I’m learning all my ABC’s,I’m good at D, E, F and G’s.I’ve mastered H and I and J,and memorized the letter K.I’ve studied L, M, N and Obut now I really have to go.Before I learn one more, you see,I really must get up to P.
I wake today,get out of bed,then stretch and yawnand scratch my head.I find my clothes.I pull them onwhile stiflinganother yawn.I grab a breakfastbar for fuel,and hoist my packand head to school.When I arriveI’m truly shocked.The lights are off.The door is locked.I check my watch.It’s me, not them.I woke too soon.It’s 4am.
I am running, running, running.I am running up the stair.But I’m never, never, never,never getting anywhere.I am running, running, running,but I’m going nowhere fast.Now I’m huffing, huffing, puffing,as I’m out of breath at last.I am standing, standing, standing,with a grumble and a frown,for the escalator beat meand it’s taking me back down.
Here lies the body of Izzy Dunn-Eaton.It’s hard to believe what he tried.He tasted the school cafeteria foodand Izzy Dunn-Eaton done died.
Bradley Beard is rather weird;the strangest kid around.He grabs his socks and pulls them upand rises off the ground.He’ll tug on his suspendersor he’ll yank upon his hair,and suddenly he’s levitating,floating in the air.It’s somewhat disconcerting,but it’s also pretty coolto see him floating down the streetas Bradley drifts to school.He must be filled with helium,or may be awfully strong.Regardless, though, it’s fun to see him hovering along.But do not envy Bradley Beard;he has to watch his weight,for if he ever gains a poundhe’ll cease to levitate.And if he doesn’t eat enoughon any given day,then Bradley Beard, who’s rather weird,will simply float away.
He’s older than the oldest manthat anyone has ever known.He’s older than the Internet;he’s older than the telephone.He’s older than the printed word,the ancient Greeks, the dodo bird.He’s older than the pyramidsand prehistoric hominids.He’s older than the dinosaurs,the earth, the sun, the moon and stars.He’s old as mud, he’s old as dust;he’s wrinkled up and turned to rust.He’s musty, crusty, stinky, dirty.Simply put, Dad’s turning thirty.
Today the Earl of Sandwichis having lunch with me,and then His Highness, Earl Grey,is visiting for tea.At dinnertime, the good Sir Loinwill sit down at my table.And Lady Fingers, for dessert,will come if she is able.I think, of all the royaltywho joined me as I ate,the ones I liked the leastwere Count Your-Crumbs and Baron Plate.
Every springtime an earthworm named Binkley,gets so blinkin’ wet he gets wrinkly.The rain keeps on sprinkling and Binkley keeps drinkinguntil he’s all puffy and pinkly.But it isn’t all bad being wrinkly,as Binkley could tell you succinctly.Just as you’re thinking, all Summer he’s shrinking;by Autumn he’s dried up and crinkly!
Sharpen, sharpen, sharpen.I crank the handle fast.Sharpen, sharpen, sharpen.Until it’s sharp at last.Scribble, scribble, scribble.Hey wait! It still won’t write.Sharpen, sharpen, sharpen.I crank with all my might.Sharpen, sharpen, sharpen.It must be done, I guess.Scribble, scribble, dribble.Oh goodness, what a mess!Darn it, darn it, darn it.I guess I’ll start again.Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!I need another pen.
