Poetry4kids.com Podcast

Don’t Ever Ask a Centipede

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 08:00:27 +0000

Don't ever ask a centipede
to play a game of soccer.
Remember, he has 50 pairs
of sneakers in his locker.

He dribbles 50 soccer balls
with 50 pairs of shoes,
and kicks them all concurrently.
He doesn't often lose.

He's such a fierce competitor
that, if you ever meet,
at first you'll see his hundred legs
and then you'll see defeat.

–Kenn Nesbitt

At Hamster Sam’s Rodeo

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 08:00:22 +0000

At Hamster Sam's Rodeo, tickets are free,
and, oh, the spectactular things that you'll see.

We're hamsters with cowboy boots, lassos, and chaps,
sombreros and saddles, bandanas and straps.

We even have hamsters for rodeo clowns,
with red rubber noses and painted-on frowns.

We spend our days racing, and roping, and riding,
and wrestling, and running, and bucking, and sliding.

It's non-stop excitement and guaranteed thrills,
with action and laughter and drama and spills.

And what's even better -- on top of all that --
we haven't got horses; we ride on the cat.

–Kenn Nesbitt

Has Anyone Seen My Chameleon?

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 08:00:22 +0000

Has anyone seen my chameleon this morning?
He has to be hiding somewhere.
He asked me if we could play hide-and-go-seek,
and then disappeared into thin air.

I've looked high and low in the yard and the house
and it seems like he's nowhere around.
He's probably hiding right out in the open
but doesn't yet want to be found.

I'm guessing he looks like a leaf on a bush
or the back of a sofa or chair.
He could be disguised as a book or a bagel.
Regardless, I don't think it's fair.

If you come across my chameleon, please tell him
I give up. He beat me today.
He's clearly the champion at hiding so, next time,
it's my turn to pick what we play.

–Kenn Nesbitt

The Weasel and the Whale

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 08:00:54 +0000

Have you ever heard the story of the weasel and the whale?
Well, I'll tell you, as it truly is an entertaining tale.
Let me introduce you, firstly, to the weasel, who, we note,
had a lifelong dream to waterski, but didn't own a boat.

No, he didn't have a speedboat or a rowboat or a raft.
Not a kayak or container ship or any kind of craft.
Not a steamship or a sailboat or a dinghy or a yacht.
Well, I think I've made my point, so I'll continue with the plot.

He was walking down the beach one morning, sad to be on land,
when he came upon a whining whale that whimpered on the sand.
She was glad to see the weasel and she blubbered, "Help. I'm stuck."
Then the weasel, in his kindness, answered, "Let me get my truck."

So the weasel hustled home and got his Chevy 4X4,
and he backed it from the driveway and he drove it to the shore
where he gave the whale a gentle nudge and pushed her in the sea.
"Thank you!, thank you!" cried the whale, for she was happy to be free.

Then she told him, "Mr. Weasel, that was generous of you.
To repay you for your kindness, is there something I can do?"
It was then the weasel realized that maybe this could be
the solution to the problem of his dream to waterski.

So he told the whale his troubles, and explained about his dream,
and described how she could help him; how the two could be a team.
She was awfully glad to help him, and she instantly agreed,
so he got a pair of skis (because it's all he thought he'd need).

Then he brought them to the shoreline where he walked up to the whale,
and he stuck them on his feet and quickly grabbed her massive tail.
When the weasel hollared, "Go!" she gave it everything she'd got,
and she flipped her mighty tail and promptly took off like a shot.

But the weasel, sad to say, went flying wildly through the air.
and it may be that he landed, but I couldn't tell you where.
Though it's rumored that he made it, his demise is widely feared,
and the only thing that's certain is he never reappeared.

And he may be skiing somewhere, or it could be that he's dead;
just that no one knows for certain is the best that can be said.
So the moral of the story of the weasel and the whale
is don't ever, ever, ever touch a whale upon her tail.

–Kenn Nesbitt

The Dancing Baboon of Djibouti

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 08:00:27 +0000

The Dancing Baboon of Djibouti
is known for his breakdancing skills.
He flips on his hips and his booty
from Boston to Beverly Hills.

He'll bounce from his back to his belly.
He'll hop on his hands and his chin.
He'll scissor from Dublin to Delhi,
then drop to his shoulders and spin.

He'll windmill from here to Helsinki.
He'll rocket from Reno to Rome,
then pike on the point of his pinky
and pretzel hop into your home.

