From The Archives: Poo

There once was a lady named Sue
Who had a sweet dog she called Blue.
She’d walk him each day
To the park for a play,
But she’d never dispose of his poo.

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He’d drop juicy turds in the street,
Good luck if you walked in bare feet!
She’d look away, sly,
Playing dumb. Passersby
Could not know she was sly. She looked sweet.

Now I am her neighbour, you see.
So all the poop tormented me.
There was poop on my deck
My whole yard was a wreck
And my shoes smelt like doo-doo and wee.

So one day I made up a plan.
You see, I’m a spiteful young man.
I went to the store
I bought birdseed galore
And I covered the roof of her van.

Now if you’ve been reading these words
You will know that the seed was for birds.
When Sue went outside,
Her jaw opened wide,
‘Cos now HER stuff was covered in turds.

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Original llustrations © Robbie Yates 2017

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Treasure Hunting

Once upon a rocking boat
amid the rolling seas
bobbed a llama and a goat
who paddled in the breeze.
They used a map to find an isle
they’d only heard about
and as they rowed the final mile
they both began to shout.

The island had a treasure that
was very well renowned.
They grabbed their shovels and their hats
they pulled the boat aground.
They started their exploring; found
a likely spot to dig;
the llama bounced and leapt around
his treasure-finding jig.

They found the treasure soon enough
at least that’s what I’m told;
some precious stones and other stuff,
some piles of shiny gold.
The problem was, the boat could fit
no more than just the pair.
The two decided just to sit
and ponder in despair.

“Perhaps you take the boat, I’ll stay?”
the lovely llama said.
“You carry all the jewels away
and I’ll stay here instead.”
“Oh no,” said goat. “I won’t do that,
for you are treasure too!”
And shrugging in the sun they sat,
deciding what to do.

It soon grew dark and so they leapt
into their wooden boat.
They wished they could have somehow kept
the treasure and still float.
The thing they told their waiting friends
when docking at the moor:
“We found the treasure in the end—
it’s friendship we adore!”

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Image from Pixabay © CamboriuVisual 2016

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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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