephants today.

Quickly, dodge them! Run and duck! Those flabby beasts are flumping!

Dropping, plopping from the sky; can’t you hear them thumping?

They’re flobbing on the paving stones: ker-THUNK, ker-THUNK, ker-THUNK.

Umbrellas, quick! They’re falling thick! Watch out – here comes a trunk!

Hear the whooshing noise they make, and then each thunderous thud

As puddles form, immense and grey; it’s jumbo-jumbled mud!

I wonder when it’s going to stop, this really heavy rain.

And do you think that elephants fit neatly down a drain?

Look up at the sky above; no wonder it’s so grey!

It isn’t raining cats and dogs, but elephants today.

 

 

 

 

 

The Sad Story of Charlie H

Recently, I had a friend

Who chewed his pencils at the end.

Others in our art class drew,

But Charlie H would chew and chew

The brightly painted pencil wood

(He said it tasted really good).

First he’d take a little nibble,

Then, his pencil soaked with dribble,

Charlie H would gnash and gnaw

And chomp until his teeth and jaw

Had munched and crunched the wood and sunk

Their way into a largish chunk.

The teacher said ‘What are you doing?

Do your work and stop that chewing!’

Charlie tried his best to stop

But still his mouth went chop chop chop

As with a concentrated frown

He chomped and champed that pencil down

Till all he had was one small stump.

And then we heard the fearful thump;

He’d gobbled through the pencil lead

And Charlie H had dropped down dead.

‘A dreadful case!’ the doctor cried,

And opened up the boy’s inside,

Where on his heart, the doc found written:

‘Pencils never should be bitten’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack and Jill

Jack and Jill went up the hill.

I guess you’ve heard the tale.

They said ‘We think we’ll get a drink’

And so they took a pail.

But both fell flat and went kersplat

(You’ve heard that bit, perhaps).

I wonder why they didn’t try

To simply turn the taps?

When Grandad Lost his Memory

Grandad’s lost his memory; we’ve looked for it for ages.

Is it hidden in a book, stuck between the pages?

Perhaps behind the sofa, or underneath a chair?

We have to get it back you see; he doesn’t have one spare.

Did the dog devour it? Or is it on the street?

Maybe Grandad dropped it, and it’s right by someone’s feet.

Did he chuck it by mistake, is it in the bin?

How can we not see it, when it’s got his whole life in?

Is it in Lost Property, stacked up on a shelf?

Grandad’s sad without it; no, he’s really not himself.

I think I’ll write a notice: MEMORY GONE MISSING.

NEEDED VERY URGENTLY FOR GRANDAD’S REMINISCING.

If you see it anywhere, could you please just phone?

As now his memory is gone, our Grandad’s so alone.

Before the Spring

The trees are actors, waiting in the wings;

They tremble hopefully, then each one springs

To action. Curtains rise. The opening scene.

Then with a burst of fresh and joyful green

They blossom into summer song, and now

Amid applause, exhausted, take their bow.

The green is gone, their faces bare, and then

They wait, until the show begins again.