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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 - 2007

 

Times Table by Stuart Macfarlane

Times Table
Two ones ur two,
Two twos ur four,
Don’t fancy Jenny any more,
Two threes ur six,
Two fours ur eight,
Think Ah’ll ask Mary fur a date,
Two fives ur ten,
Two sixes ur twelve,
Two sevens ur fourteen,
She looks jist like a beauty queen,
Two eights ur sixteen,
Two nines ur eighteen,
Wae hair o’ brown and eyes o’ green,
Two tens ur twenty,
Two elevens ur twenty-two,
Ah’ll ask here wance this lesson’s through,
Two twelves ur twenty-four,


Three ones ur three,
Three twos ur six,
Ah’ll maybe ask her oot tae ra pics,
Three threes ur nine,
Three fours ur twelve,
Three fives ur fifteen,
Three sixes ur eighteen,
Mustnae let her think thit Ah’m too keen,
Three sevens ur twenty-one,
Three eights ur twenty-four,
Even though she’s the one thit Ah adore,
Three nines ur twenty-seven,
Three tens ur thirty,
Three elevens ur thirty-three,
Wow, she’s whispering tae her friend about me,
Three twelves ur thirty-six,


Four ones ur four,
Four twos ur eight,
They’re bloody well laughing aboot ma weight,
Four threes ur twelve,
Four fours ur sixteen,
Four fives ur twenty,
Four sixes ur twenty-four,
Don’t think Ah like her any more,
Four sevens ur twenty-six,
Four eights ur thirty-one,
Four nines ur thirty-seven,
Hey Miss, Ah need tae go tae the lavvie.
(Copyright Stuart Macfarlane)  



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Gus: The Theatre Cat by T S Eliot

Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats--
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree--
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

'I have played,' so he says, 'every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.'

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger--could do it again--
Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: 'Now then kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.'
And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
'Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.'



= = = = = = = = = =



Times Table by Stuart Macfarlane

Times Table
Two ones ur two,
Two twos ur four,
Don’t fancy Jenny any more,
Two threes ur six,
Two fours ur eight,
Think Ah’ll ask Mary fur a date,
Two fives ur ten,
Two sixes ur twelve,
Two sevens ur fourteen,
She looks jist like a beauty queen,
Two eights ur sixteen,
Two nines ur eighteen,
Wae hair o’ brown and eyes o’ green,
Two tens ur twenty,
Two elevens ur twenty-two,
Ah’ll ask here wance this lesson’s through,
Two twelves ur twenty-four,


Three ones ur three,
Three twos ur six,
Ah’ll maybe ask her oot tae ra pics,
Three threes ur nine,
Three fours ur twelve,
Three fives ur fifteen,
Three sixes ur eighteen,
Mustnae let her think thit Ah’m too keen,
Three sevens ur twenty-one,
Three eights ur twenty-four,
Even though she’s the one thit Ah adore,
Three nines ur twenty-seven,
Three tens ur thirty,
Three elevens ur thirty-three,
Wow, she’s whispering tae her friend about me,
Three twelves ur thirty-six,


Four ones ur four,
Four twos ur eight,
They’re bloody well laughing aboot ma weight,
Four threes ur twelve,
Four fours ur sixteen,
Four fives ur twenty,
Four sixes ur twenty-four,
Don’t think Ah like her any more,
Four sevens ur twenty-six,
Four eights ur thirty-one,
Four nines ur thirty-seven,
Hey Miss, Ah need tae go tae the lavvie.
(Copyright Stuart Macfarlane)  



= = = = = = = = = =



The Knight Whose Armour Didn't Squeak by A. A. Milne

Of all the Knights in Appledore
The wisest was Sir Thomas Tom.
He multiplied as far as four,
And knew what nine was taken from
To make eleven. He could write
A letter to another Knight.

No other Knight in all the land
Could do the things which he could do.
Not only did he understand
The way to polish swords, but knew
What remedy a Knight should seek
Whose armour had begun to squeak.

And, if he didn't fight too much,
It wasn't that he didn't care
For blips and buffetings and such,
But felt that it was hardly fair
To risk, by frequent injuries,
A brain as delicate as his.

His castle (Castle Tom) was set
Conveniently on a hill;
And daily, when it wasn't wet,
He paced the battlements until
Some smaller Knight who couldn't swim
Should reach the moat and challenge him.

Or sometimes, feeling full of fight,
He hurried out to scour the plain,
And, seeing some approaching Knight,
He either hurried home again,
Or hid; and, when the foe was past,
Blew a triumphant trumpet-blast.

One day when good Sir Thomas Tom
Was resting in a handy ditch,
The noises he was hiding from,
Though very much the noises which
He'd always hidden from before,
Seemed somehow less....Or was it more?

The trotting horse, the trumpet's blast,
The whistling sword, the armour's squeak,
These, and especially the last,
Had clattered by him all the week.
Was this the same, or was it not?
Something was different. But what?

Sir Thomas raised a cautious ear
And listened as Sir Hugh went by,
And suddenly he seemed to hear
(Or not to hear) the reason why
This stranger made a nicer sound
Than other Knights who lived around.

Sir Thomas watched the way he went -
His rage was such he couldn't speak,
For years they'd called him down in Kent
The Knight Whose Armour Didn't Squeak!
Yet here and now he looked upon
Another Knight whose squeak had gone.

He rushed to where his horse was tied;
He spurred it to a rapid trot.
The only fear he felt inside
About his enemy was not
'How sharp his sword?' 'How stout his heart?'
But 'Has he got too long a start?'

Sir Hugh was singing, hand on hip,
When something sudden came along,
And caught him a terrific blip
Right in the middle of his song.
'A thunderstorm!' he thought. 'Of course!'
And toppled gently off his horse.

Then said the good Sir Thomas Tom,
Dismounting with a friendly air,
'Allow me to extract you from
The heavy armour that you wear.
At times like these the bravest Knight
May find his armour much too tight.'

A hundred yards or so beyond
The scene of brave Sir Hugh's defeat
Sir Thomas found a useful pond,
And, careful not to wet his feet,
He brought the armour to the brink,
And flung it in...and watched it sink.

So ever after, more and more,
The men of Kent would proudly speak
Of Thomas Tom of Appledore,
'The Knight Whose Armour Didn't Squeak.'
Whilst Hugh, the Knight who gave him best,
Squeaks just as badly as the rest.


= = = = = = = = = =



Always look on the bright side of life by Stuart Macfarlane

Always look on the bright side of life,
Live each day, month and year without strife,
For when death blows its final whistle,
And they carve your stone with chisel,
You’ll be glad that fun and laughter were so rife.
(Copyright Stuart Macfarlane)




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