A Few Bad Poems

My daughter is home/remote schooling at the moment due to the Covid-19 situation here in Bonnie Scotland and part of her school work today is to write a poem, as it’s Burn’s Day. I’m not much for Robert Burns or poetry but, in an attenpt to encourage the child who isn’t either, I’ve written a few bad poems for you.

A Mean Old Man

I’m a mean old man
so my daughter says.
I make her eat her greens but only
every other, other, other, other day.

Her room she will clean
when her feet can’t be seen
from standing down below
under her first floor window.

Washing? Behind her ears?
One of her deepest fears,
to disturb the potatoes growing there
that are handy snacks. (For when her dinner isn’t on time.)

There’s never enough.
Dad! is the cry.
There’s nowhere good in the house to hide.
(It’s not that big and I think she knows all the better hiding places.)

and there’s this masterpiece:

Little Froggy (or desperation in story-telling)

Oh, the little froggy,
croak, croak, croak.

Down to the shops
to get some smoke.

That doesn’t make sense
but at least it rhymes.

Poor little froggy,
Crimes, times, chimes.

No, YOU’RE welcome.

Robert Burns – Wikipedia
Burns Supper – Wikipedia

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