Lazy cat, lazy cat,
Why are you so fat?
All day long I'm lying on this mat,
Purring, purring and looking at the rat.
Lazy cat, lazy cat,
I broke a dish
and mom got mad.
She sent me to my room
because she said that I was bad.
So I'm sitting here
on my canope
with my stereo
and my color tv
and my favorite doll
and my 'lectric train
and my building blocks
and my video game,
And I'm wondering what
my mother meant
when she said my room
was a punishment.
I have a dog.
His name is Fred.
He won't play fetch.
He won't play dead.
He won't shake hands
or sit or stay
or bark or beg
or run and play.
He won't roll over,
shake or crawl.
In fact, he won't
do tricks at all.
When folks ask why
I tell them that's
because my dog
was raised by cats.
When Sarah surfs the Internet
she starts by checking mail.
She answers all her messages
from friends in great detail.
She plays a game, or maybe two,
and watches a cartoon,
then chats with kids in places
like Rwanda and Rangoon.
She reads about her favorite bands.
She buys an MP3.
She downloads movie trailers
and she looks for stuff for free.
She reads about celebrities
and dreams of wealth and fame,
then watches music videos
and plays another game.
If you should say, "Your time is up.
I need to use the Net,"
she always whines, "I haven't got
my homework finished yet!"
THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? — By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass —
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs — the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell.
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be.
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white; dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears;
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terrible changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
My cat's name is Bod,
He's really very fat.
His stomach's on the floor,
And he can't get through his flap.
He eats and eats and eats,
He just never seems to stop.
And when we fill his bowl
Not one morsel does he drop!
His fur is very black
With white bits on his face.
But he spends most the time
Curled up in his favourite place
He never runs around,
Or sneak or pounce or jump.
My big fat cat called Bod
Really is a lazy lump!
"Boo! Boo Hoo!",
cried the ghost with the most.
No one comes to visit me,
though I'm the perfect host.
I decorate with cobwebs,
sweep the spiders under the rug,
Yet no one ever offers me
a kind word or a hug.
I don't know what the reason is.
I don't know what could cause it,
'Cause I always, yes I always
keep my skeletons in the closet.
Sure, I may look scary
but if someone really knew me,
they wouldn't be afraid
'cause they could see
right through me.
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