Dancing by the Light of the Moon Read online

  She only had one tiny vice –

  She thought an earwig wasn’t nice.

  Now earwigs are the nicest things;

  They have no bites, they have no stings.

  That nipper at the other end

  Is never used to nip a friend.

  I keep an earwig for a pet,

  And he has never nipped me yet.

  And so, Miranda, when you meet

  An earwig walking down the street,

  Don’t start to scream and run away –

  Just stop and pass the time of day.

  And he will smile and raise his hat;

  His nippers are just right for that!

  Disobedience

  by A. A. Milne

  (1882–1956)

  James James

  Morrison Morrison

  Weatherby George Dupree

  Took great

  Care of his Mother,

  Though he was only three.

  James James

  Said to his Mother,

  ‘Mother,’ he said, said he;

  ‘You must never go down to the end of the town, if you don’t go down with me.’

  James James

  Morrison’s Mother

  Put on a golden gown.

  James James

  Morrison’s Mother

  Drove to the end of the town.

  James James

  Morrison’s Mother

  Said to herself, said she:

  ‘I can get right down to the end of the town and be back in time for tea.’

  King John

  Put up a notice,

  ‘LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!

  JAMES JAMES

  MORRISON’S MOTHER

  SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.

  LAST SEEN

  WANDERING VAGUELY:

  QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,

  SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF THE TOWN – FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!’

  James James

  Morrison Morrison

  (Commonly known as Jim)

  Told his

  Other relations

  Not to go blaming him.

  James James

  Said to his Mother,

  ‘Mother,’ he said, said he:

  ‘You must never go down to the end of the town without consulting me.’

  James James

  Morrison’s mother

  Hasn’t been heard of since.

  King John said he was sorry,

  So did the Queen and Prince.

  King John

  (Somebody told me)

  Said to a man he knew:

  ‘If people go down to the end of the town, well, what can anyone do?’

  (Now then, very softly)

  J. J.

  M. M.

  W. G. Du P.

  Took great

  C/o his M*****

  Though he was only 3.

  J. J. said to his M*****

  ‘M*****,’ he said, said he:

  ‘You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of-the-town-if-you-don’t-go-down-with-ME!’

  The Tale of Custard the Dragon

  by Ogden Nash

  (1902–71)

  Belinda lived in a little white house,

  With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,

  And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,

  And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

  Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,

  And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,

  And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,

  But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

  Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,

  And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,

  Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,

  And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

  Belinda was as brave as a barrelful of bears,

  And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,

  Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,

  But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

  Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,

  Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,

  They all sat laughing in the little red wagon

  At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

  Belinda giggled till she shook the house,

  And Blink said ‘Weeck!’ which is giggling for a mouse,

  Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,

  When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

  Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,

  And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.

  ‘Meowch!’ cried Ink, and ‘Ooh!’ cried Belinda,

  For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

  Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,

  And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,

  His beard was black, one leg was wood;

  It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

  Belinda paled, and she cried, ‘Help! Help!’

  But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,

  Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,

  And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

  But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,

  Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,

  With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm

  He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

  The pirate gaped at Belinda’s dragon,

  And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,

  He fired two bullets, but they didn’t hit,

  And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

  Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,

  No one mourned for his pirate victim.

  Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate

  Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

  But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,

  ‘I’d have been twice as brave if I hadn’t been flustered.’

  And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,

  ‘We’d have been three times as brave, we think.’

  And Custard said, ‘I quite agree

  That everybody is braver than me.’

  Belinda still lives in her little white house,

  With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,

  And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,

  And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

  Belinda is as brave as a barrelful of bears,

  And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,

  Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,

  But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

  Earl’s Court Road Pub

  by Diana Morgan

  (1908–96)fn8

  She’s here at Opening Time each day

  On the dot. Her name is Gray;

  She’s quite the lady, forty-something, fair,

  Must have been pretty once – nice reddish hair;

  She lives in Colehern Court across the way.

  Well, as I said, she comes in every day.

  Sits in her corner with a gin and ton.

  Each time I look – ‘I’ll have another, Ron.’

  By three she’s pretty tight, the last to go.

  I see her ’cross the street – you never know.

  At half past five as I unlock the door

  She’s on the step. So it begins once more.

