by Dennis Lee
I didn’t get home until dark.
But when I got back I had ants in my pants
And my father was feeding the shark.
I went to play in the park,
And I didn’t come home until dark.
And when I got back I had ants in my pants
And dirt in my shirt, and glue in my shoe,
And my father was tickling the shark.
I went to sleep in the park.
The shark was starting to bark.
And when I woke up I had ants in my pants,
Dirt in my shirt, glue in my shoe,
And beans in my jeans and a bee on my knee,
And the shark was tickling my father.
My father went off to the park.
I stayed home and read to the shark.
And when he got back he had ants in his pants,
Dirt in his shirt, glue in his shoe,
Beans in his jeans, a bee on his knee,
Beer in his ear and a bear in his hair,
So we put him outside in the ark.
I started the ark in the dark.
My father was parking the shark.
And when we got home we had ants in our pants,
Dirt in our shirt, glue in our shoe,
Beans in our jeans, a bee on our knee,
Beer in our ear and a bear in our hair,
A stinger in our finger, a stain in our brain,
And our belly-buttons shone in the dark.
So my dad he got snarky and barked at the shark
Who was parking the ark on the mark in the dark.
And when they got back they had ants in their pants,
Dirt in their shirt, glue in their shoe,
Beans in their jeans, a bee on their knee,
Beer in their ear and a bear in their hair,
A stinger in each finger, a stain in the brain,
A small polka-dot burp, with headache tablets,
And a ship on the lip and a horse, of course,
So we all took a bath in the same tub and went to bed early.
The Fishes of Kempenfelt Bay
Under the bubbles
Of Kempenfelt Bay,
The slippery fishes
Dawdle all day.
They park in the shallows
And wiggle and stray,
The slippery fishes
Of Kempenfelt Bay.
I ride on a bike.
I swing in the gym.
But I’d leave them behind
If I knew how to swim
With the slippery fishes
That dawdle all day,
Under the bubbles
Of Kempenfelt Bay.
Kahshe or Chicoutimi
If I lived in Temagami,
Temiskaming, Kenagami,
Or Lynx, or Michipicoten Sound,
I wouldn’t stir the whole year round
Unless I went to spend the day
At Bawk, or Nottawasaga Bay,
Or Missinabi, Moosonee,
Or Kahshe or Chicoutimi.
Tongue Twister
Someday I’ll go to Winnipeg
To win a peg-leg pig.
But will a peg-leg winner win
The piglet’s ill-got wig?
Someday I’ll go to Ottawa
To eat a wall-eyed eel.
But ought a wall-eyed eater
Pot an eel that isn’t peeled?
Someday I’ll go to Nipigon
To nip a goony loon.
But will a goony nipper lose
His loony nipping spoon?
The Hockey Game
(With thanks to A.A. Milne)
Squirm
Was a
Worm
With a Terrible
Temper.
Wee
Was a flea
With a Big Bad Roar.
X
Was an elephant
Who couldn’t keep his
Laces tied.
And George was a bit of a bore.
Squirm played
Hockey with a
Great big
Tooth-pick.
Wee played
Hockey with her
Friends and her foes.
X played
Hockey but he
Couldn’t keep his
Laces tied.
And George just played with his toes.
Squirm threw a
Bodycheck and
Sent X
Flying.
Wee shot the
Puck and she
Knocked X flat.
X cried
Tears that were
Bigger than piano stools.
And George floated round in a hat.
Now
Squirm
Is a worm
With a Very
Soggy Temper.
And Wee
Is a flea
With a Waterlogged Roar.
X is an
Elephant who
Wonders where his
Skates went.
And George is rather wet
George is very wet
George is Awful wet
once
more.
Peter Rabbit
Peter Rabbit’s
Mother sighed,
“Son, you’d better
Stay inside.”
Peter Rabbit’s
Father said,
“Don’t you dare
Get out of bed!
“For if you do
You’ll sneak away
And like a shot
You’ll go and play
“In Farmer J.
MacGregor’s garden—
Planning, without
A beg-your-pardon,
“To bolt his luscious
Turnips down
While we are shopping
In the town.”
Peter yawned
At this to-do.
“So what?” he asked.
“You eat them too.”
“It’s not at all
The same,” they said,
From either side
Of his messy bed,
“For since you will not
Use your spoon,
You’ll turn into
A Spotted Goon!”
