Deep in Our Refrigerator
by Jack Prelutsky
Deep in our refrigerator,
there's a special place
for food that's been around awhile...
"It's probably too old to eat,"
my mother likes to say.
"But I don't think it's old enough
for me to throw away."
It stays there for a month or more
to ripen in the cold,
and soon we notice fuzzy clumps
or multicolored mold.
The clumps are larger every day,
we notice this as well,
but mostly what we notice
is a certain special smell.
When finally it all becomes
a nasty mass of slime,
my mother takes it out, and says,
"Apparently, it's time."
She dumps it in the garbage can,
though not without regret,
then fills that space with other food
that's not so ancient yet.
How to Torture Your Teacher
Only raise your hand when
you want to sharpen your pencil
or go to the bathroom.
Repeat every ten minutes.
Never raise your hand
when you want to answer a question:
instead, yell, "Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!"
and then, when the teacher calls on you,
say, "I forgot what I was going to say."
Lean your chair back,
take off your shoes, and
put your feet on your desk.
Act surprised when the teacher
puts all four legs of your chair back on the floor.
Drop the eraser end of your pencil
on your desk.
See how high it will bounce.
Drop your books on the floor.
See how load a noise you can make.
Get all your friends to join in.
Hold your nose,
make a face, and say, "P.U.!"
Fan the air away from your face,
and point to the kid in front of you.
On the last day of school,
lead your classmates in chanting:
"No more pencils!
No more books!
No more teachers'
Then, on your way out the door, tell the teacher,
"Bet you're looking forward
to summer vacation this year.
But I'll sure miss you.
You're the best teacher I've ever had."
Spider And The Fly
Mary Howitt (1799-1888)
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show when you are there."
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high.
Well you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
"Oh no, no," said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again who sleep upon your bed!"
Said the cunning spider to the fly: "Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be:
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"
"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings; how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;
If you'd step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
And, bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly;
Then came out to his door again and merrily did sing:
"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple; there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer grew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes and green and purple hue,
Thinking only of her crested head. Poor, foolish thing! at last
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast;
He dragged her up his winding stair, into the dismal den -
Within his little parlor - but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words I pray you ne'er give heed;
Unto an evil counselor close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly.
by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our
And that very night, as we lay packed
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't
A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
There wasn't a breath in that land of
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And every day that quiet clay
Till I came to the marge of Lake
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
I do not know how long in the snow
And there sat Sam, looking cool and
There are strange things done
in the midnight sun
**This poem is from Edgar's Spoon River Anthology and speaks of an epitaph that could have been written on Theodore's gravestone.
Theodore the Poet
by Edgar Lee Masters
As a boy, Theodore, you sat for long hours
On the shore of the turbid Spoon
With deep-set eyes staring at the door of the crawfish's burrow,
Waiting for him to appear, pushing ahead,
First his waving antennae, like straws of hay,
And soon his body, colored like soapstone,
Gemmed with eyes of jet.
And you wondered in a trance of thought
What he knew, what he desired, and why he lived at all.
But later your vision watched for men and women
Hiding in burrows of fate amid great cities,
Looking for the souls of them to come out,
So that you could see
How they lived, and for what,
And why they kept crawling so busily
Along the sandy way where water falls.
As the summer wanes.
My father gets quite mad at me;
The Love of the Game
by H. Harper
You sacrificed it all for
The Love of the Game.
You gained it all from
The Love of the Game.