Poems written for kids

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Squetiquette
If ever you go to the land of the Squink
Don't say "Plink", for it isn't polite
In the language that's spoken by the Squink 'n' the folk 'n'
The mice that glow green in the night.

Other words not to say are "Gazonk" and "Gazeek"
Don't say "Phneek" whatever you do
Or they'll take all your sweeties and tickle your feeties
And give you a custard shampoo.

Eaten For Breakfast

A Mr Toastedeggysoldier got .....
What did he got? Come on, come on. Got what?
Got eaten up. I mean crunched, munched and guzzled
By a kind of sort of rhinnyhippophant
Which should - for safety's sake - should have been muzzled
For you might try to guzzle muzzled but you can't.

When Mr Toastedeggysoldier died
A lot of people cried,
But not old Mrs Spellingmistake who fried
A potato scone.
Then munched
And now that scone it
'S gone.
A bit like Mr Toastedeggysoldier really.

Knees

A man with a nose that goes "sneeze"
Has very unsociable knees
For they live in his next-next-door neighbour's back garden,
If left out at night then they stiffen and harden
And when in the morning he gets up to go
For a walk
His knees knock
And say "No!"
Horace

Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
"We can't have this!" his Dad declared,
"If that lad's ate, he should be shared."
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
''Stop him someone!" Mother cried
"Those eyeballs would be better fried!"
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
"Oh! foolish child!" the father mourns
"You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce..."
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
" To think I raised him from the cot
And now he's going to scoff the lot!"
His Mother cried:" What shall we do?
What's left won't even make a stew..."
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it- that's what haggis is

The Sprickly-Sprock's Tea-Time. The Sprickly-Sprock says "Tickly-Tock" Every Afternoon Around about three, then it's time for tea So he takes out his time-for-tea spoon His time-for-tea fork and his time-for-tea knife And he turns to his sprickly time-for-tea wife And says "Yummy! There's a space in my tummy That's just the right size For French mustard, Sliced ham, creamy custard And two apple pies. He runs twice round the table as fast as he's able Then jumps and flies through the air. He goes head over heels, claps his hands then he squeals And lands with a bump in his chair. He counts up to ten using slices of bread Licks his lips slowly and scratches his head. Now he's ready. He holds his hands steady Then grabs at the food And he eats it all urp, With a slurp and a burp. Pardon him for being sprickly rude. The Squink That Was Pink The Squink that was pink Used to live in a sink In the middle of Uppitty Down. When it started to rain The Squink moved to a drain, Said "Squellugumph!" and put on a frown. It rained for a month and a week and a day And when the rain stopped they all came out to play: The Squink and the Plibble, the Bongazoo too, The Erk and the Urk and the Snoo. They painted their faces With jam leaving spaces For cream then, laughing in Greek, They ran backwards and forwards And through-the-front-door-wards And jumped up and down shouting "Squeak". The Squink gave them supper of daffodil pie At the end of a rainbow in a dry evening sky Then yawning and rubbing at sleepy eyes too They all set off for bed. Shouldn't you?
Squetiquette If ever you go to the land of the Squink Don't say "Plink", for it isn't polite In the language that's spoken by the Squink 'n' the folk 'n' The mice that glow green in the night. Other words not to say are "Gazonk" and "Gazeek" Don't say "Phneek" whatever you do Or they'll take all your sweeties and tickle your feeties And give you a custard shampoo. Eaten For Breakfast A Mr Toastedeggysoldier got ..... What did he got? Come on, come on. Got what? Got eaten up. I mean crunched, munched and guzzled By a kind of sort of rhinnyhippophant Which should - for safety's sake - should have been muzzled For you might try to guzzle muzzled but you can't. When Mr Toastedeggysoldier died A lot of people cried, But not old Mrs Spellingmistake who fried A potato scone. Then munched And now that scone it 'S gone. A bit like Mr Toastedeggysoldier really.			That's Logic That Isn't If a ring through your ear is an earring And a ring through your nose is a nosering What's a mumtyskweffellump? Nnuffig To Worry About There's a Nnuffig comes at night time But it doesn't frighten me Because I've got my Gnummffling sticks Not one, not two, but three And if that Nnuffig comes too near I'll gnummffle both its jibblies And use its nose as a garden hose For giving me the wibblies. There's a Nnuffig in my garden But it doesn't frighten me Because I've got my Gnummffling sticks Not one, not two, but three So I'll skweedge and skwodge and skwudge it Then I'll splock it on the goozer. Yeah, if that Nnuffig wants a fight There'll only be one loser. There's a Nnuffig at my front door But it doesn't frighten me Because I've got my Gnummffling sticks Not one, not two, but three I'll just grengle its majoolikums Then gronkle its majeeks And give its gweezil such a smenk It won't sit down for weeks. There's a Nnuffig in my bedroom And now it frightens me 'Cause it's eaten up my Gnummffling sticks It's eaten up all three. Now I've nothing left to gronk it with As it stares me in the eye And it's going to blumff my boggleybits So it's time I said "Good-bye".
Eggcentricity An eggzample of eggzactly What is meant by "eggcentricity" Is dancing round an egg on the ground And shouting "O Felicity". Tangmalangmaloo by John O'Brien The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime, And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time; And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around, With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound. Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangmaloo? A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has had her fling, And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring; Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin's rim, And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb; There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too - But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangmaloo. The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can; He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man. But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat; He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn't sure of that. The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do, And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangmaloo. 'Come, tell me, boy,' his lordship said, in crushing tones severe, 'Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year? 'How is it that around the world we celebrate that day 'And send a name upon a card to those who're far away? 'Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too? A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangmaloo. He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf, He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself. And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say, 'That's good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day? The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew - 'It's the day before the races out at Tangmalangmaloo.			Knees A man with a nose that goes "sneeze" Has very unsociable knees For they live in his next-next-door neighbour's back garden, If left out at night then they stiffen and harden And when in the morning he gets up to go For a walk His knees knock And say "No!" Horace Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay Horace ate himself one day. He didn't stop to say his grace, He just sat down and ate his face. "We can't have this!" his Dad declared, "If that lad's ate, he should be shared." But even as he spoke they saw Horace eating more and more: First his legs and then his thighs, His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes... ''Stop him someone!" Mother cried "Those eyeballs would be better fried!" But all too late, for they were gone, And he had started on his dong... "Oh! foolish child!" the father mourns "You could have deep-fried that with prawns, Some parsley and some tartar sauce..." But H. was on his second course: His liver and his lights and lung, His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue; " To think I raised him from the cot And now he's going to scoff the lot!" His Mother cried:" What shall we do? What's left won't even make a stew..." And as she wept, her son was seen To eat his head, his heart, his spleen. And there he lay: a boy no more, Just a stomach, on the floor... None the less, since it was his They ate it- that's what haggis is

	Poems written for kids.
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