“Shut up, dear parents,”
Peter cried,
“You know I’d never
Sneak outside
“And wolf those luscious
Turnips down,
While you are shopping
In the town!”
Then Peter hummed
A loving hum,
And watched his tired old
Dad and mum
Teetering out
And tottering down
The steep steep hill
To the shops in town.
Then up he sprang
And off he sped
With visions of turnips
Alive in his head;
And up he rose
And off he ran
To where the turnip
Patch began.
He pulled up one.
He pulled up two.
He stuffed them in
And gave a chew.
And down they went
Kerplunk, because—
He crammed them in
With just his paws!
Then woe betide us!
Lack-a-day!
Good gosh, gadzooks and
Wellaway!
Quick, thick and fast
In inky blots
His fur broke out
With horrid spots.
He raced inside
To find a mirror;
The awful change
Grew clear and clearer:
Without a doubt
He was a Goon—
Because he would not
Use a spoon!
Is this the end
Of Peter’s tale?
A Goon-like life
&
nbsp; In a spotted jail?
No, no! Again
I say it—No!
Great heavens! let it
Not be so!
For thinking of
His dreadful doom
He cried, “I Should Have
Used A Spoon!”
And pondering
His piteous plight
He roared, “My Dad
And Mum Were Right!”
At once his face
Began to shine.
He lit up like
A neon sign
Till someone put him
On T.V.
And parents forced
Their kids to see
The Shiny Spotted
Goody-Goon,
Who Never Ate
Without a Spoon.
Well, that’s the story.
Here’s the moral:
‘Hare today
And Goon tomorrow.’
The Friends
When Egg and I sit down to tea
He never eats as much as me.
And so, to help him out, I take
A double share of chocolate cake.
And when we get a special treat
He says he really couldn’t eat—
Not even fudge, or licorice loops
Or butterscotch caramel ice-cream soup.
And likewise, if the juice is fine,
He always whispers, “Please drink mine.”
And since Egg is my special friend
I gulp it down to the bitter end.
And Eggy says, when I hug him tight,
“I’m glad I had an appetite.”
When Egg and I go out to play
His legs are always in the way,
And so he seems to fall alot
And always in a muddy spot.
And since Egg is my special friend
I fall down too; and I pretend
To cover myself with guck and dirt
So Eggy’s feelings won’t be hurt.
And when my mother starts to frown
I ’splain that Egg kept falling down,
And she throws us both in the washing machine,
And Eggy says, “I’m glad you’re clean.”
And when we go to bed at night
He sort of hates to shut the light.
He mentions, in a little voice,
“I hear a burglar kind of noise.”
And also, “Giants scare me most.”
And also, “That looks like a ghost!”
And since Egg is my special friend
I say that ghosts are half pretend.
I tell him everything’s all right,
And I hide in the covers with all my might,
And then I get up and turn on the light.
And when the room is friends again
We snuggle down, like bears in a den,
Or hibernating in a cave.
And Eggy says, “I’m glad we’re brave.”
The Sitter and the Butter and the Better Batter Fritter
My little sister’s sitter
Got a cutter from the baker,
And she baked a little fritter
From a pat of bitter butter.
First she bought a butter beater
Just to beat the butter better,
And she beat the bit of butter
With the beater that she bought.
Then she cut the bit of butter
With the little butter cutter,
And she baked the beaten butter
In a beaten butter baker.
But the butter was too bitter
And she couldn’t eat the fritter
So she set it by the cutter
And the beater that she bought.
And I guess it must have taught her
Not to use such bitter butter,
For she bought a bit of batter
That was sweeter than the butter.
And she cut the sweeter batter
With the cutter, and she beat her
Sweeter batter with a sweeter batter
Beater that she bought.
Then she baked a batter fritter
That was better than the butter
And she ate the better batter fritter
Just like that.
But while the better batter
Fritter sat inside the sitter—
Why, the little bitter fritter
Made of bitter butter bit her,
Bit my little sister’s sitter
Till she simply disappeared.
Then my sister came to meet her
But she couldn’t see the sitter—
She just saw the bitter butter
Fritter that had gone and et her;
So she ate the butter fritter
With a teaspoonful of jam.
Now my sister has a bitter
Butter fritter sitting in her,
And a sitter in the bitter
Butter fritter, since it ate her,
And a better batter fritter
Sitting in the silly sitter
In the bitter butter fritter
Sitting in my sister’s tum.
