“Aardvark.” The pupil ant spells, “A, R, D . . . ”
“It’s double-A! Look here, ant Bea,
This is a picture of the beast.”
There coils, a foot in length at least,
A sticky tongue around the room
And slurps the class to certain doom.
Have you ever heard of the Banshee bird?
They say, when it cries a person dies.
But I happen to know that this isn’t so.
It lays those square eggs which hurt it so.
When one sits down to lay,
All flock around from far away
And sit in every tree and cry in empathy
Until the square egg drops.
Then all the crying stops,
And all fly home as on command,
And peace returns to banshee land.
A Caterwaul drifts through the night
Up from an alley’s litter.
A shoe out of the backdoor’s light
Flies toward the wave’s emitter.
One time an eager Dromedary
Said, “This Sahara is too scary!
I’ll leave the sands of Africa
And go and visit Bactria.”
However, there a two-humped chump
Laughed at his solitary hump.
Then said the eager dromedary,
“This place is really quite contrary,
And when you go where I am from,
Boy, won’t your double-hump look dumb!”
An Earwig wiggled through the sod
And said before a sleeper’s ear,
“This is the perfect land o’ Nod!
I’ll make my cozy bower here.”
But it was fat and wriggled much,
The sleeper woke and felt it’s touch,
And quickly with his finger’s nail
Did separate it head from tail.
A Femur wanders through the night.
You mean, a wandering bone?
Yes, but it’s keeping out of sight,
And it is not alone.
It is connected, don’t you see,
To thighbone and a bending knee.
A tortured Gerrymander groans
In zigs and zags across the land.
It would align it’s twisted bones
To straighter grits and paths than planned
But is restrained from doing so
By party and politico.
A hungry Hobo hikes all day,
Then makes a bed of fragrant hay,
Lies down at once and soon conks out.
A sated honcho takes a spin,
Runs his TV and then turns in
And whimpers, “Ouch! My gout, my gout!”
The Interims united
Felt bored and slighted.
To Father Time they went
And poured out their lament,
“Oh, give us leave, Dad, to trade places
With those attractive action spaces!”
They got their wish but had no clue
Where to begin and what to do.
The world, though, which depended
On action now suspended,
Cried out at last, “Let’s go! Advance!
We do not like this dotard’s stance!”
It got its wish. The action spaces,
Refreshed and tanned, resumed their places,
The while the interims slid back
To where they best could show their knack -
And this old world then went ‘putt-putt’
Once more in its familiar rut.
A Jinx who means to seek in Dixie
Those warmer climes the north does lack
Jumps lightly like a peevish pixie
Upon a harmless driver’s back,
Who after total crashes three
Does get him there and is set free.
A Kangaroo is not a slouch,
It moves by mighty jumps,
But to the joey in her pouch
Those feel like hitting bumps.
It thinks, Why doesn’t mommy just
Run on all fours? I say!
She’d leave the dingo in the dust
That seems to want to play.
A shepherd boy out on the heath
A Leprechaun did see.
It said, “Here somewhere underneath
A pot of gold waits just for you
To make you more than well-to-do -
If you can capture me!”
The boy lunged toward the wrinkled elf,
But - poof! - it’s out of sight.
Then - poof! - again it shows itself
Next to the boy who lunges, fails.
Poof! - Lunge! Poof! - Lunge! But none avails
All day and far into the night.
That young one is, so I am told,
Still chasing down his pot of gold.
An organ grinder’s Monkey with a tin cup in his hand
Harks to the tunes while dreaming of his far native land.
He dreams of its verdant jungle and of his much-loved troop,
When the rattle of a quarter does throw him for a loop.
He jumps on the kindly donor and hits him around the head
Till a yank on his chain and a beating bring back the time of dread.
An organ grinder’s monkey with a tin cup in his hand
Harks to the tunes while dreaming of his far native land.
A baby Narwhal boy asked one fine morn,
“Will I grow up to be a unicorn?
And what good would a horn then be to me?”
Said dad, “You’ll get your horn, just wait and see.”
There ‘round an iceberg and behind the pup
A polar bear appeared to eat him up.
Said dad, “Back off, bear, or I’ll run you through!”
At which the polar bear at once withdrew.
The boy said, “Thank you, thank you, paw,
For saving me like this from tooth and claw!
