JELL-O

Patty Lou, my sister, said my Jell-O was alive
When I was only four years old and Patty Lou was five.
It wiggled and it jiggled when she plopped some on a plate.
I went to take a bite, but Patty stopped me, shouting, "Wait!"

"I swear I heard it cry" she said, and held it near her ear,
"It's pleading, 'Put me down!' and, look, it's shivering with fear.
"It's asking us to 'Just say no!' It's begging, 'Set me free!'
"I think it wet the plate, poor thing, oh please just let it be!"

So, even though it looked so sweet and cool and cherry red,
I said, "I pass!" and walked away. I went to bed instead.
I passed up my dessert on each and every Jell-O night
'Cuz slurping up such sad, distraught desserts did not seem right.

But now that we are older (Patty's ten and I am nine)
I know my sister always ate her Jell-O, hers and mine.
I saw her eat it on the sly, that naughty Patty Lou.
But as for me, I've never murdered Jell-O, how 'bout you?

Stu the Soccer Ball’s Lament

I’m Stu, the school’s last soccer ball. The others got away.
They rolled right off the soccer field at 2 o’clock today.

They grew so sick of being kicked, they wanted to be free.
I tried my best to follow them ~ I hollered, “Wait for me!”

The wind was blowing fiercely and it took me for a ride.
I came quite close to catching up when, suddenly, it died.

I slowly rolled then came to rest, just like a sitting duck,
On Highway One and then got run right over by a truck!

The soccer coach was angry when she scraped me off the street.
Oh, how I wish I were a Nerf, just like my cousin Pete.

She tossed me in the trash can (I don’t like it here at all).
I sit here sulking sadly with the school’s last volleyball.


by donna lee murphy and carolyn lueders burica
Copyright 2010

~ My Mom's Spaghetti ~

My mom makes disgusting spaghetti
with horseradish sauce and sardines.
She tops it with pickles and mustard,
bananas and barbecued beans.

She serves it for supper on Sunday.
On Monday we have it for lunch.
It's breakfast on Tuesdsay and Wednesday.
By Thursday, you guessed it, it's brunch.

I don't like to hurt my mom's feelings.
I said that i loved it. (I lied.)
I always gave mine to our doggy.
And that's why our poor doggy died.

So, next time you serve us spaghetti,
dear mother, don't make it like that.
Please serve it with red sauce and meatballs,
and that way it won't kill the cat.

by Kenn Nesbitt & Donna Lee Murphy
copyright 2006

Grandpa Pete & Me

Grandpa Pete & Me

My Boring Vacation

I’m playing Battlestar again (they call me “Battle King”).
As far as my vacation plans, I haven’t planned a thing.

I’m welcome to go fishing on the yacht with Uncle Jim.
But I just hate to murder fish, and also I can’t swim.

My father said he’d send for me, he lives in Paris, France.
But I’m afraid to fly (last year I nearly peed my pants).

I thought about a camping trip ~ I dig a woodsy hike.
But last time I got poison oak, and wrecked my mountain bike.

Aunt Sue would say, “The circus!”, or “a race at Church Hill Downs!”
I’m just not into horses, and I’m scared to death of clowns.

My wealthy cousin Frank said, “Kid, you’re always welcome here.”
But Frank is rather snobbish (and he always reeks of beer).

I’m bored to death of Battlestar, and feeling rather blue.
I’d better go outside and look for something fun to do.

Perhaps I’ll visit Bill, my friend on 25th and Grand.
Just half a mile away from here ~ next door to Disney Land.

By Donna Lee Murphy
Copyright 2006