Fruit DNA

‘It’s a hard idea to grapple’, said the elongated apple,

‘And it sometimes makes me crumble in a heap of bleak despair,

But I guess I’m not surprised, as I do appear mis-sized;

Yes, I’ve just been told my parent is apparently a pear’.

 

Sicker

An alligator, feeling sick,

Croaked ‘Get me to the doctor, quick!’

He felt a chill, and not much later

Really was an illergator.

Roses Aren’t Red

Sugar is sweet – that much is true

But who ever said that violets are blue?

Violets are violet, the clue’s in the name!

And what about roses? They’re not all the same!

Roses are pink, and yellow and white,

They’re all sorts of colours, so please, get it right!

And yes, sugar’s sweet, but it makes me feel sick.

Me, love you? No way – you’re too thick!

The Benefits of Victorian Dress

Ann never met a chap alone;

She always had a chaperone

To keep her prim and proper

And a model of decorum.

Though what Ann’s minder had not seen;

Beneath her roomy crinoline

Ann hid a dozen boyfriends

(Such a handy place to store ‘em).

Cucumber Jam

We’re the Cucumber Crew

Quite the coolest guys you’ve seen.

We play drums in The Salad Bowl;

Our beats are really mean.

We’re so slim and so stylish

That the lettuce wilts in awe,

Yes, we’re fresh in the flesh

And our talent’s really raw.

There’s no messing with our dressing;

We’re the smartest of the bunch.

Yeah, we’re strong and we’re long

And we really pack a punch.

We may just be veggies

But we don’t give a damn!

So come along and listen

To our cucumber jam.

 

Flexibility

When the yogi got a bogey

Quite a long way up his nose,

He chanted for an hour or so,

And then struck up a pose.

He stretched his leg around his head

(His movements nice and slow),

And then removed the bogey

With his very smallest toe.

The Last Biscuit

I sit at the side of the barrel,

And nobody ever picks me.

I’m the very last biscuit, the very last biscuit,

The very last biscuit, you see.

I’ve not got a smooth chocolate coating,

Or cherries, or currants or jam,

So people complain that I’m boring and plain.

I guess it’s quite true that I am.

I watch as the others get chosen

Until I am left by myself.

And people forget that the barrel is there,

Pushed to the back of the shelf.

Then one day a child’s feeling hungry

And cries ‘All the biscuits are gone!’

Then she finds the old barrel and gives it a shake

And she says to herself ‘Oh, hang on…’

Then she opens the lid and she finds me!

It’s true I’m a tiny bit stale.

And compared to the chocolately curranty ones

I’m really quite ugly and pale.

But the child feels so lucky to see me,

And thinks I’m delightful to eat.

Yes, sometimes to be the last biscuit

Can mean you seem so much more sweet.

 

 

 

Storm Pigs

When the wind was a whistle of wolf-breath,

Whispering under the door,

And each gust was the tearing of claws at the air,

Each squall was a deep-throated roar,

Three little pigs sat huddled inside,

Their nerves like straw – wispy thin.

And their hearts beat as quick as the rattle of sticks

As the storm bellowed out ‘Let me in!’