Let’s sit down and write a book,

The first line matters — it’s called the “hook”.

Then off we go with Chapter One,

The words are flowing, isn’t it fun?

The story’s building, what a great plot,

With twists and turns, it’s got the lot.

There are so many stories to tell your friends,

With exciting beginnings and happy ends!

The source

of sauce,

of course,

depends upon

the sort

of sauce.

But no matter

what sort of

source

that sort of sauce

is sourced from,

do not

serve it

in a saucer.

The trees are stark and bare in winter,

Mist curls around their feet.

The brooks are running fast and pooling deeply

Where the waters meet.

The sleepy twilight sends the day to flight,

And the bush slides into night.

Winter’s chill seeps down into the gorges,

And all is lost to sight.

Mountains smudge the distance

In the cold grey light.

But soon enough the bush will wake to spring,

And the bellbirds’ chimes will ring.

Where are you going,

over those stones,

past those old cliffs,

the colour of bones.

Through ancient forests

you tumble and twist,

until at long last

you are lost in the mist.

(Photo by Ginette Aitchison)

I bought a tube of toothpaste

and squeezed it from the top.

I was getting lots of toothpaste out,

till people yelled out “Stop!”

“You should squeeze it from the bottom,

then roll the tube up neatly.

That way you won’t waste toothpaste

’cause you’ll use it all completely.”

Myrtle McGuire

joined a choir,

because she thought

she could sing.

She sang soprano

by the piano,

and here’s the terrible thing:

her voice was a shriek

that lacked technique,

and started a chain of disasters;

the glass windows shattered,

and what really mattered,

down from the roof

came the rafters.

This is my chair,

keep away!

It’s very nice,

so here I’ll stay.

It matches me,

a perfect tone,

so leave me be,

up here alone!

I can’t go out to play today,

it’s raining very hard.

And it rained the day before

and flooded my backyard.

My shoes are wet,

my socks are soaked,

my boots are green with mould —

I wonder how much water

this world of ours can hold?

Have you tried to tickle a pickle?

That’s the best way to make it giggle.

Or laughed at a big green lettuce?

We can eat it, if it will let us.

Have you talked to a ripe red tomato

That was grown by a man in Glasgow?

And as for a jolly cucumber,

Have you asked for its telephone number?

But be careful of every gherkin —

You never know where they are lurkin’.

I hope you’ve enjoyed his ballad;

Now go and eat your salad.

Erroll McDougall

Was given a bugle

And he began to play.

He blew out hard,

BLAAATTTTT, BLAAPPPPPP,

Then sucked in fast —

SLLLLLLRRRRPPPPPPPPP —

Oh no! Now that bugle

Is inside McDougall!