More Poetry

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.

TyrannosaurBus Rex

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.

Human sacrifices.

I eat the humans.

They are young and tender.

Yum.

Then I go to Elm and Hudson.

More children. More sacrifices.

Yum.

I follow my usual route.

Hudson and Harding.

Yum.

Harding and Broad.

Yum.

Broad and White.

Yum.

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,

jumping,

giggling,

laughing,

arguing

breakfast.

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.