1.There is no clutter cluttered up
more closely, I presume,
than the clutter clustered clingingly
in my friend, Betty's room.
Her mother mutters mawkishly
and fills her with such dread.
She mutters on about the muss
that messes Betty's bed.
At bedtime, Betty bounces all
her objects to the floor.
Each morning, when she wakes up, they
go on her bed once more.
There's papers, pencils, potpourri.
It piques her mother's stress.
She pouts. She plies and yet her cries
do not clean Betty's mess.
There's partly broken plastic toys,
each with a missing part,
some worn and withered whistles, which
are close to Betty's heart.
Old ballet shoes she cannot lose,
and photos of her friends,
a burnt-out fuse, some fruity chews,
a box of odds and ends.
Old magazines and school reports
(the ones that got the A's),
her worn out jeans, some socks to sort,
the programs from three plays.
Each object is an artifact,
a personal antique.
She cannot bear to throw them out;
they make her life unique.
There's feathers, fans, and fairy dolls --
and mother-daughter strife.
Her mother lives for neatness, but,
well, mess is Betty's life.
Explanation:
2.If I had a choice, when it's time to get clean
I'd like to jump into our washing machine
for sudsing and soaking and rolling and churning
and bobbing and bubbling and twisting and turning.
Next come my chance to feel just like a flyer
as I get to hop out and spin in the dryer.
I'd roll all around with a fluttering flopping,
just floating and turning with no thought of stopping.
It sounds like such fun, this incredible fling,
that I wouldn't mind if I got static cling.
3.Slithery, slidery, scaly old snake,
surely your body must be a mistake.
Your eyes, mouth and tongue wisely stay on your head.
It seems that your body is all tail instead.
You gobble your dinner, you swallow it whole --
a mouse or a frog or a turtle or mole.
Ugh!
Why don' you eat ice cream or chocolatey cake!
Oh slithery, slidery, scaly old snake.
