Friday, June 21, 2013

sarah cynthia sylvia stout would not take the garbage out by shel silverstein

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out.
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans
Cook the yams and spice the hams,
And though her parents would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceiling:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas and rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans, and tangerines,
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast.
The garbage rolled on down the halls,
It raised the roof, it broke the walls,
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,
Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky,
And none of her friends would come to play,
And all of her neighbors moved away;
And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout
Said, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course it was too late,
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate;
And there in the garbage she did hate
Poor Sarah met an awful fate
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late
But children, remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

"Abou Ben Adhem" By James Henry Leigh Hunt

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

MY ROBOT by Shel Silverstein

I told my robot to do my biddin'.
He yawned and said, "You must be kiddin'."
I told my robot to cook me a stew.
He said, "I got better things to do."
I told my robot to sweep my shack.
He said, "You want me to strain my back?"
I told my robot to answer the phone.
He said, "I must make some calls of my own.
I told my robot to brew me some tea.
He said, "Why don't you make tea for me?"
I told my robot to boil me an egg.
He said, "First -- lemme hear you beg."
I told my robot, "There's a song you can play me.'
He said, "How much are you gonna pay me?"
So I sold that robot, 'cause I never knew
Exactly who belonged to who.

Furniture Bash by Shel Silverstein

The hand of the clock
Pinched the foot of the bed,
So the foot of the bed
Kicked the seat of the chair,
So the seat of the chair
Sat on the head of the table,
So the head of the table
Bit the leg of the desk,
So the leg of the desk
Bumped the arm of the couch,
So the arm of the couch
Slapped the face of the clock.
And they pinched and they punched
And they banged and they knocked,
And they ripped and they flipped,
And they rolled and they rocked,
And the poor dresser drawer
Got a couple of socks.
There was sawdust and springs
When I turned on the light
After that horrible furniture fight.
And that's the truth, no lie -- no joke.
That's how your furniture
All got broke.

No, thank you...... by Shel Silverstein

No I do not want a kitten,
No cute, cuddly kitty-poo,
No more long hair in my cornflakes,
No more midnight meowing mews.
No more scratchin, snarlin, spitters,
No more sofas clawed to shreds,
No more smell of kitty litter,
No more mousies in my bed.
No I will not take that kitten --
I've had lice and I've had fleas,
I've been scratched and sprayed and bitten,
I've developed allergies.
If you've got an ape, I'll take him,
If you have a lion, that's fine,
If you brought some walking bacon,
Leave him here, I'll treat him kind.
I have room for mice and gerbils,
I have beds for boars and bats,
But please, *please* take away that kitten --
Quick -- 'fore it becomes a cat.
Well ... it is kind of cute at that.

PLUGGING IN by Shel Silverstein

Peg plugged in her 'lectric toothbrush,
Mitch plugged in his steel guitar,
Rick plugged in his CD player,
Liz plugged in her VCR.
Mom plugged in her 'lectric blanket,
Pop plugged in the TV fights,
I plugged in my blower-dryer --
Hey! Who turned out all the lights?

Snowball by Shel Silverstein

I made myself a snowball
As perfect as could be.
I thought I'd keep it as a pet
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas
And a pillow for its head.
Then last night it ran away,
But first -- it wet the bed.

Monday, February 4, 2013

"Boots" - "Infantry Columns" By Rudyard Kipling

Boots by Rudyard Kipling.


We're foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa -
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Africa -
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before -
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Don't-don't-don't-don't-look at what's in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again)
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

Try-try-try-try-to think o' something different -
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o' you!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again) -
There's no discharge in the war!

We-can-stick-out-'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of 'em -
Boot-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

'Taint-so-bad-by-day because o' company,
But night-brings-long-strings-o' forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!

I-'ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It-is-not-fire-devils, dark, or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

Thursday, January 10, 2013

"Lone Dog" by Irene R. McLeod

Lone Dog
I'M a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; 
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; 
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; 
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep. 
I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,         5
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, 
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, 
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate. 
Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, 
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.  10
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, 
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!