Poems for kids
материал по английскому языку по теме

I never want to go to bed.
I like to stay up late.
I'm bouncing off the bedroom walls
and, frankly, feeling great!

I'm dancing like a maniac
instead of counting sheep.
My mom says, "Time for bed."
My dad yells, "Get your butt to sleep!"

I'm not sure what my bottom
has to do with anything,
but that's okay because I'd rather
jump around and sing.

I don't know what it was
that made me feel so wide awake.
Could it have been the Red Bull
and the double-chocolate cake?

I wonder if the seven cups
of coffee plus dessert
of Hershey bars and Skittles
are what left me this alert?

Whatever it turns out to be
that made me feel this right,
I hope I track it down
so I can stay up every... ZZZzzzzz

I'm absolutely full tonight.
I couldn't eat another bite.
I couldn't eat a half a bean,
or even taste a tangerine.
I couldn't lick a lettuce leaf
or bite the slightest bit of beef.
I couldn't polish off a pea
or sip a single drop of tea
or nibble on a nanogram
of pickled ham or candied yam
or lamb or clam or jam or Spam.
Yes, that's how full I truly am.
To even think of eating more
would leave me lying on the floor
and surely make my stomach hurt
unless, of course, you've got dessert.

Mashed potatoes on the ceiling.
Green beans on the floor.
Stewed tomatoes in the corner.
Squash upon the door.

Pickled peppers in my pocket.
Spinach up my sleeves.
Mushrooms in my underpants with
leeks and lettuce leaves.

Okra, onions, artichokes,
asparagus and beets;
buried neatly underneath the 
cushions of our seats.

All the rest I've hidden in my socks
and down my shirt.
I'm done with all my vegetables.
I'm ready for dessert!

A candy bar.
A piece of cake.
A lollipop.
A chocolate shake.

A jelly donut.
Chocolate chips.
Some gummy worms
and licorice whips.

A candy cane.
A lemon drop.
Some bubblegum
and soda pop.

Vanilla wafers.
Cherry punch.
My mom slept in
while I made lunch.

I bought a new banana suit
and new banana shoes.
I stickered up my body with
banana-shaped tattoos.

I also bought banana socks,
a big banana hat,
banana scarf and jewelry,
banana this and that.

Around my face I wrapped
a yellow handkerchief/bandana,
then walked into the market
like an over-sized banana.

I filled a cart with every last
banana in the store,
and when I'd gotten all of them
I headed for the door.

The managers all stopped and stared.
They nearly flipped their lids.
But I just smiled and said to them,
"I'm rescuing my kids."

The three of us are widely known.
We're each a horrid, haggard crone.
We croak and cry a mournful moan.
A glance at us, you'll turn to stone.

Our hair is made of living snakes.
To hear their hiss will give you shakes.
We love the savage sound it makes.
We'll laugh until your spirit breaks.

But solitude is all we crave,
So don't intrude within our cave.
Regardless if you're strong or brave,
We'll send you swiftly to your grave.

As we draw near, your heart will thud.
Your breath with stop, your brain will flood.
Our wicked wail will chill your blood,
And cause your veins to fill with mud.

And if there is the slightest breeze,
Our stench will make you choke and wheeze.
You'll gasp and tumble to your knees.
We smell like Gorgon-zola cheese.

I've started on a seefood diet.
I highly recommend you try it.
You eat whatever food you see;
a grape, a crepe, a pear, a pea,
a candy cane, some bubble gum,
a piece of pie, a peach, a plum,
banana pancakes, chicken legs,
a dozen donuts, deviled eggs,
spaghetti noodles, sirloin steaks,
vanilla ice cream, birthday cakes,
a hundred pizzas, chocolate mousse,
and gallon jugs of apple juice.

The seefood diet. Just can't beat it.
Whenever you see food, you eat it.
I'm pretty sure you won't lose weight,
But, what the heck? The food is great!

I'm the toughest pastry maker who has ever baked a cake.
My impressive little pastries are impossible to break.
Yes, my cookies and my cupcakes will defeat the strongest jaws,
while my muffins are impervious to power drills and saws.

You have never seen a danish or a donut quite so strong
and I bake the fiercest fruitcake that has ever come along.
You can chew on them till doomsday, you can chew till kingdom come,
but you'll never get a nibble, not a solitary crumb.

You can whack them with a hammer, you can hit them with a stick.
You can stab them with a dagger, you can beat them with a brick.
You can drop them from an airplane, you can blast them with a bomb
but my pastries will exhibit only peacefulness and calm.

I expect you'll want to test them. I encourage you to try,
but you'll never make a mark on them and here's the reason why:
I do something with my recipes no other bakers do;
when the cookbook calls for "milk" or "water," I use Crazy Glue.

When Frankenstein was just a kid,
he ate his greens. It's true. He did!
He ate his spinach, salads, peas,
asparagus, and foods like these,
and with each leaf and lima bean
his skin became a bit more green.

On chives and chard he loved to chew,
and Brussels sprouts and peppers too,
until he ate that fateful bean
that turned his skin completely green.
He turned all green, and stayed that way,
and now he frightens folks away.

Poor Frankenstein, his tale is sad,
but things need not have been so bad.
It's fair to say, if only he
had eaten much less celery,
avoided cabbage, ate no kale,
why, then, we'd have a different tale.

So, mom and dad, I'm here to say
please take these vegetables away
or my fate could be just as grim.
Yes, I could end up green like him.
So, mom and dad, before we dine,
please give a thought to Frankenstein.

My parents sent me to the store
to buy a loaf of bread.
I came home with a puppy
and a parakeet instead.

I came home with a guinea pig,
a hamster and a cat,
a turtle and a lizard
and a friendly little rat.

I also had a monkey
and a mongoose and a mouse.
Those animals went crazy
when I brought them in the house.

They barked and yelped and hissed
and chased my family out the door.
My parents never let me
do the shopping anymore.

My mom makes disgusting spaghetti
with horseradish sauce and sardines.
She tops it with pickles and mustard,
bananas and barbecued beans.

She serves it for supper on Sunday.
On Monday we have it for lunch.
It's breakfast on Tuesday and Wednesday.
By Thursday, you guessed it, it's brunch.

I don't like to hurt my mom's feelings.
I said that I loved it. (I lied.)
I always gave mine to our doggy.
And that's why our poor doggy died.

So next time you serve us spaghetti,
dear mother, don't make it like that.
Please serve it with red sauce and meatballs,
and that way it won't kill the cat.