Online Read Free Novel
  • Home
  • Romance & Love
  • Fantasy
  • Science Fiction
  • Mystery & Detective
  • Thrillers & Crime
  • Actions & Adventure
  • History & Fiction
  • Horror
  • Western
  • Humor

    Alligator Pie

    Page 2
    Prev Next


      I didn’t get home until dark.

      But when I got back I had ants in my pants

      And my father was feeding the shark.

      I went to play in the park,

      And I didn’t come home until dark.

      And when I got back I had ants in my pants

      And dirt in my shirt, and glue in my shoe,

      And my father was tickling the shark.

      I went to sleep in the park.

      The shark was starting to bark.

      And when I woke up I had ants in my pants,

      Dirt in my shirt, glue in my shoe,

      And beans in my jeans and a bee on my knee,

      And the shark was tickling my father.

      My father went off to the park.

      I stayed home and read to the shark.

      And when he got back he had ants in his pants,

      Dirt in his shirt, glue in his shoe,

      Beans in his jeans, a bee on his knee,

      Beer in his ear and a bear in his hair,

      So we put him outside in the ark.

      I started the ark in the dark.

      My father was parking the shark.

      And when we got home we had ants in our pants,

      Dirt in our shirt, glue in our shoe,

      Beans in our jeans, a bee on our knee,

      Beer in our ear and a bear in our hair,

      A stinger in our finger, a stain in our brain,

      And our belly-buttons shone in the dark.

      So my dad he got snarky and barked at the shark

      Who was parking the ark on the mark in the dark.

      And when they got back they had ants in their pants,

      Dirt in their shirt, glue in their shoe,

      Beans in their jeans, a bee on their knee,

      Beer in their ear and a bear in their hair,

      A stinger in each finger, a stain in the brain,

      A small polka-dot burp, with headache tablets,

      And a ship on the lip and a horse, of course,

      So we all took a bath in the same tub and went to bed early.

      The Fishes of Kempenfelt Bay

      Under the bubbles

      Of Kempenfelt Bay,

      The slippery fishes

      Dawdle all day.

      They park in the shallows

      And wiggle and stray,

      The slippery fishes

      Of Kempenfelt Bay.

      I ride on a bike.

      I swing in the gym.

      But I’d leave them behind

      If I knew how to swim

      With the slippery fishes

      That dawdle all day,

      Under the bubbles

      Of Kempenfelt Bay.

      Kahshe or Chicoutimi

      If I lived in Temagami,

      Temiskaming, Kenagami,

      Or Lynx, or Michipicoten Sound,

      I wouldn’t stir the whole year round

      Unless I went to spend the day

      At Bawk, or Nottawasaga Bay,

      Or Missinabi, Moosonee,

      Or Kahshe or Chicoutimi.

      Tongue Twister

      Someday I’ll go to Winnipeg

      To win a peg-leg pig.

      But will a peg-leg winner win

      The piglet’s ill-got wig?

      Someday I’ll go to Ottawa

      To eat a wall-eyed eel.

      But ought a wall-eyed eater

      Pot an eel that isn’t peeled?

      Someday I’ll go to Nipigon

      To nip a goony loon.

      But will a goony nipper lose

      His loony nipping spoon?

      The Hockey Game

      (With thanks to A.A. Milne)

      Squirm

      Was a

      Worm

      With a Terrible

      Temper.

      Wee

      Was a flea

      With a Big Bad Roar.

      X

      Was an elephant

      Who couldn’t keep his

      Laces tied.

      And George was a bit of a bore.

      Squirm played

      Hockey with a

      Great big

      Tooth-pick.

      Wee played

      Hockey with her

      Friends and her foes.

      X played

      Hockey but he

      Couldn’t keep his

      Laces tied.

      And George just played with his toes.

      Squirm threw a

      Bodycheck and

      Sent X

      Flying.

      Wee shot the

      Puck and she

      Knocked X flat.

      X cried

      Tears that were

      Bigger than piano stools.

      And George floated round in a hat.

      Now

      Squirm

      Is a worm

      With a Very

      Soggy Temper.

      And Wee

      Is a flea

      With a Waterlogged Roar.

      X is an

      Elephant who

      Wonders where his

      Skates went.

      And George is rather wet

      George is very wet

      George is Awful wet

      once

      more.

      Peter Rabbit

      Peter Rabbit’s

      Mother sighed,

      “Son, you’d better

      Stay inside.”

      Peter Rabbit’s

      Father said,

      “Don’t you dare

      Get out of bed!

      “For if you do

      You’ll sneak away

      And like a shot

      You’ll go and play

      “In Farmer J.

      MacGregor’s garden—

      Planning, without

      A beg-your-pardon,

      “To bolt his luscious

      Turnips down

      While we are shopping

      In the town.”

      Peter yawned

      At this to-do.