But if the Baboon of Djibouti
starts dancing inside your abode,
to run for your life is your duty,
for things are about to explode.

He'll smash all your glasses and vases.
He'll trash all your tables and chairs.
He'll pull all your books from their cases,
then throw your TV down the stairs.

He'll shatter your platters and pictures.
He'll crash through the windows and walls.
He'll fracture your bathtubs and fixtures.
He'll rip up the rugs in the halls.

It may be his footwork is funky,
but dancing just isn't enough,
for though he's a breakdancing monkey,
he's happier breaking your stuff.

–Kenn Nesbitt

My Parrot Doesn’t Care to Fly

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 21:38:06 +0000

My parrot doesn't care to fly.
Although it sounds absurd,
he much prefers to skydive.
He's a most peculiar bird.

You'll see him leap from airplanes
in his zip-up nylon suit,
with goggles and a helmet
and, of course, a parachute.

He plummets toward the earth
and nearly breaks the speed of sound,
then pulls the ripcord just in time
before he hits the ground.

He skydives almost every day.
It leaves him feeling super.
And this is why he doesn't fly:
Yep, he's a parrotrooper.

–Kenn Nesbitt

We’s Pirates In Bikinis

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 18:55:55 +0000

We's pirates in bikinis
singing proper pirate songs,
while wearing scary pirate hats
and teeny-tiny thongs.

We prance around the poop-deck
in our bathing suits because
we plunders much more booty
in our itsy-bitsy bras.

In fact, when we attacks a ship
we needn't lift a sword.
We makes our victims laugh so hard
they tumbles overboard.

And as we takes their treasure
we sings proper pirate songs,
while wearing scary pirate hats
and teeny-tiny thongs.

So if you sees us coming,
bag your swag without no fuss.
We's pirates in bikinis
and your loot belongs to us.

–Kenn Nesbitt

For My Brother, On His Birthday

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 22:39:54 +0000

For my brother, on his birthday,
I was generous and kind.
As his sister, I was glad to get
the best things I could find.

I was sure he'd want a tutu
and a purple mini-skirt,
with some ballerina slippers
and a sequin-covered shirt.

I expected he'd want lots of dolls.
I knew he'd need a bike,
so I picked a pink and sparkly one
I figured he would like.

I selected a tiara
like a princess ought to wear,
plus a bunch of bows and ribbons
and some scrunchies for his hair.

I'm aware I'm much too generous
with presents but, you see,
he deserves it. On my birthday
he bought baseball cards for me.

–Kenn Nesbitt

I’m Learning to Play the Piano Today

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 08:01:57 +0000

I'm learning to play the piano today.
Tomorrow I'll learn the guitar.
The day after that I'll get good on the drums,
so I can become a big star.

The next day I'll learn how to sing and to rap,
and practice some dancing techniques.
And, that way, I'm sure to be famous and rich
in no more than one or two weeks.

I just told my mother my excellent plan,
explaining the millions I'll earn.
She told me that, firstly, I'll need to learn patience.
So, how long will that take to learn?

–Kenn Nesbitt

Bad Bertie Bartigan

kenn@poetry4kids.com (Kenn Nesbitt) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 08:01:57 +0000

When Bad Bertie Bartigan strode into town,
he held up the bank and his britches fell down.
"Dad gum it!" he spluttered. "Gawl durn it! Aw, shoot!"
then picked up his britches, but fumbled the loot.
He lit out of town in a mad-scramble dash.
He still had his pants, but he'd lost all the cash.

The stagecoach was passing that moment, by chance.
He held up the stagecoach, and down went his pants.
"Dag nab it!" he blurted. "Dad blame it! Aw, no!"
then hoisted his trousers, but dropped all the dough.
He ran for the hills with his britches held high,
but Bertie was broke and he wanted to cry.

And, as he was running, he spotted the train,
so Bertie, who wasn't renowned for his brain,
said, "This is a hold up!" His pants hit the deck.
"Garsh dang it!" he stammered. "Dog gone it. Aw, heck."
He ran away clutching his britches again,
straight into the sheriff and all of his men.

They busted Bad Bertie and tossed him in jail,
to wait for his sentence with no chance of bail.
And, there in the hoosegow, in handcuffs and chains,
he held up no bank tellers, coaches, or trains.
"Dad blast it! Tarnation! Aw, Sam Hill!" he said,
then stood there and held up his britches instead.

–Kenn Nesbitt