Jack Prelutsky

A wolf is at the Laundromat, it's not a wary stare-wolf, it's short and fat, it tips its hat, unlike a scary glare-wolf. It combs its hair, it clips its toes, it is a fairly rare wolf, that's only there to clean its clothes— it is a wash-and-wear-wolf.

Shed a tear for Twickham Tweer who ate uncommon meals, who often peeled bananas and then only ate the peels, who emptied jars of marmalade and only ate the jars, and only ate the wrappers off of chocolate candy bars. When Twickham cooked a chicken he would only eat the bones, he discarded scoops of ice cream though he always ate the cones, he’d boil a small potato but he’d only eat the skin, and pass up canned asparagus to gobble down the tin. He sometimes dined on apple cores and bags of peanut shells, on cottage cheese containers, cellophane from caramels, but Twickham Tweer passed on last year, that odd and novel man, when he fried an egg one morning and then ate the frying pan.

Suzanna socked me Sunday, she socked me Monday, too, she also socked me Tuesday, I was turning black and blue. She socked me double Wednesday, and Thursday even more, but when she socked me Friday, she began to get me sore. “Enough’s enough,” I yelled at her, “I hate it when you hit me!” “Well, then I won’t” Suzanna said— that Saturday, she bit me.

Pumberly Pott’s unpredictable niece declared with her usual zeal that she would devour, by piece after piece, her uncle’s new automobile. She set to her task very early one morn by consuming the whole carburetor; then she swallowed the windshield, the headlights and horn, and the steering wheel just a bit later. She chomped on the doors, on the handles and locks, on the valves and the pistons and rings; on the air pump and fuel pump and spark plugs and shocks, on the brakes and the axles and springs. When her uncle arrived she was chewing a hash made of leftover hoses and wires (she’d just finished eating the clutch and the dash and the steel-belted radial tires). “Oh, what have you done to my auto,” he cried, “you strange unpredictable lass?” “The thing won’t work, Uncle Pott,” she replied, and he wept, “It was just out of gas.”

It's noisy, noisy overhead, the birds are winging south, and every bird is opening a noisy, noisy mouth. They fill the air with loud complaint, they honk and quack and squawk— they do not feel like flying, but it's much too far to walk.

My frog is a frog that is hopelessly hoarse, my frog is a frog with a reason, of course, my frog is a frog that cannot croak a note, my frog is a frog with a frog in its throat.

My first best friend is Awful Ann— she socked me in the eye. My second best is Sneaky Sam— he tried to swipe my pie. My third best friend is Max the Rat— he trampled on my toes. My fourth best friend is Nasty Nell— She almost broke my nose. My fifth best friend is Ted the Toad— he kicked me in the knee. My sixth best friend is Grumpy Gail— she's always mean to me. My seventh best is Monster Moe— he often plays too rough. That's all the friends I've got right now— I think I've got enough.

If not for the cat, And the scarcity of cheese, I could be content.

I wave good-bye when butter flies and cheer a boxing match, I've often watched my pillow fight, I've sewn a cabbage patch, I like to dance at basket balls or lead a rubber band, I've marvelled at a spelling bee, I've helped a peanut stand. It's possible a pencil points, but does a lemon drop? Does coffee break or chocolate kiss, and will a soda pop? I share my milk with drinking straws, my meals with chewing gum, and should I see my pocket change, I'll hear my kettle drum. It makes me sad when lettuce leaves, I laugh when dinner rolls, I wonder if the kitchen sinks and if a salad bowls, I've listened to a diamond ring, I've waved a football fan, and if a chimney sweeps the floor, I'm sure the garbage can.

I’m fond of frogs, and every day I treat them with affection. I join them at the FROG CAFE— We love the Croaking Section.