Tweezers
buzz
"butterfingers"

and bulbous sneezer
that is touched
by a feather

to make it
sneeze
and tickle

the funnybone

I like to say I am a childrens book writer,
When I'm asked what it is that I do,
Some people say "he's a modest old blighter!
He's written good stuff for adults too."

I'm afraid I must correct what some people view,
As the simplelest past of my work,
So I say "That's correct, I write adult stuff too,"
And then over my face spreads a smirk.

"But my childrens poetry is much better stuff."
(And at this point their eyebrows arise),
"The audience", I tell them, "is far more tough,
They need intrigue, and twists, and surprise,

At every stage of the story, on every page,
To keep them listening from cover to cover,
Otherwise those dear kiddies fly into a rage,
And will start screaming at father and mother.

But adults are far easier to calm with a book,
It's the children's stuff of which I'm proud"
They then tend to fall silent, and give me a look,
As if what I said wasn't allowed.

Some try to argue; "But surely," they say,
"A thick novel is what good writers aspire
To be known for?" but I don't feel that way,
My aspirations are much, much higher.

When I put you
Down to sleep,
I know you'll
*** and **** and peek;
But close your eyes,
Quiet your mouth,
And be as cute
As all get out.

Sleep, my Baby
Through the night;
Fill your head
With pleasant dreams
While all is yet
As it seems.

Through the dark
And the shadows,
Wake to sunshine
Kissing meadows,
To songbird music
Sweet and mellow.

Arise, my Baby,
Walk with me
And with some help
You will see
The worldly wonders
You'll share with me.

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.