四六级考试网

My penmanship is pretty bad.My printing’s plainly awful.In truth, my writing looks so sadit ought to be unlawful.I try but, still, I must confessmy writing looks like scribbles.My pencil makes a painful mess.My ballpoint leaks and dribbles.My letters take up so much spacethey nearly can’t be read.The ones that should be lowercaseare capitals instead.My p’s and q’s and R’s and b’sare backward half the time.When letters look as bad as theseit’s probably a crime.My cursive’s utter lack of stylewill make you want to curse.But, even so, I have to smile;my teacher’s writing’s worse.

Calculator, calculator,help me with my math.Help me do my homeworkor I’ll feel the teacher’s wrath.Calculator, calculator,add these numbers quick.Truly you’re a wizardwith this tough arithmetic.Calculator, calculator,multiply, divide.Decimals, percentages;you solve them all with pride.Calculator, calculator,don’t be such a jerk.Thank you for the answersbut you have to show your work.

Ancient Romans, ancient Greeks,carved for days or often weeks,working fingers to the bone,writing words in blocks of stone.Just imagine all the yellingif a Greek messed up her spelling.Other Greeks I’m sure would chase her.I’m so glad for my eraser.

At history I’m hopeless.At spelling I stink.In music I’m useless.From science I shrink.At art I’m atrocious.In sports I’m a klutz.At reading I’m rotten.And math makes me nuts.At language I’m lousy.Computers? I’m cursed.In drama I’m dreadful.My writing’s the worst.”I don’t understand it,”my teacher exclaims.I tell her they ought to teachvideo games.

I’m building a rocket.As soon as I’m doneI’m taking my friendson a trip to the sun.But what to you meanthat the sun is too hot?Oh well, I supposeI’ll just pick a new spot.I’m building a rocket.I’m finishing soonand taking my friendson a trip to the moon!But what do you meanthat the moon has no air?Well dang, then I guessthat we can’t go up there.I’m building a rocket.It’s going to fly.I’m taking my friendsway up high in the sky.But what do you meanwhen you ask how we’ll land?This rocket is harderto build than I planned.To heck with the rocket.It’s out in the shed.I’m taking my friendsout for pizza instead.

A dinosaur for Christmasis the only thing I need.It doesn’t matter if it’s slowor one that’s built for speed.A massive one, a tiny oneor one that’s in between.A dinosaur that’s muddy brownor bright and shiny green.I don’t care if it’s big and tallor really old and ugly.I don’t care if it’s rough and toughor soft and cute and snuggly.A spiny one will do the trick.A scaly one is fine.As long as it’s a living, breathing dinosaur,and mine.I promise if you bring me oneI’ll never ask for more,That’s all I want for Christmas:just one single dinosaur.

Appearing this morning at quarter past ninethey entered our lunchroom and mustered a line.They seemed to be dancing, or whistling a tune,then ran out the door with a fork and a spoon.They quickly came back for a knife and a plate,not bothered at all by the size or the weight.They grabbed all the glasses and cups they could find.They bagged every bowl, leaving nothing behind.They worked through the morning, till mid-afternoon,and carried off every last saucer and spoon.They searched every shelf and they emptied each drawer,then pilfered the platters and dashed out the door.They put on a truly impressive display.They swiped all the dishes and scurried away.It’s hard to believe, but those ants were so shrewd:They knew not to eat cafeteria food.

Belinda Brooks loved library books,She hoarded them all for herself.She’d check them out to spread them aboutor straighten them up on a shelf.She boxed her books in crannies and nooks.She filled every crevice and crack.She stuffed her home with textbook and tomebut never would take any back.Her dresser drawer held novels galore.She kept them in cases and cans,with lots and lots in packets and pots,and packages, parcels and pans.She cleaned and wiped the volumes she swiped,and tenderly treasured each book.She’d sit for days and lovingly gazeat all the editions she took.In bowls and bins and baskets and tins,in canisters, cartons and crates,so poor Miss Brooks, with all of those books,was wanted in fifty-two states.For she was fined, but always declinedto pay or surrender the books.And so, in shame, Belinda becamethe biggest of library crooks.When she got nailed, Belinda was jailedand sentenced to years for her deed,so now, with time for pay for her crime,she’s finally learning to read.

My sister thinks she’s Santa Claus.It’s really kind of cute.She likes to shout out “Ho, Ho, Ho!”and wears a bright red suit.She carries lots of toys aroundinside a great big sackand keeps her eight pet reindeerwith her sleigh out in the back.She even has a workshopwhere she makes a lot of noisedirecting all the elves who helpby making brand new toys.Then once a year, on Christmas Eve,she flies off in her sleighdelivering her gifts around the worldfor Christmas Day.She’d make a perfect Santawhich is why it’s just too badmy sister can’t be Santa Claus;see, Santa is our dad.