  She’s very chatty with the wife and I;

  She’s keen on racing; even when she’s high

  She’s never awkward, just gets white and sad.

  We often wonder of the life she’s had.

  She never mentions husband, kiddies, friends.

  She must have pots of money, for she spends

  At least two quid a session here each day.

  She never ever seems to go away –

  Even in summer when the sun is high

  And L
ondon dead and dusty. One night I

  Said, ‘Why don’t you take a trip to Gay Paree?’

  She only smiled and said, ‘This one’s on me.’

  She’s very generous we have always found –

  Standing drinks and paying round on round.

  The regulars like her: ‘Morning, Mrs Gray!’

  ‘Good morning, Frank – what’s it to be today?’

  The lads all know that she’s an easy touch.

  But she don’t take ’em back with – not much:

  Say once or twice a year. We always know,

  ‘Cos she don’t make the morning session. Oh

  It’s not she minds us knowing she’s been stung,

  It’s just the fact the bastards are so young!

  But she’ll be back at night: ‘Good evening, Ron!’

  ‘Evening, Madam’ – ‘The usual – gin and ton.’

  Sonia Snell

  by Cyril Fletcher

  (1913–2005)fn9

  This is the tale of Sonia Snell,

  To whom an accident befell.

  An accident which may well seem

  Embarrassing in the extreme.

  It happened, as it does to many,

  That Sonia had to spend a penny.

  She entered in with modest grace

  The properly appointed place

  Provided at the railway station,

  And there she sat in meditation,

  Unfortunately unacquainted

  The woodwork had been newly painted

  Which made poor Sonia realise

  Her inability to rise.

  And though she struggled, pulled and yelled

  She found that she was firmly held.

  She raised her voice in mournful shout

  ‘Please someone come and help me out.’

  Her cries for help then quickly brought

  A crowd of every kind and sort.

  They stood around and feebly sniggered

  And all they said was ‘I’ll be jiggered.’

  ‘Gor blimey’ said the ancient porter

  ‘We ought to soak her off with water.’

  The Station Master and the staff

  Were most perverse and did not laugh

  But lugged at Sonia’s hands and feet

  But could not get her off the seat.

  The carpenter arrived at last

  And, finding Sonia still stuck fast

  Remarked, ‘I know what I can do’,

  And neatly sawed the seat right through.

  Sonia arose, only to find

  A wooden halo on behind.

  An ambulance came down the street

  And bore her off, complete with seat

  To take the wooden bustled gal

  Off quickly to the hospital.

  They hurried Sonia off inside

  After a short but painful ride

  And seizing her by heels and head

  Laid her face down on the bed.

  The doctors all came on parade

  To render her immediate aid.

  A surgeon said, ‘Upon my word

  Could anything be more absurd,

  Have any of you, I implore,

  Seen anything like this before?’

  ‘Yes’ said a student, unashamed,

  ‘Frequently … but never framed.’

  A Hand in the Bird

  by Roald Dahl

  (1916–90)

  I’m a maiden who is forty,

  And a maiden I shall stay.

  There are some who call me haughty,

  But I care not what they say.

  I was running the tombola

  At our church bazaar today,

  And doing it with gusto

  In my usual jolly way …

  When suddenly, I knew not why,

  There came a funny feeling

  Of something crawling up my thigh!

  I nearly hit the ceiling!

  A mouse! I thought. How foul! How mean!

  How exquisitely tickly!

  Quite soon I know I’m going to scream.

  I’ve got to catch it quickly.

  I made a grab. I caught the mouse,

  Now right inside my knickers.

  A mouse my foot! It was a HAND!

  Great Scott! It was the vicar’s!

  Timothy Winters

  by Charles Causley

  (1917–2003)fn10

  Timothy Winters comes to school

  With eyes as wide as a football-pool,

  Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters:

  A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.

  His belly is white, his neck is dark,

  And his hair is an exclamation-mark.

  His clothes are enough to scare a crow

  And through his britches the blue winds blow.

  When teacher talks he won’t hear a word

  And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird,

  He licks the pattern off his plate

  And he’s not even heard of the Welfare State.

