We don't have a chimney,
So what will Santa do?
He can't come through the doors
Because Dad locks them too.

Do not worry, do not fret,
Christmas won't be tragic.
Santa always gets inside,
I think it must be magic! 

The grass is growing high as wheat,
While I write this little poem.
The weeds are high above my feet —
Should I stop and mow 'em?

Inspired by the article: 10,000 Items Are Flying To The Moon On Artemis I And Some Of Them Are… Curious

I love to write into a book
And draw pictures too.
I take it everywhere I go,
To the beach and to the zoo.

I sketch down all the things I see,
And write poems as well.
Sometimes I'll write a story — 
There's just so much to tell! 

On the eleventh hour

Of the eleventh day

Of the eleventh month, 

1918, the guns fell silent.

World War One, 

The war to end all wars,

Was over.

Lest we forget, in Flanders fields,

The poppies grew blood red,

When Aussie boys, far from their homes,

Were number’d ’mongst the dead.

They came from farms where red gums grew,

From ’neath the Southern Cross;

No friendly sun, no magpie’s cry,

Would ever mark their loss.

In ev’ry town, in ev’ry park,

Their solemn statues stand.

Lest we forget those brave young men

Whose honour shaped our land.