Little Ms. Muffet was know to sit on her tuffet

But sometimes she sat in the local cafe.

She was swallowing her crumcake

Slowly sipping her latte

Penning her poetry this fateful day.

Alas came a spider, who sitting down beside her

Was thinking to scare Ms. Muffet away.

Clawing with his legs, he was raising his fangs to wound

But little Ms. Muffet was full of sugar and caffeine

So she smashed him to death with her spoon.

I owned a shovel,

But no one wanted a hole.

They had time for a hole to be dug.

They had uses for a hole that was dug.

They had nothing to lose.

They had space.

They had seen and admired holes,

Believing holes were necessary.

They each knew someone who needed a hole,

But never themselves.

So I dug holes for myself;

Big holes, small holes,

Shallow holes, and deeeep

Holes with sloping slopes, and holes that were steep,

Fox holes, and empty holes, and holes that hold sheep.

I dug, and I dug, resting only to sleep.

After 300 holes all dug in a row,

They wanted to watch, to see the dirt thrown.

So I rented chairs, watching my audience grow.

They saw the dirt fly, they saw the dirt blown,

They thought that the dirt wasn't meant for their faces,

But it stuck to their teeth, and their tears, and their braces.

They each knew someone who needed a hole,

But never themselves, no dirt in their home.

The sheep did not bleat for those in their fold,

But each sheep waxed dirty from another sheep's' hole.

Then the Devil said:

Pet my sheep.

Make them weak.

Take their rest,

And give them sleep.

Put on a show.

Don’t let them know.

Close their eyes

To the enemies lies.

Pet my sheep.

Tuck them in tight.

Feels good: Feels all right

Bound, up-tight.

Blind lead the blind.

No truth can be seen.

Lust is their love.

Joy makes them bleed.

Then the Devil said:

Pet my sheep.

Old tree of life upon the hill

Bent and knarled, but living still:

Full of moments-frozen-time,

Deaf but hearing, sights while blind.

Shelter on the bald sharp rock

Shade in summer, warmth in frost:

Full of birds--squirrels--bugs,

Place of refuge, home of love.

There was a bug upon the rug.

When asked its name it gave a shrug,

But then I knew its name was mud

When all at once I gave a tug.

It moved much faster than a slug

As it flew into my tub.

And when it floated down my drain

I heard it say its real name...

Glug, glug.

Squirmy worm

Inside your silk,

When you're squeezed

You squirt like milk.

With careful aim he swung his club.

Nearly maimed, I hugged my rug.

For that putt from off the tee,

Knocked my nuts out of my tree.

There was a boy named Slade

Who sat in the gardens cool shade.

When the bugs crawled around

They lay dead on the ground,

For he brandished a spraygun of RAID.

The sky was wet.


The earth was wet.

The mud was thick.

Our feet were stuck.

‘It was our luck,’

Said the wet wet duck!

We were outstanding in our fields

Freddy Guernsey near the tree

Raymond Jersey, He was close to me

Sammy Brahman near the road

And Andrew Angus was fast asleep

Like four dominoes

We stood in a row

The cow tippers pushed

We made a big , woooosh

Ray fell by the way

Fred fell on a bush

Sam let out a moan

Drew broke a rib bone

A cow tipper slipped

Sam sat on his lip

Drew hit a sharp rock

His pain didn’t stop

So if you are bored

And need some excitement

Pass us cows by, and let us all snore