      “So what?” he asked.

      “You eat them too.”

      “It’s not at all

      The same,” they said,

      From either side

      Of his messy bed,

      “For since you will not

      Use your spoon,

      You’ll turn into

      A Spotted Goon!”

      “Shut up, dear parents,”

      Peter cried,

      “You know I’d never

      Sneak outside

      “And wolf those luscious

      Turnips down,

      While you are shopping

      In the town!”

      Then Peter hummed

      A loving hum,

      And watched his tired old

      Dad and mum

      Teetering out

      And tottering down

      The steep steep hill

      To the shops in town.

      Then up he sprang

      And off he sped

      With visions of turnips

      Alive in his head;

      And up he rose

      And off he ran

      To where the turnip

      Patch began.

      He pulled up one.

      He pulled up two.

      He stuffed them in

      And gave a chew.

      And down they went

      Kerplunk, because—

      He crammed them in

      With just his paws!

      Then woe betide us!

      Lack-a-day!

      Good gosh, gadzooks and

      Wellaway!

      Quick, thick and fast

      In inky blots

      His fur broke out

      With horrid spots.

      He raced inside

      To find a mirror;

      The awful change

      Grew clear and clearer:

      Without a doubt

      He was a Goon—

      Because he would not

      Use a spoon!

      Is this the end

      Of Peter’s tale?

      A Goon-like life

    &
    nbsp; In a spotted jail?

      No, no! Again

      I say it—No!

      Great heavens! let it

      Not be so!

      For thinking of

      His dreadful doom

      He cried, “I Should Have

      Used A Spoon!”

      And pondering

      His piteous plight

      He roared, “My Dad

      And Mum Were Right!”

      At once his face

      Began to shine.

      He lit up like

      A neon sign

      Till someone put him

      On T.V.

      And parents forced

      Their kids to see

      The Shiny Spotted

      Goody-Goon,

      Who Never Ate

      Without a Spoon.

      Well, that’s the story.

      Here’s the moral:

      ‘Hare today

      And Goon tomorrow.’

      The Friends

      When Egg and I sit down to tea

      He never eats as much as me.

      And so, to help him out, I take

      A double share of chocolate cake.

      And when we get a special treat

      He says he really couldn’t eat—

      Not even fudge, or licorice loops

      Or butterscotch caramel ice-cream soup.

      And likewise, if the juice is fine,

      He always whispers, “Please drink mine.”

      And since Egg is my special friend

      I gulp it down to the bitter end.

      And Eggy says, when I hug him tight,

      “I’m glad I had an appetite.”

      When Egg and I go out to play

      His legs are always in the way,

      And so he seems to fall alot

      And always in a muddy spot.

      And since Egg is my special friend

      I fall down too; and I pretend

      To cover myself with guck and dirt

      So Eggy’s feelings won’t be hurt.

      And when my mother starts to frown

      I ’splain that Egg kept falling down,

      And she throws us both in the washing machine,

      And Eggy says, “I’m glad you’re clean.”

      And when we go to bed at night

      He sort of hates to shut the light.

      He mentions, in a little voice,

      “I hear a burglar kind of noise.”

      And also, “Giants scare me most.”

      And also, “That looks like a ghost!”

      And since Egg is my special friend

      I say that ghosts are half pretend.

      I tell him everything’s all right,

      And I hide in the covers with all my might,

      And then I get up and turn on the light.

      And when the room is friends again

      We snuggle down, like bears in a den,

      Or hibernating in a cave.

      And Eggy says, “I’m glad we’re brave.”

      The Sitter and the Butter and the Better Batter Fritter

      My little sister’s sitter

      Got a cutter from the baker,

      And she baked a little fritter

      From a pat of bitter butter.

      First she bought a butter beater

      Just to beat the butter better,

      And she beat the bit of butter

      With the beater that she bought.

      Then she cut the bit of butter

      With the little butter cutter,

      And she baked the beaten butter

      In a beaten butter baker.

      But the butter was too bitter

      And she couldn’t eat the fritter

      So she set it by the cutter

      And the beater that she bought.

      And I guess it must have taught her

      Not to use such bitter butter,

      For she bought a bit of batter

      That was sweeter than the butter.

      And she cut the sweeter batter

      With the cutter, and she beat her

      Sweeter batter with a sweeter batter

      Beater that she bought.

      Then she baked a batter fritter

      That was better than the butter

      And she ate the better batter fritter

      Just like that.

      But while the better batter

      Fritter sat inside the sitter—

      Why, the little bitter fritter

      Made of bitter butter bit her,

      Bit my little sister’s sitter

      Till she simply disappeared.

      Then my sister came to meet her

      But she couldn’t see the sitter—

      She just saw the bitter butter

      Fritter that had gone and et her;

      So she ate the butter fritter

      With a teaspoonful of jam.

