There was a young man from Crete,
Who walked on his hands not his feet,
What a fun affair
To have your knees in the air,
And shake toes with the people you meet.
There was a young man from Peru,
Who swallowed a mouthful of glue.
His lips were sealed,
His nose was congealed,
And his face turned a bright shade of blue.
Loony Limericks by James Aitchison
Image from Pexels
Where to put the pot?
Under the bed
or on your head?
Where to put the pot?
..
Where to put the pot?
Behind the door
or on the floor?
Where to put the pot?
…
Where to put the pot?
I haven’t a clue,
what can I do?
I haven’t got a pot!
This poem is completely potty! by James Aitchison
Image from Pixabay
Bendy Wendy the contortionist
could tie herself in knots:
not just one or two knots,
but lots and lots and lots!
Until she got so twisted,
like a piece of rope,
and no one could undo her,
they all just gave up hope.
But one winter’s morning
Wendy caught a cold,
she sneezed and sneezed so hard,
her body just unrolled.
Bendy Wendy by James Aitchison
Image from Pexels
High in a tree
lived a gigglegum bird —
its noise was the weirdest
you ever heard.
When it was happy
it made a chirp
that sounded like
a thunderous burp.
It scared a crow,
it scared an owl,
it scared a cow
and made it howl.
Kangaroos heard it
and off they scurried,
platypuses were perplexed
while wombats worried.
So next time you
hear a burp in the bush,
just simply say:
“Gigglegum, shush!”
Beware the gigglegum bird by James Aitchison
Image from Pixabay
I’d hate to be a hairbrush,
by the mirror, waiting there;
my bristles would get clogged up
with strands of yucky hair.
Everybody uses me,
no one seems to care;
red hair, black hair, grey hair too —
a technicolor scare!
Image from Pexels by RDNE Stock project
The other day
I got a surprise —
at first I couldn’t
believe my eyes.
It came in a box
tied with string —
the biggest, weirdest
funniest thing.
It was a purple
pizza eater,
eating a
purple pizza!
Mervyn McFigg
lost his wig,
it blew off in the breeze.
It came to rest
in a bird’s nest,
in the highest of high gum trees.
Mervyn McFigg,
to retrieve his wig,
climbed up that mighty tree.
But at the top,
a bald bird said, “Stop!
Your wig now belongs to me!”
I wanted to write a poem about Sunday,
simply because it rhymed with Monday.
But then it was Tuesday,
I struggled all day,
and all Wednesday I waited
with breath abated,
and decided that Thursday
would be my verse day!
But no words came to mind,
I got really behind,
now it’s Sunday again
and I’ve lost my pen…
Teacher’s note: “To wait with bated breath” is a very common phrase. Bated is short for “abated”. It is never spelled “abaited”, because bait refers to hunting and trapping.
There’s a Gruble in my garden
wearing rainbow coloured clothes.
He lives beneath the gimble patch
where no one ever goes.
If you’re curious I’ll show you,
but you’ve got to promise me,
you’ll never tell a single soul.
That’s how it’s got to be.
We’ll tiptoe from our bedrooms
and steal along the hall,
then down the stairs, across the yard
up to the garden wall.
We’ve got to be as quiet as mice
‘cause on the other side,
if the Gruble hears a noise,
beneath the gimble patch he’ll hide.
He won’t be there this morning,
nor in the afternoon.
But set your clock for midnight
and provided there’s a moon
He’ll be digging out the mungle weeds
and chopping through the ling,
to clear the ground of carbles
for the annual rickshing.
It’s a really wondrous sight to see
this rickshing celebration.
Grubles come from every corner
of the Gruble nation.
Their tables all are laden
with every fine delight;
baked bullwort, creamy piggler
and barbequed quambite.
The party lasts for eldons,
till the mungle weed grows back.
Then they finish with a lively dance
they call the rakanbak.
But as the moon gets lower.
Just before the sun turns red.
The Grubles leave the way they came
and go back home to bed.
And the Gruble in my garden
with the rainbow coloured clothes?
Well – he’s back beneath the gimble patch
where no one ever goes.
They say my words are quite absurd,
my poems most preposterous,
my rhymes are poor, my rhythms wild,
my metre’s all quite monstrous.
But I don’t care what they say,
one day I will be prosperous,
because I am the world’s only
poetic rhinoceros.
Australian Children’s Poetry 