Robbie Yates's Blog, page 6

Clover

I once met a fellow from Dover

Who showed me his “great four-leaf clover.”

The leaves numbered three

“There’s four, though!” said he…

The first one, he’d counted twice over![image error]

Image from Pixabay © InspiredImages 2012

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From The Archives: Ants

There’s nothing quite as bothersome as cheeky garden ants.

They’re tiny and unpleasant. They invade your underpants!

They bite, distract and fluster; they can overrun your street,

They crawl along your skin and then they nibble on your feet.

We’ve all been to a picnic where, like ill-timed summer rain,

The ants come uninvited, driving everyone insane.

Three or four decide to swim some laps inside the dip,

You have to pick off ants before you bite into a chip.

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I have my own ant story that’s inordinately worse.

One fated spring, I suffered from a ghastly insect curse.

The ants conspired—colluded—in a union of ant doom.

And soon enough, they made a plan to overrun my room.

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They came in through the window. You probably aren’t shocked.

But wait until I tell you that the window had been locked.

A dozen ants had come in to explore—a recon batch,

They checked the coast was clear and then they pried open the latch.

Mum always said my bedroom was the cause of half her stress.

She couldn’t stand the smell of it; the sight of all the mess.

“You’ll find a mouse one day,” she said. A mother’s warning tale.

I never knew my mess could cause a problem of this scale.

They started in my bedroom. They took my boiled sweets.

They emptied every drawer and nook of all my hidden treats.

They stole half-eaten cupcakes and then half-filled cans of pop.

But after taking all my food, they darn well didn’t stop.

GONE was all our cereal. GONE were cans of soup.

GONE was all the packet food, in one fell antsy swoop.

Mum glared at me, while holding up an empty bag of rice.

“It’s not my fault!” I said. “Besides! At least we don’t have lice!”

Original Illustrations © Robbie Yates 2017

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Finish This Poem – “Phone Call”

I answered the phone and I balked at his voice.

I wouldn’t have answered if I’d had the choice.

But ‘cos of my lunacy, ‘cos of my luck,

I’d picked up the phone call and now I was stuck.

It was not my Papa and was not my Pop.

He started to talk and the guy would not stop.

The fellow that caused me to whinge and to whine?

…

(Can you finish this poem?

Street Food

I once knew a woman who’d eat

Whatever she found on the street.

She’d eat apple cores

She’d picked up off floors

And one day, she nibbled my feet!

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Image from Pixabay © Free-Photos 2015

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Spaghetti

I really like spaghetti

I tie it into knots

I braid it into doormats

(I do that lots and lots.)

I eat it spread on platters

Or in a great big lump

I made it into cable

And now I’ll bungee-jump!

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Image from Pixabay © ponce_photography 2016

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Fork

I once met a man from New York

Opposed to the use of a fork.

With spoons he would eat

A brilliant feat

And chopsticks he used for his pork!

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Image from Pixabay © feelphotoz 2015

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Weather

It’s raining, it’s pouring,

The world is very wet.

The weather man says it will stop

It hasn’t let up yet.

It’s hailing, it’s sodden,

There’s puddles everywhere.

The thing I’m disappointed ‘bout?

It’s messing up my hair!

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Image from Depositphotos © yayayoyo 2016

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My Puppy

My puppy’s very cheeky ‘cos

He always loves to bark.

He chases other puppies when

I take him to the park.

He nibbles on my toes, he is

A creature I adore…

Except the times the silly boy

Leaves puddles on the floor!

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Image from Pixabay © Free-Photos 2016

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March the Fifth

It’s March the 5th that I hold dear

For that’s my birthday every year.

I love the cake I get to eat

It’s such a scrumptious tasty treat.

I love the gifts, the party snacks

The smell of pop and candle wax

The music sung to celebrate

The way we always decorate…

The thing though, that’s supremely fun?

Is spending time with everyone!

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Image from Pixabay © Pettycon 2016

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Finish This Poem – “Yoyos”

Yoyos made a comeback

I thought that you would know!

Some people love to flick them

Up high and then down low.

They spin and twist and twirl them

They roll them on the floor,

…

(Can you finish this poem?