Alas, poor Charlotte


Charlotte would not blow her nose
And very rarely washed her toes.
Her fingernails were black with grime,
And both her knees had sticky slime.

At breakfast she was just a mess
With egg and porridge on her dress;
And after every other meal
Her hair was full of orange peel.

Her little brother yelled out loud
When he observed the buzzing cloud
Of flies around his sister’s head,
Each time she climbed into her bed.

The neighbours soon began to hide,
And kept their little dog inside.
“Don’t visit us,” they pleaded. “PLEASE!
Our little dog might catch your fleas.”

She lost her friends, for they could tell
That she was dirty (by the smell).
They played with her, but not for long,
Because of Charlotte’s dreadful pong.

Now all this made the poor girl sad,
Because she was not REALLY bad.
She asked her parents, “Do you think
They keep away because I stink?”

Her mother answered, “Yes, my dear.
I think that’s why they won’t come near.”
Her father frowned, and bit his lip,
And took her to the garbage tip.

Her family, friends, and neighbours say,
It’s just the place for her to stay.
And Charlotte, with her smelly dress,
Is happy in that awful mess.


Charlotte Gross, so very rude,
Always gobbled up her food.
She hardly ever paused to swallow,
People thought she must be hollow.

One day, while gulping down a pear,
She had to stop, with frightened stare.
The half pear in her hand so firm
Displayed within it HALF a worm.

The pear was suddenly less yummy.
With half a worm inside her tummy.
The half worm gave a little kick
And Charlotte felt like being sick.

She really did not want to snub
The half pear with its half a grub,
So closed her eyes and took a bite,
Which gave the half worm quite a fright.

The pear, the bit that now remained,
Brought to her face a look quite pained.
She saw a little tiny squirm —
For now she had a quarter worm.

Three quarters, now, were in her tum,
And of the worm there still was some.
With one gigantic, final crunch
She finished off her wriggling lunch.

Charlotte Gross, who once was rude,
Now carefully inspects her food.
"It’s only fair," she’s heard to say,
"To let the worms get well away".


Charlotte Gross liked cats and dogs,
And chirping budgies, hopping frogs.
She told her Aunt, “I’d like a pet.”
Kind Auntie asked, “What shall we get?”

They went around the shops and zoos,
Inspecting lobsters, mice and gnus.
At last they found it, fat and firm:
A wriggly, cuddly little worm.

She taught it tricks and how to sing,
The worm was good at everything!
She made sure it was well fed,
It even slept in Charlotte’s bed.

One night they shared a sticky bun,
And in the bath had lots of fun.
She dried the worm when they had washed,
But pressed too hard — the worm was squashed.

Charlotte Gross liked cats and dogs,
And hopping budgies, chirping frogs.
The flattened worm made Auntie laugh —
She bought her niece a large giraffe.



(A horror story)

Mortimer, a boy quite bright,

Played his piano every night.

On summer evenings, music flowed,

Through every window in the road.


The neighbours, feeling ill at ease,

Came to the house on bended knees.

"Please stop, and be like other boys,

"We cannot tolerate the noise".


The young lad thought it was a joke

Until, one night, his E string broke.

To fix it, this is what he did—

He climbed inside, beneath the lid.


The piano was quite finely wired

And Mortimer was very tired.

He snuggled up, his eyelids closed,

And peacefully, inside, he dozed.


Lost in his dreams, he did not hear,

Some nasty neighbours creeping near.

And this is what the neighbours did:

They very gently closed the lid.


Next morning, and for several days,

His parents went about their ways.

The weeks went by, and then a year,

But Mortimer did not appear.


Some evenings, now, a neighbour sees,

A ghostly boy play on the keys.

In spite of that, they will not say,

Just how or where he went away.


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