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random poetry for children kids poems

Can't make up you mind whether you want a funny or sad - long or short - pink or violet poem? Here are a few from our vast poetry collection.



Collection : Poems for Children - 1603

 

The three little kittens, they lost their mittens by Anonymous

The three little kittens, they lost their mittens,
And they began to cry,
'Oh, mother dear, we sadly fear,
That we have lost our mittens.'
'What! Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.'
'Meow, meow, meow.'
'Then you shall have no pie.'


The three little kittens, they found their mittens,
And they began to cry,
'Oh, mother dear, see here, see here,
For we have found our mittens.'
'Put on your mittens, you silly kittens,
And you shall have some pie.'
'Purr, purr, purr,
Oh, let us have some pie.'


The three little kittens put on their mittens,
And soon ate up the pie,
'Oh, mother dear, we greatly fear,
That we have soiled our mittens.'
'What, soiled your mittens, you naughty kittens!'
Then they began to sigh,
'Meow, meow, meow,'
Then they began to sigh.


The three little kittens, they washed their mittens,
And hung them out to dry,
'Oh, mother dear, do you not hear,
That we have washed our mittens?'
'What, washed your mittens, then you're good kittens,
But I smell a rat close by.'
'Meow, meow, meow,
We smell a rat close by.'


= = = = = = = = = =



Bustopher Jones: The Cat about Town by T S Eliot

Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones--
In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs--he has eight or nine clubs,
For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.

For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox's, but Blimpy's;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben'son
To the Pothunter's succulent bones;
And just before noon's not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he's seen in a hurry there's probably curry
At the Siamese--or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he's lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

So, much in this way, passes Bustopher's day-
At one club or another he's found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He's a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he's putting on weight every day:
But he's so well preserved because he's observed
All his life a routine, so he'll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: 'I shall last out my time'
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!




= = = = = = = = = =



Halved by Spike Milligan

The essence of true beauty
Lingers in all-encompassing rainbows
Of your joy and laughter

You hold my hand and smile
As we ensconce ourselves in our world of fire
Our love is all there is

I touch your face
Your gentleness astounds me
I'm held in the honour of your love

Then overnight, the wrold truns suor
61 mInnIts past the ELevenTHH HouRR
I'M A L 0 N E


= = = = = = = = = =



Sing a Song of Sixpence by Anonymous

Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.


When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?


The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,


The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.


= = = = = = = = = =



A Vision upon the Fairy Queen by Sir Walter Raleigh

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept:
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen;
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen:
For they this queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief!




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