The Messy Room Limericks

There once was a teenage brother, whose sloppiness caused a bother. His room was a mess, a pigsty no less, which rattled his trying mother.

His mother stood shocked near the door, weeping at the bowls on the floor: all covered in mould, from cereal old. The teenager scoffed, ‘What a bore!

Who has time for cleaning, dear Mum? I just shovel in food, then run. My friends are all waiting, I hate to be late, and the cockroaches want to have some.’

Whispering

Right after lunch, Heather leans over, from her seat in the second row, and whispers something in the new girl’s ear. It wasn’t nice, what Heather said: her lip was snarling, I could tell.

The new girl, whose name is Akenyo, her face grows still, and her shoulders curve inward.

She stares, blankly, down at her desk.

Heather laughs, flicks her long, wheat-coloured hair, and looks around, to see who’s heard.

Come sit with me! I hear myself call, to Akenyo. There’s an empty seat, back here.

His clothes, they were dirty, in piles, unwashed for a good stinky while. Cranky Mum held her nose, as she tried to impose some cleanliness on her dear child.

Said: ‘Darling I’ll give you a week, to vacuum and change those gross sheets. If you can’t get in shape, well then I am afraid I’m putting you out on the street!’

Then suddenly brother was moved, and set about cleaning his room: scrubbing and then folding, de-piling, de-moulding, his den, it was sparkling soon!

And now stood a sloppy big brother, who’d really become quite the other: tidy, neat, spick and span, vacuum cleaner in hand, believing himself very clever.

He said, ‘Mother, look at the kitchen! The spoons, knives and forks are all mixed, and the microwave’s splattered, with crumbs, sauce and batter, you really should clean up and fix them!

Come to think of it, look at your room! Filled with books, so you barely can move! You’d better hop to it, I won’t help you do it!

Give a dust and a tidy there too.’

There once was a mum set to sweeping: should have left her teenage son sleeping, and cleaned with a shovel, his cockroach-filled hovel, when he ventured out at the weekend.

Jam it up with jelly, or lettuce, if you’re game. Squish it down on bread: white, sourdough or grain.

Who knew the humble peanut would make such an awesome paste?

Peanut butter’s better, better get some in your face.

Cram it into cookies, spread it on a cake. Blend it up into a peanut butter shicketty-shake.

If you think that is disgusting, you don’t deserve a taste.

Peanut butter’s better, never let it go waste.

Peanut butter’s better, bet you know that it’s true. Better peanut butter, better get it in you.

Some people think it’s ick, but darn-goshedy-wow, peanut butter’s better: better see themselves out.

Ants in the Yard

The little kids in the yard play tic tac toe; hopscotch, leapfrog, Go Fish, go. They loop cat’s cradle, and they chasey-kiss-catch, till the yard duty teacher yells: ‘Oi! Stop that!’ Then they cry that they want to go home.

The big girls in the yard move in pairs. They daisy-chain, and plait each other’s hair. They’re really not supposed to, cause they might get nits. But they’re bad, and they’re bold, and they don’t give a fig.

The big kids in the yard swear heaps. The sporty kids in the yard bags the courts. They shout, and they dribble, and they snort. They try to slam-dunk, and they’re too short for the jump, but they strut their LeBron James walk.

The teachers in the yard go round. Around-around the playground. When they spot a fight, they scramble like lightning, and you know that detention’s going down.

The ants in the yard scuttle-scuttle, busy gathering the lunch-crumb rubble. If they crawl into your socks, they can give you quite a shock. If they’re bull ants, then they’ll leave you with a hobble.

The magpies in the yard caw-cheep, dropping gumnuts on the grade six seats. They’re loud, and they’re brash, and they’ll swoop you for a snack –especially bread with Vegemite and cheese.

The flies in the yard buzz-buzz, hanging round our lunches as we fuss. If you swat them then it’s yuck: they’ve got maggots in their guts, and their insides always stink like rotten muck.

The sun on the yard burns hot, scorching down with everything it’s got. I’m stuck here in the shade, cause no hat, means no play, but I like writing poems, anyway.

The poet in the yard just stares, watching teachers, bugs and kids with nitty hair: looking all around at the chaos going down, in the leapfrog, kissy-catch, ant-scuttle, magpie-duck, bounce-dribble, lunch-crumb glare.