      Now my sister has a bitter

      Butter fritter sitting in her,

      And a sitter in the bitter

      Butter fritter, since it ate her,

      And a better batter fritter

      Sitting in the silly sitter

      In the bitter butter fritter

      Sitting in my sister’s tum.

      Windshield Wipers

      Windshield wipers

      Wipe away the rain,

      Please bring the sunshine

      Back again.

      Windshield wipers

      Clean our car,

      The fields are green

      And we’re travelling far.

      My father’s coat is warm.

      My mother’s lap is deep.

      Windshield wipers,

      Carry me to sleep.

      And when I wake,

      The sun will be

      A golden home

      Surrounding me;

      But if that rain

      Gets worse instead,

      I want to sleep

      Till I’m in my bed.

      Windshield wipers

      Wipe away the rain,

      Please bring the sunshine

      Back again.

      Hockey Sticks and High-Rise: A Postlude

      When I started reading nursery rhymes to my children, I quickly developed a twitch. All we seemed to read about were little pigs and kings. The details of Mother Goose – the pipers and piemen and pence – had become exotic; children still loved them, but they were no longer home ground.

      Not that this was a bad thing. But I started to wonder: shouldn’t a child also discover the imagination playing on things she lived with every day? Not abolishing Mother Goose, but letting her take up residence among hockey sticks and high-rise too? I began experimenting.

      I started with the nursery rhymes in the first part of this book. And one thing I discovered is that the words should never be sacred. A rhyme is meant to be used, and that means changing it again and again. For children’s verse passes around in weird and wonderful versions, and the changes always make sense – to the tongue and the ear, if not always to the mind. If your child rewrites some of these poems, please take his version as seriously as mine.

      By the same token, you should feel free to relocate the place-poems. Put in the streets and towns you know best; the rhythm and rhyme may get jostled a bit, but so what?

      I also discovered that nursery rhymes can’t be approached at an adult’s reading rate. They unfold much more slowly. In fact, they need to be brought to life almost as tiny plays, preferably with much pulling of faces and bouncing of rear-ends on knees. One of these four-line poems may take a couple of minutes to complete, especially if you drop in new words and verses.

      I had never realised how soon a child can take part in “doing poems.” A two-year-old will join in, if you pause at the rhyme-word and let her complete it. Usually it will be the familiar rhyme, but if you’re making up new verses you’ll be surprised by what she thinks of. Try starting a verse “Alligator steak,” or “Willoughby wallaby wungry.”

      I hope the main thing I learned is invisible. There is a class of poem whose sole virtue is that it Contains a Worthy Sentiment,
    or Deals With the Child’s Real World. Adults sometimes tolerate these wretched exercises, thinking they must be Literature. Young children, I can report, don’t.

      For I did commit a few of these pious versicles. They were awful, of course; wherever a poem comes from, it’s not from good intentions. The undisguised boredom of my listeners persuaded me to pitch them out. And eventually I realised that the hockey sticks and high-rise would find their own way into the poem, without orders from me. Which is when it really got to be fun.

      DL, 1974

      How Do You Illustrate Poems That Don’t Need Pictures?

      What could (or should) illustration contribute, when the poetry, as written, is complete unto itself, as is invariably the case with Dennis Lee’s books? The artwork might have an explanatory function if the poetry needed fortification, but surely not where the author’s voice is loud and clear. Of course, the obvious reason might be ‘to dress up the package’ in an attractive manner, the pictures acting the role of a candy wrapper. But there must be better reasons for incorporating, or even needing, a visual component.

      Merely translating the poet’s creation word for word into a visual tongue may bore, rather than engage, the young reader. An illustration can gently side-step the poet and perhaps stimulate a youthful imagination with its interpretation of the poem. It may even leave the young viewer to avow: “That’s interesting, but my poet has said other things too, and I can draw lots more and way better pictures!”

      There can be magic between author and reader in the poetry book for children. Illustration may enhance the magic, and might well inspire a reader to re-envisage the poem in the poet’s footsteps. It could even motivate some of our young people to conjure up their own ‘flights-of-fancy’ and artistry! This is as true in today’s computer age as it was when Alligator Pie was first published.

      FN, 2012

      About the Authors

      Dennis Lee is Toronto’s first poet laureate, song lyricist for Fraggle Rock, and author of such glorious collections as Garbage Delight, Jelly Belly, The Ice Cream Store, and Bubblegum Delicious. His poetry is known and loved around the world.

      Frank Newfeld has designed, illustrated, and art-directed more than 600 books, including four of his own. His extraordinary contributions to the book arts in Canada have earned over 170 awards.

      Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

      Copyright

      Alligator Pie

      Text copyright © 1974 by Dennis Lee

      Illustrations copyright © 1974 by Frank Newfeld

     


    Prev Next
Online Read Free Novel Copyright 2016 - 2025