PLAN B FOR CINDERELLA

“Stop fretting! You’ll get to the ball.
Take my purse to the shopping mall.
Buy some shoes and a dress, 
rent a car—just don’t stress. 
Once the wand's fixed, I’ll give you a call!”






Poem ©2013 Rebecca Colby
Illustration ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo

Goldilocks, the little beast
She didn’t care a jot,
She robbed the rich she robbed the poor
She robbed the blinking lot.

She sneaked into the Bear’s house-
That sweet and happy home-
And broke the chairs and trashed the beds
And stole their mobile phones.

She even ate their porridge,
After pinching all their money
But then…
they caught her at it
And they ate her with some honey.

The moral of this story,
In case you didn’t get it
Is never rob a bear’s house,

They tend not to forget it.

Poem ©2013 Katrhryn Evans
Illustration ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo

Run away down the hill!
Run away down the hill!
The wolf is coming for the kill,
He wants to munch us for his lunch.
Run away, run away down the hill!

Run away in the wood!
Run away in the wood!
The wolf would eat us if he could,
As his main course with apple sauce.
Run away, run away in the wood!

Run away through the ditch!
Run away through the ditch!
Oh no I’ve gone and got a stitch.
I’m out of huff, you’re out of puff.
Run away, run away through the ditch!

Run away round the bend!
Run away round the bend!
Looking for our journeys end
Must get there quick, the house of brick.
Run away run away round the bend.

Run away to the door!
Run away to the door!
Now we’re here, we’re safe for sure.
Oh no! We're shocked, the door is locked.
Run away run away to the door.

Run away round the back!
Run away round the back!
Hiding from the wolf attack,
And here’s a note our brother wrote
Run away run away round the back.

Oh no where to run!
Oh no where to run!
Gone away for a week in the sun,
He gets a tan the wolf gets ham.
No where, oh no where to run!

Poem ©2013 George Kirk
Illustrations ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo

General Gluteus Maximus
is a pain in the behind.
He’s uptight about where he sits,
but me?
I really don’t mind.

Wherever I go he follows,
that terrible bossy old rump.
If seating isn’t up to scratch
He complains and gets the hump.

General Gluteus Maximus
is a demanding derrière.
Comfy seats are important to him,
but me?
I really don’t care.

I’m tired of his choosy cheeks.
His snobbishness is a bore.
If he doesn’t start behaving soon
I’ll park him on the floor.

General Gluteus Maximus
is a great big uppity bum.
Every chair must be perfect,
but me?
I think that’s dumb.

We may come to an agreement.
An arrangement that is fair.
Let’s work out the details
in this antique rocking chair.

General Gluteus Maximus
I now understand your plight.
This is the best sitting down I have done.
My bottom fits just right!

Poem ©2013 Meagan Munroe
Illustration ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo

There once lived a young maiden with shiny gold hair,
She had blue sparkling eyes and a confidant air.
And one day that same maiden was heard to declare,
"I must set out to find the most comfortable chair!"

Word went out in the land, ‘A new chair we must find!’
But each chair that was brought her, she promptly declined.
She tried soft backs and hard backs, wool, wood and silk lined,
But no chair in the land would impress her behind.

Then while walking she came ‘pon a cottage so cozy,
And peered through the window (she was very nosy).
She spotted three chairs and her cheeks went all rosie,
"I need to  sit down, as I do feel quite dozy."

“I must try those chairs now, there’s no room for delay!”
So she picked the door lock, like she’s seen in a play.
But the two bigger chairs left her rump in dismay.
Then she tried the third chair and cried, "Haloo, Hallay!"

She said, "This is the chair I have searched for so long.
To abandon this chair now would simply be wrong.
I shall sit in this chair, hum a happy chair song
and I’ll wait til the folk from the house come along."

And so that's where they found her, in that very chair
When the three bears returned home and came down the stairs.
And well, bears being bears, they just ate her right there.
But they all took great care not to mess up the chair. 

Poem ©2013 Mo O'Hara
Image ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo

There Once Was A Really Mean Fairy,
whose name was Euphonia Brisket.
Her face was as sour as the milk she devoured
every night, with blue cheese and a biscuit.

One thing you should know about Brisket:
she was awfully careless with magic.
Incorrect incantations she spluttered and spat
as her spell hit a Rat, which was tragic.

A request had come in by mail order,
for a love spell hand-made by E. Brisket.
Poor Ratty just happened to get in the way,
as Euphonia stirred it and whisked it.

The Rat was so suddenly love-struck,
there were stars in his eyes as he fell.
"What shall I do to woo you, my love true?"
he said, twirling his whiskers, "do tell!"

At this, the Mean Fairy went red in the face,
and chased the Rat out of the room.
"That Rat loves a Fairy! 'Ow dare 'ee!" she yelled,
as she swept him aside with her broom.

"Fairy Brisket, please listen, please do,
to the plight of a Rat who's in love.
for I've never felt this way ever before,
and my heart is all yours, my dear dove!"

"Ever looked in a mirror?" sneered Brisket.
"Tail twitchy, fur matted, teeth green - 
face the facts, my dear chap, you're a verminous Rat,
beside ME you're not fit to be seen!"

Now Brisket herself was no picture,
as the looking glass clearly revealed,
but her spell made the Rat see a glamorous beauty,
as dizzily round her he reeled.

Alas for poor Ratty! His love unrequited,
his end was most gruesome, I'm certain.
For as Brisket's patience snapped, so did the rat trap,
and then, for the Rat, it was curtains.

Poem © Lesley Moss 2013
Illustration © Bridget Strevens-Marzo 2013

The thing about Alaskan bees is
They’re not like your kind,
Up here, you see, their honey freezes,
So in hives you’ll find:

Ice-cream swirls instead of wax
And blossom bright sorbets
Chunks of fudge and choc-ice stacks
In stripy bee sundaes

What’s more, since there’s no honeycomb
Exploring paws don’t stick,
Just open up the chilly dome
For hungry bears to lick!

And wow, the walls are wafer wrapped
Around the inner cold,
It’s like a giant waffle cone
For lucky cubs to hold!

And yep that’s how strange dessert fame
Came to our humble wood,
For sure, our bees they are to blame
For Baked Alaska pud!


Poem ©2013 Laura Louise Stewart
Illustrations ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo