Rhyme time

Sometimes I like to pen my thoughts in the form of a rhyme. So might call them poems, but I wouldn't go that far.


All Grown Up
When I grow up I want to be ma-ny diffe-rent people you see.
Doctor or nurse who wipes a brow so upside down I'll turn a frown.
Hairdresser too. I'll brush your hair to make you look really so fair.
Ra-cing dri-ver. I'll zoom around, winning the race, won't touch the ground.
A sil-ly clown who likes to try to make you laugh so hard you'll cry.
Maybe a maid to turn a bed and make a mess tidy instead.
A fei-sty chef with a tall hat. Whip up a meal, won't make you fat.
A school tea-cher. A, B and C. I'll help you win the spell-ing Bee.
My mum tells me, "Well that's nice dear but you can only pick one, I fear."
"Oh no", I say. "It's so fun-ny, I can be all When I'm mummy!"
You kiss my knee when I fall down. You brush my hair and drive me round.
You make me laugh and keep me clean. Make sure I'm full with more than beans.
You teach me lots. I want to do just the same thing and be like you


My Friend, The Whirlwind
I have a friend who you can't see. She's invisible but not to me.
She stands up tall and spins around. Her arms and legs don't touch the ground.
Her name? Whirlwind. She follows me all around my house so you see.
In the kitchen we open drawers. Pull out knives, spoons and all the forks.
Pile up pots, pans, plates and saucers and splash around in the water.
Washing machine, it isn't free from the clothes we pile up with glee.
Moving onto the bathroom too. Paint with toothpaste, don't flush the loo.
The bedroom looks a little scared when it sees us approaching there.
Hide and seek we play with the clothes until they pile up all over our toes.
The living room says bring it on and the carpet joins in the fun.
Crumbs from cookies we've eaten there and all our toys that we did share.
When my mummy sees all this mess I feel I should and do confess.
It was not me, Mum, that did it. It was the whirl-wind that did hit.
And so completes another round, another climb. The housework mound.


The Sleep Monster
The sleep monster is his name and stealing sleep is his game.
He likes to play at mid-night but also comes out in light.
A Chame-le-on he can be. A lit-tle tooth brea-king free.
A sore tum-my you can't see but he's in there tick-ling me.
He tells the sun to burn bright so it's hard to sleep at night.
On mums' eye-lids he pulls down until she's wear-ing quite the frown.
Then he piles up all the sleep he's coll-ec-ted in a heap.
Count-ing how many hours he's won while he has had so much fun.
But for my mum he comes back with a life-line pow-er nap!
The sleep monster is his game and stealing sleep is his game