Original poems for the young at heart
Who put crumbs in the butter, again?
It’s like finding sand full of rocks.
Who put crumbs in the butter, again?
It looks like some crust-pustuled pox.
Who put crumbs in the butter, again?
Like dandruff that’s fallen off bread.
Who put crumbs in the butter, again?
It’s lumpy and won’t even spread.
Who put crumbs in the butter, again?
And why can’t they just wipe their knife?
Who put crumbs in the butter, again?
It’s TOTALLY ruined my life.
Sometimes we walk forwards,
Sometimes we walk backwards,
But when we hear there’s cake for tea
We all run snackwards!
Ice lollies, ice lollies, wouldn’t it be nice (lollies),
Wouldn’t it be good if your ice lolly sticks could grow?
Maybe if you planted them, and possibly enchanted them,
They’d all grow into lolly trees. Oh well, you never know!
Dig a little, dig a little, make the hole quite big (a little)
Push them in the soil and then just wait for them to sprout.
Sit around for hours, and then watch the little flowers,
And eventually the lolly fruit will bloom and blossom out.
Pick a little, pick a little, pick and pick and lick a little,
Hurry now, the sun’s come out – you’ll have to be quite quick!
Ice lollies, ice lollies, wouldn’t it be nice (lollies),
Wouldn’t it be good if you could plant a lolly stick?
Have you seen her? Have you seen her?
Granny and her vacuum cleaner?
All day long she zips and zooms
Throughout the house, through all the rooms.
Her stare is stern. Her glare is mean.
She says ‘I want this whole house CLEAN’
No dirt is safe, no dust can hide;
Her eagle eyes are open wide.
Gran looks in all the crannies, nooks,
The ceiling, shelves, the tops of books,
She checks for teeny tiny specks,
For mites and motes and fluff and flecks,
For every little bit of grit
In places that remain unlit,
She spies some spiders, spindly, black,
Then yells out loud ‘And now, ATTACK!’
So Granny turns the hoover on
She screams out, ‘Dust and dirt, BE GONE!’
It’s on full power. It starts to suck,
But then, oh dear! What dreadful luck!
The Hoover sucks the tables, chairs,
The floors, the doors, the walls, the stairs,
The rugs, the jugs, a coat, a hat,
(It even sucks poor Granny’s cat),
And then, when all is spick and span,
The Hoover sucks up dear old Gran.
Oh yes, she’s vanished in a trice,
But still, at least her house looks nice.
My washing-up sink is a big sea of foam,
From where the plates set sail for home,
And submarine cups bob up and roll
Past mugs and jugs as they drift by a bowl,
And dishes drift on in the froth and the spray,
Over the waves, and far, far away,
While down on the seabed a fork and a spoon
Sing songs in the beams of the kitchen-light moon.
Like an egg, the dawn just broke,
And now the sun, that brilliant yolk,
Is rising slowly in the sky,
While egg-white clouds go drifting by.
But then the wind comes, whoosh and whirr,
And gives the sky a short brisk stir,
Until the sun and white clouds too
Are nicely scrambled in the blue.
Taking Words for a Stroll 