Camouflage

Kelly's skin was creamy white, her hair was sunny blonde
Mildred's skin and hair looked like the scum upon a pond
They liked to play in a marshy bog in early weeks of May
Not knowing that a half-blind, child-devouring mutant frog was on its way
"I see you!" croaked the frog when Kelly's golden hair swished by
And with a flick of his sticky tongue, he ate her like a fly
"I smell one more," the old toad said, "I'll wait until I spot 'er."
But Mil sat stiller than a weepin' willer, and the slime prince never got 'er.

An Old Lady

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly
Her name was Mrs. Kipper
She doesn't eat bugs, but I strongly advise
You keep her away from your zipper

How The Cat and Cow Got Their Mew and Moo, Respectively

A long time ago, in 1682

The cat said moo and the cow said mew

 “Why do you mew? It’s better to moo!” mooed the cat

And the cow mewed, “Ha! Moo, schmoo!”

“More like mew, schmew!” mooed Cat. “Mew is poo!”

“Ha! Nice comeback!” mewed Cow. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Go milk yourself, Cow!”

“Go lick yourself, Cat!”

“You’re not worth your own cud!”

“You’re not worth your own scat!”

“I bet you can’t moo!”

“I can too! I’m just not in the mewed.”

“You mean not in the mood!”

“That was rude!”

“Oh, mew-hoo!”

“You just mewed!”

“I did not!”

“You did too!”

“Moot point, dude!”

“Mewt point, dude!”

“You mean moot point, you do!”

“Yeah? I’m rubber, you’re glue!”

“Then I’m rubber, you’re glue!”

“Moo!” mooed Cow, making fun of the Cat.

“Mew!” mewed Cat. “How ‘bout that?”

And because Cat and Cow were both rubber and glue

The mew stuck to Cat and to Cow stuck the moo

Which is why cats and cows make the sounds that they do

‘Cause of one barnyard spat in 1682.

Unfair Anatomical Blemish

There once was a very large birthmark that looked

Like a nice pair of womanly breasts

Which was depressing, to say the least,

To the boy with the birth-marked chest

Flashlights Imperfectly Explained

“You mean to say this plastic stick

Produces light? It has no wick!

It’s Triple-what? It’s Triple-A?

That makes this stick light up this way?

Well, what on earth’s a Triple A?

A bat-a-what? What did you say?

A battery? Well, where’s it lurk?

Ah! In the stick! Well, how’s it work?”

“Hm,” you say, “Okay, then, well…

You start with a voltaic cell…

Connected…if I’ve got this right…

By conductive electrolyte…

Then ions, negatively charged,

Go toward the anode, by and large,

And oxidation, so it’s said,

Is when ions’ electrons shed,

But those electrons are not gone,

At cathodes they are added on

And this, somebody has deduced

Is when cations are reduced.

Now each voltaic cell, of course,

Has an electromotive force

And did I mention the existence

Of Thévenin's theorem and internal resistance?

A graph of voltage, resistance, time,

Predictably shows a curving line…

Of course, these batteries of mine

Are one point five volt alkaline…”

“Ah-hem,” I said. “Er-hum. Cough cough.

This jargon’s got me nodding off.”

“Oh,” you said. “Too much to handle.

That’s all right. You take the candle.”

“Thanks,” I said, and shook your hand.

“A candle I can understand.”

But later in my tent that night…

I wondered, How are candles bright?

Fever Times

Mommy, I'm hot, then Mommy, I'm cold
Hot as hell, Ma, cold as mountains
Burning to freezing
From oven to ice 
Chilis to goosebumps
Wolf breath to snow
Pizza to pudding
Parties to tombstones
Innards to igloos
Slobber to marble
Mink coats to t-shirts
Coffee to Coke
Bomb fire to whispers
Snake blood to blizzards
Fat cats to whimpers
Lapdogs to lizards
Teapots to undies
Lasers to lenses
Earmuffs to milkshakes
Stovetops to witch tits
Mukluks to raindrops
Wet sweat to shivers
Feel my forehead!
Campfires to clouds.

The Tale of Poor Barton

I was hippity hopping about through the weeds

When I suddenly noticed I’d lost both my knees

It happened so quickly, it really was odd

Now both of my legs were as straight as a rod

So I walked rather stiffly, militiaman style

It wasn’t so bad, though it took quite a while

Then—would you believe it?—my feet were gone too!

I was left with just ankles to put in my shoes!

The walking was awkward before, but now this!

It was easy to see that my gait was amiss

I cried, thinking how I would flop with the ladies

I looked like a freak from old Barnum and Bailey’s

And then—curse the heavens!—my legs disappeared

I was falling apart; it was worse than I’d feared

I collapsed on my face; it was cause for alarm

But I dragged myself onwards with both of my arms

I tried to stay positive; things could be worse

A wheelchair, at least, ain’t as bad as a hearse

I just had to crawl myself back into town

I’d find myself soon in a hospital gown

Perhaps some bright surgeon (I didn’t know who)

Would fix me right up and I’d be good as new

I spotted my town and I thought, “Yay! At last!”

But right then, my torso sunk into the grass

I was just head and neck, with no body at all

And at this realization I started to squall

“What rubbish! What horror! What lameness!” I cried

“I’d be better off if I’d simply just died!”

I wanted to shoot myself—‘course I could not

You can’t fire a gun if a head’s all you’ve got

I figured I’d wait it out, ‘til I was found

But then the wind started to blow me around

The path was downhill, so I rolled for a while

And was blown back to town, traveling tumbleweed style

When I got there, my mother said, “Barton, you fool!

You’ve lost all your limbs and you’re quite late for school!”

She carried me straight to my class with Miss Hardy

And made me apologize for being tardy

Then came back to fetch me when lessons were through

And questioned Miss Hardy, “Well, how did he do?

He’s naughty, I know. Did he give you much sass?”

“Why, no,” said Miss Hardy. “He’s head of the class.”

Subterranean Serenity

It’s storming it’s raining it’s sleeting it’s hailing

The windows are shaking the wind gusts are wailing

The thunder is roaring the lightning is flashing

The rainclouds are pouring the thunder is crashing

The people are huddled inside, scared as mouses

What will the storm do to their cars and their houses?

They think of the damage; they whimper and pout

Will a tree topple down? Will the power go out?

And meanwhile, all comfy and calm in their holes

Are thousands of underground earthworms and moles

Who don’t have a clue of the storm ‘bove their heads

Or the terrified humans curled up in their beds

No they’re too busy sniffing for bugs they can’t see

Though they’re blind they don’t mind for their lives are storm-free.

Finnegan Boggin

There once was a lumberjack, Finnegan Boggin

Whose lips were so long he could snog his own noggin

But when he was too busy snoggin’ for loggin’

The company boss would give Boggin a floggin’