~~ Poèmes et Délires ~~

A NOTE TO THE MOTH WHO ATE MY SWEATER

I hope that you are feeling better
now that you are full of sweater.
But, frankly, don't you think it's rude
to use my clothes as common food?
I'd rather share my bread and rolls
than deal with sweaters full of holes.
The next time you intend to dine
on sweaters that are clearly mine,
I must insist -- call you to task --
don't take a bite unless you ask.
By now, I think you surely know
the answer is a big, loud,
NO!

Oh, d'accord :)

“Dessert Last”

Tell me what you think,
About dessert coming last.
Once we’ve eaten such a big course,
There’s no room for dessert’s extra mass.

Dessert is the favourite of all meals,
The one we all look forward to.
So yummy and mouth watering,
I can’t bear to miss out on this too.

In life there are things that can’t be done,
Or have to be put on hold.
Sometimes dessert is just like that,
Disappointment and feeling uncontrolled.

But it doesn’t have to be like that.
Missing out on something good is the worst.
We all know life is too short,
So let’s eat our dessert first!

by Julie Hebert

amusante cette histoire

There were three men
Came from the west
Their fortunes for to tell,
And the life of John Barleycorn
As well.

They laid him in three furrows deep,
Laid clods upon his head,
Then these three man made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead.

The let him die for a very long time
Till the rain from heaven did fall,
Then little Sir John sprang up his head
And he did amaze them all.

They let him stand till the midsummer day,
Till he looked both pale and wan.
The little Sir John he grew a long beard
And so became a man.

They have hired men with the scythes so sharp,
To cut him off at the knee,
The rolled him and they tied him around the waist,
They served him barbarously.

They have hired men with the crab-tree sticks,
To cut him skin from bone,
And the miller has served him worse than that,
For he's ground him between two stones.

They've wheeled him here, they've wheeled him there,
They've wheeled him to a barn,
And thy have served him worse than that,
They've bunged him in a vat.

They have worked their will on John Barleycorn
But he lived to tell the tale,
For they pour him out of an old brown jug
And they call him home brewed ale.