Poems Archive

The wildebeest are on the run
No chance to eat or drink or snooze
Escaping from the poacher’s gun
And men who capture beasts for zoos

Robbie sobbed despairingly
What? Eight already? Can it be?
Alas! He’s only four months old
Too little to be self-controlled.

A terrible belly dancer is the pelican, sir
Its beak can shake more than its belly can, sir

The fruit tree wrote a controversial book:
“Come, Harvest, Come!”
To save himself unpleasantness
He used a nom-de-plum

Wendell the weevil
Despicably evil
His instincts primeval, despised
He’s always unceevil

Old Father Hubbard went to the cupboard
That’s when he discovered the bear
Who gobbled up Hubbard and all in the cupboard
And left just a bone lying there

I think if I were Ogden Nash
My poetry might bring me cash
But as I’m just a mortal poet
I find it hard to keep afloat