When the nimble aphids are leaping And squat caterpillars are creeping They’re fleeing on before The mower’s starting roar, Like field-mice at the autumn reaping.
The afternoon’s drippy and muddy, And kids are kept out of Dad’s study. There’s nothing to do But mope the day through Or living-room rugby with Buddy.
An ant will sit on a committee That studies where in all the city The children are most prone To drop an ice cream cone. At tiny scales they’re not that gritty.
The squishiest mattress is a cloud, So soft it shouldn’t be allowed. To stiffen the vapor They take our their scraper To shave off of sleet’s brittle shroud.
In Scotland painters favor plaid Though tartans are likely just a fad. When dabbing on the wall The hand can’t slant at all. Glaswegians think diagonals bad.
Postmodernists like Rohrschach blots But painters prefer polka dots, But shaking paint just right So dots stay round and tight Is like tying needles in knots.