Mr. O'Leary spoke to the wooden spoon
I don't quite remember what he said
But he looked at me with queer eyes
And never spoke again
I remember that day vividly
As the cat fell atop my forehead
And the sky turned gray
As no one danced, that day
And something fell into my vat
A child, a child!
Made of potatoes and rye
Fell into a vat, and like a child, did cry
I flipped the bird's nest
And broke the camel
To save that child's face
But nothing, alas nothing could this day, erase.
Nonsense poetry at its finest?