When I grow up, I promise one thing - mister! -
I’ll watch out better over my dear sister!”
The crab thinks it is hidden well
And may now rest its weary shell.
The Octopus, a real whiz,
Does know exactly where it is,
But it won’t move, as it can feel
The gaze of a desirous seal.
Did you see the girl with the Pink tattoo?
It has a chip
With which to quip,
Like when you touch
It says this much,
“How do you do!
I am the girl with the pink tattoo!
How do you do!
I am the girl . . . “
A Quandary sits on a fence
Without a realistic sense
Of certainty where to alight,
If on the left or on the right,
“Those,” says it, “are subjective cases
Based on the bearing which one faces!
Do I face up or down the line?
I do not know! I need a sign!”
But it forgets, it’s just a mood,
A truly weightless attitude
Which soon and with the greatest ease
Is buoyed and carried on the breeze -
Which now already doesn’t know
Which way to blow,
To Canada or Mexico.
A Rhino is a massive one.
It weighs in excess of a ton.
No lion that was ever born
Could take a rhino by the horn.
It’s eyesight, though, is not too keen,
And you may likely not be seen
If you would stay downwind and freeze
Like one of the savannah’s trees.
Those it won’t charge, as it would nail
Itself in place there without fail
And would become a rather riled
But helpless creature of the wild.
Slams a door?
Creaks the floor?
an elfish corps?
Drops a spoon?
Moons a goon?
a crazy loon?
It was a lucky fluke
which betrayed the sly, old Spook
Which withdrew at our rebuke.
When the Triceratops foot drops
The sound will travel all around.
A T-rex waits and soon elates
And stops the big triceratops.
He bit its neck but met his check
And almost ate its bony plate,
And, furthermore, got one of those
Three massive horns right up his nose.
He says, “Ouch! Ouch! My chops! My chops!
I’ll eat no more triceratops!”
Be they waning, be they waxin’,
They are Roman as they’re Saxon:
Sunday’s sun, Monday’s moon,
Mars or Tui Day follows soon,
Merc or Woden gives us Humpday,
Jupiter or Thor the Dumpday,
Friday stands for Venus-Frigga,
Saturday for Saturn, bigger
And with rings that stretch far out.
But there’s one with older clout!
That is Uranus, his father.
But you’ll find that he stays rather
Far away. The naked eye
Cannot spot him in the sky,
And because his light is dim,
Not a day is named for him.
A soaring Vulture, so they say,
Can outsmell a mongrel any old day.
It seeks dead creatures far away,
May they be predator or prey,
Which it is mostly first to spot,
Thus beating hyenas to the rot.
To use its well-tuned smeller, though,
It must outfly its own BO
And overcome the pungent reek
By keeping windward with its beak
And, first and foremost, not be slowing
But keeping going, going, going.
A rooster thought unhappily
He needed plastic surgery.
So to the clinic ventured he
And said, “Doc, have a look at me!
The chicks all, when they see me, flee.
I must have an anomaly.
It is enough to live with bottles!
Doc, what I need is bigger Wattles,
For who wants to be left alone?
Please, charge mine up with silicone!”
Xanthippe liked to nag a lot
And scold her hubby Socrates
Who listened not but off he trot
As it did make him ill at ease.
If one went to the market square
One more than likely found him there,
As this became his place of choice
Whenever she would raise her voice.
He also soon found out that folk
There paid attention when he spoke,
So one may say that thanks to her
The world got a philosopher.
Moved by a planet’s power, deep and wide,
The Yukon’s waters toward the Northland glide.
Could they still hold in some untroubled pools
The memory of men turned into fools?
It was way back in 1896
When thousands, armed with shovels, pans, and picks
Consigned their souls to current, craft, and oar
To take them safely to the Klondike’s shore
There in its bleak environs to make bold
And labor for a share of yellow gold. -
On quiet nights the careful listener’s ear
May still perceive the cries of yesteryear
Until approaching rapids’ rushing swell
Will put an end to this enchanting spell,
And soon hushed rippling can again be heard
Just as if nothing ever here occurred.
The Zebra mom said, “Listen, son!
Learn one thing fast, i. e., to run.
The lioness knows no remorse,
And should she gain on you,
There’s only one thing left to do:
Kick like a horse!
But keep in mind the zebra’s lot:
One shot is all we’ve got!”