Windshield Wipers
Windshield wipers
Wipe away the rain,
Please bring the sunshine
Back again.
Windshield wipers
Clean our car,
The fields are green
And we’re travelling far.
My father’s coat is warm.
My mother’s lap is deep.
Windshield wipers,
Carry me to sleep.
And when I wake,
The sun will be
A golden home
Surrounding me;
But if that rain
Gets worse instead,
I want to sleep
Till I’m in my bed.
Windshield wipers
Wipe away the rain,
Please bring the sunshine
Back again.
Hockey Sticks and High-Rise: A Postlude
When I started reading nursery rhymes to my children, I quickly developed a twitch. All we seemed to read about were little pigs and kings. The details of Mother Goose – the pipers and piemen and pence – had become exotic; children still loved them, but they were no longer home ground.
Not that this was a bad thing. But I started to wonder: shouldn’t a child also discover the imagination playing on things she lived with every day? Not abolishing Mother Goose, but letting her take up residence among hockey sticks and high-rise too? I began experimenting.
I started with the nursery rhymes in the first part of this book. And one thing I discovered is that the words should never be sacred. A rhyme is meant to be used, and that means changing it again and again. For children’s verse passes around in weird and wonderful versions, and the changes always make sense – to the tongue and the ear, if not always to the mind. If your child rewrites some of these poems, please take his version as seriously as mine.
By the same token, you should feel free to relocate the place-poems. Put in the streets and towns you know best; the rhythm and rhyme may get jostled a bit, but so what?
I also discovered that nursery rhymes can’t be approached at an adult’s reading rate. They unfold much more slowly. In fact, they need to be brought to life almost as tiny plays, preferably with much pulling of faces and bouncing of rear-ends on knees. One of these four-line poems may take a couple of minutes to complete, especially if you drop in new words and verses.
I had never realised how soon a child can take part in “doing poems.” A two-year-old will join in, if you pause at the rhyme-word and let her complete it. Usually it will be the familiar rhyme, but if you’re making up new verses you’ll be surprised by what she thinks of. Try starting a verse “Alligator steak,” or “Willoughby wallaby wungry.”
I hope the main thing I learned is invisible. There is a class of poem whose sole virtue is that it Contains a Worthy Sentiment,
or Deals With the Child’s Real World. Adults sometimes tolerate these wretched exercises, thinking they must be Literature. Young children, I can report, don’t.
For I did commit a few of these pious versicles. They were awful, of course; wherever a poem comes from, it’s not from good intentions. The undisguised boredom of my listeners persuaded me to pitch them out. And eventually I realised that the hockey sticks and high-rise would find their own way into the poem, without orders from me. Which is when it really got to be fun.
DL, 1974
How Do You Illustrate Poems That Don’t Need Pictures?
What could (or should) illustration contribute, when the poetry, as written, is complete unto itself, as is invariably the case with Dennis Lee’s books? The artwork might have an explanatory function if the poetry needed fortification, but surely not where the author’s voice is loud and clear. Of course, the obvious reason might be ‘to dress up the package’ in an attractive manner, the pictures acting the role of a candy wrapper. But there must be better reasons for incorporating, or even needing, a visual component.
Merely translating the poet’s creation word for word into a visual tongue may bore, rather than engage, the young reader. An illustration can gently side-step the poet and perhaps stimulate a youthful imagination with its interpretation of the poem. It may even leave the young viewer to avow: “That’s interesting, but my poet has said other things too, and I can draw lots more and way better pictures!”
There can be magic between author and reader in the poetry book for children. Illustration may enhance the magic, and might well inspire a reader to re-envisage the poem in the poet’s footsteps. It could even motivate some of our young people to conjure up their own ‘flights-of-fancy’ and artistry! This is as true in today’s computer age as it was when Alligator Pie was first published.
FN, 2012
About the Authors
Dennis Lee is Toronto’s first poet laureate, song lyricist for Fraggle Rock, and author of such glorious collections as Garbage Delight, Jelly Belly, The Ice Cream Store, and Bubblegum Delicious. His poetry is known and loved around the world.
Frank Newfeld has designed, illustrated, and art-directed more than 600 books, including four of his own. His extraordinary contributions to the book arts in Canada have earned over 170 awards.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Copyright
Alligator Pie
Text copyright © 1974 by Dennis Lee
Illustrations copyright © 1974 by Frank Newfeld
