We found a fun, albeit cheeky, book of poetry at the library yesterday entitled Technically, It's not My Fault, by John Grandits. All of the entries are written from the perspective of an 11-year-old boy: so, yes, it does contain bits of bodily noise humor. The following poem made my kid-os giggle and I'm sure can be appreciated by those who go to school and those who don't, probably for different reasons, none of which I desire to hear.
I am the vicious TyrannosaurBus Rex.
I roam the suburbs, hunting.
Those who see me gaze in terror.
Those who are spared are grateful.
Early in the morning, I spy
a group of small human children
standing on the corner of Elm and Spring.
I slam on my brakes.
I open my mouth.
"Come in, little children," I say.
They don't want to, but they must.
Their parents have delivered them to me.
I eat the humans.
They are young and tender.
Then I go to Elm and Hudson.
More children. More sacrifices.
I follow my usual route.
Hudson and Harding.
Harding and Broad.
Broad and White.
Soon I am full.
My breakfast is noisy.
My breakfast is jumping around in my stomach.
My breakfast is giggling and laughing and arguing.
My stomach is queasy.
I don't feel so good.
I go to the
school parking lot.
I open my mouth
and barf out my noisy,
I'm so tired from hunting. I settle into my nap
and dream dreams about 3:30
when I will go to the parking lot
next to the school and hunt again.