| When Princess Daisy laid her head upon a cushioned, flowery bed, the bed felt soft, but Daisy frowned, for down below, she heard a sound. And in the morning when she rose, she wrinkled up her pretty nose. |  Illustration © 2016 Steven Henry |
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Why do I always pick my nose, then wipe the snot upon my clothes? Or roll it into sticky balls and flick it at the floor or walls? Or other times when thin and runny, smear it ‘cross my face like honey? Or chip it off in crusty flakes and eat it ‘til my belly aches? Am I disgusting? Am I lazy? Maybe I’m just bogey crazy. No! The reason for my bogey-thon is that my tissues are all gone. Poem © 2015 Rebecca Colby Illustration © 2015 Rikin Parekh  The Boy with the Bogey on his Jumper by Rikin Parekh Gardenia Hollyhocks Rose
hates flowers and wouldn’t have chose her ridiculous name; her Mum is to blame for things that get right up her nose. Gardenia Hollyhocks Rose hates flowers and oh, how it shows. They cause her to wheeze, and sneeze in the breeze ‘til snot overflows as she blows. Gardenia Hollyhocks Rose hates flowers—they dirty her clothes. To bring Mum to shame, she’s changing her name to Booger-Slime Green Pantyhose. © Rebecca Colby 2015  I am the teacher’s favourite;
I know she loves me best. And every day to prove it, I put her to the test, by racing ‘round the classroom, by dashing down the stairs, by tipping over paint pots, by jumping on her chairs, by hardly ever listening, by playing with my ball, by chewing up her homework, by howling in the hall. I never get in trouble, despite how bad I get. In case you haven’t guessed yet, I am the teacher’s pet! Poem © 2014 Rebecca Colby Image © 2014 Heather Dickinson  JUGGLING TIPS
Don’t try to juggle bouncy balls, for balls are small, they slide and fall. They spring across the floors and walls. It’s much too hard to juggle balls. And best beware of juggling plates, for plates aren’t great—they oscillate. They spin. They drop. They always break! You’ll soon crack up when juggling plates. And never try to juggle bags, for beanie bags are soft; they sag. They slip. They drag. They’re hard to snag. You’ll tire and flag while juggling bags. If you must juggle, take my tip: the object that is best to grip, oozes slime too thick to slip. Just grab some FROGS and watch them flip! Poem © 2014 Rebecca Colby Illustration © Heather Dickinson  I AM LION!
(a parody of Helen Reddy’s song “I Am Woman”) I am lion, hear me roar, Don’t call me 'bunnykins' any more For I’m not your cute and furry little friend. If you look here underneath, Then you’ll see my vicious teeth. This cuddly-wuddly talk has finally got to end! Yes, I look soft, But I’m harder than you know. Yes, I am small, But it’s only ‘til I grow. If I want to I can be anything. I am fierce. I am unhuggable. I am lion! Call me ‘good’ and I get badder, Call me ‘sweet’ and I get madder, Call me ‘rabbit’ and then watch me lose control. Though your words they sometimes shame me, They’re just names--they’ll never tame me. I’m a lion deep inside my fluffy soul! Yes, I look soft, But I’m harder than you know. Yes, I am small, But it’s only ‘til I grow. If I want to I can be anything. I am fierce. I am unhuggable. I am lion! I am lion! I am lion! RAR!!! Poem © 2014 Rebecca Colby Illustration © Sam Zuppardi  MONSTER STEW Mother Monster made a stew with all your favourite things, some earwax balls and eyeball goo, and slimy, bogey strings. She stirred in mould and toenail rot, then served with maggot rolls. You licked your lips and scoffed the lot, but why’d you eat her bowls?! Poem © 2014 Rebecca Colby Illustration © Loretta Schauer  “Leave the prince speechless,” I heard you declare. “Please make him notice my eyes and gold hair. Give him a reason to gaze on my face. Make me stand out from the rest in this place.” Granting your wishes was no easy task. And now you complain? How dare you, I ask! Go on and moan that you look like monster. But Cinderella, my dear, you get what you ask for! Poem © 2014 Rebecca Colby Illustration © 2013 Sally Kindberg I know a chimpanzee who plays the violin, the tuba, the accordion, the flute and mandolin. He plays the clarinet and he plays the saxophone, the drums and the cello and the slide trombone. But he won’t be happy ‘til he masters the bassoon, So he’s taking lessons soon from his cousin—a baboon.   Have you tried our Octo Pie? I'm warning you. It's rather sly. Its eight, long tentacles lie in wait. As you dig in, it moves your plate. It tickles you, then wraps you tight. You're lucky if you get a bite. It suckers you--makes you a fool. You won't believe the ridicule! With Octo Pie, you must act quick, Or you won’t even get a lick. No, Octo Pie's not easy to eat. May I suggest a Tarantula Treat? Poem ©2013 Rebecca Colby Illustrations ©2013 Paul Morton   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  My Granny's nearing ninety, I don’t know what to do. She’s started wearing leather And has got her first tattoo. My Granny’s nearing ninety. It’s time we had a talk. But Granny isn’t listening, She’s deaf from heavy rock. My Granny’s nearing ninety, She really should take care. I shout, “Slow down!” as she roars past On her Biker Chick wheelchair. Poem ©2013 Rebecca Colby Illustration ©2013 John Shelley
 My mother’s reading Monster Tree with Benjamin upon her knee, and she is just ignoring me. I sneak up, creep up, quietly, And hide behind the blue settee, But she is still ignoring me. When I am sure that she won’t see, I drop a worm into her tea. Perhaps she’ll stop ignoring me. As Mother shrieks, I start to flee. I’ve never seen her this angry. At last, she stopped ignoring me. “That was naughty, Barnaby! No food for you and no TV!” Too bad she’s not ignoring me. Poem ©2012 Rebecca Colby Image ©2012 Kate Pankhurst “Sweet Isabel, it’s time to eat. Come sit upon your royal seat. The chef has made a tasty treat.” The princess rushed to take her place, Then saw the food and pulled a face. “That’s gross!” she said, to her disgrace.  “But Isabel, it’s Princess Stew.
Try it, please. It’s good for you-- Nutritious and delicious, too!” “It’s pig pen slop. It looks a fright! You won’t get me to eat a bite. Remove this rubbish from my sight!” "Now Isabel, we must insist, You eat your meal and don’t resist. When it’s gone, you’ll be dismissed.” She wouldn’t do as she was told. She sat and watched her stew grow cold. She sat for days as it grew mould. Her parents weren’t completely mean, Each day they scraped off all the green. “Now tell us when your plate is clean.” Not wanting to admit defeat, She gave it to her dog to eat. He gulped it like it was a treat! “Look at you! It must be true! Stop right now! I want some too! It tastes like fudge. Whoever knew?” The princess ate and ate and ate, And said, “This stew is really great! May I have another plate?” Her parents beamed, “See, Isabel. You never know, you just can’t tell, If food tastes good by look or smell.” “You’re right,” she said. “Here’s what I’ll do: I won’t say ‘gross’ or ‘blah’ or ‘poo,’ Or make a face at Princess Stew, …until my dog has tried it too!” Image ©2012 Sam Zuppardi Poem ©2012 Rebecca Colby |
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