  Timothy Winters has bloody feet

  And he lives in a house on Suez Street,

  He sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor

  And they say there aren’t boys like him anymore.

  Old Man Winters likes his beer

  And his missus ran off with a bombardier,

  Grandma sits in the grate with a gin

  And Timothy’s dosed with an aspirin.

  The Welfare Worker lies awake

  But the law’s as tricky as a ten-foot snake,

  So Timothy Winters drinks his cup

  And slowly goes on growing up.

  At Morning Prayers the Master helves

  for children less fortunate than ourselves,

  And the loudest response in the room is when

  Timothy Winters roars ‘Amen!’

  So come one angel, come on ten:

  Timothy Winters says ‘Amen

  Amen amen amen amen.’

  Timothy Winters, Lord.

  Amen.

  Poem

  by Frank O’Hara

  (1926–66)fn11

  Lana Turner has collapsed!

  I was trotting along and suddenly

  it started raining and snowing

  and you said it was hailing

  but hailing hits you on the head

  hard so it was really snowing and

  raining and I was in such a hurry

  to meet you but the traffic

  was acting exactly like the sky

  and suddenly I see a headline

  LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!

  there is no snow in Hollywood

  there is no rain in California

  I have been to lots of parties

  and acted perfectly disgraceful

  but I never actually collapsed

  oh Lana Turner we love you get up

  The Phantom Lollipop Lady

  by Adrian Henri

  (1932–2000)fn12

  The phantom lollipop lady

  haunts the crossroads

  where the old school used to be;

  they closed it down in 1973.

  The old lollipop lady

  loved her job, and stood there

  for seven years altogether,

  no matter how bad the weather.

  When they pulled the old school down

  she still stood there every day:

  a pocketful of sweets for the little ones,

  smiles and a joke for the big ones.

  One day the lollipop lady

  was taken away to hospital.

  Without her standing there

  the corner looked, somehow, bare.

  After a month and two operations

  the lollipop lady died;

  the children felt something missing:

  she had made her final crossing.

  Now if you go down alone at dusk

  just before the streetlights go on,

  look closely at the corner
over there:

  in the shadows by the lamp-post you’ll see her.

  Helping phantom children across the street,

  holding up the traffic with a ghostly hand;

  at the twilight crossing where four roads meet

  the phantom lollipop lady stands.

  Vincent Malloy

  by Tim Burton

  (born 1958)fn13

  Vincent Malloy is seven years old

  He’s always polite and does what he’s told

  For a boy his age, he’s considerate and nice

  But he wants to be just like Vincent Price

  He doesn’t mind living with his sister, dog and cats

  Though he’d rather share a home with spiders and bats

  There he could reflect on the horrors he’s invented

  And wander dark hallways, alone and tormented

  Vincent is nice when his aunt comes to see him

  But imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museum

  He likes to experiment on his dog Abercrombie

  In the hopes of creating a horrible zombie

  So he and his horrible zombie dog

  Could go searching for victims in the London fog

  His thoughts, though, aren’t only of ghoulish crimes

  He likes to paint and read to pass some of the times

  While other kids read books like Go, Jane, Go!

  Vincent’s favourite author is Edgar Allan Poe

  One night, while reading a gruesome tale

  He read a passage that made him turn pale

  Such horrible news he could not survive

  For his beautiful wife had been buried alive!

  He dug out her grave to make sure she was dead

  Unaware that her grave was his mother’s flower bed

  His mother sent Vincent off to his room

  He knew he’d been banished to the tower of doom

  Where he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life

  Alone with the portrait of his beautiful wife

  While alone and insane encased in his tomb

  Vincent’s mother burst suddenly into the room

  She said: ‘If you want to, you can go out and play

  It’s sunny outside, and a beautiful day.’

  Vincent tried to talk, but he just couldn’t speak

  The years of isolation had made him quite weak

  So he took out some paper and scrawled with a pen:

  ‘I am possessed by this house, and can never leave it again.’

  His mother said: ‘You’re not possessed, and you’re not almost dead

  These games that you play are all in your head

  You’re not Vincent Price, you’re Vincent Malloy

  You’re not tormented or insane, you’re just a young boy

  You’re seven years old and you are my son