No Difference
Small as a peanut,
Big as a giant,
We're all the same size
When we turn off the light
Rich as a sultan,
Poor as a mite,
We're all worth the same
When we turn off the light.
Red, black or orange,
Yellow or white,
We all look the same
When we turn off the light.
So maybe the way
To make everything right
Is for God to just reach out
And turn off the light!
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Bridge
This bridge will only take you halfway there
To those mysterious lands you long to see:
Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fairs
And moonlit woods where unicorns run free.
So come and walk awhile with me and share
The twisting trails and wondrous worlds I've known.
But this bridge will only take you halfway there-
The last few steps you'll have to take alone.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Point Of View
Thanksgiving dinner's sad and thankless
Christmas dinner's dark and blue
When you stop and try to see it
From the turkey's point of view.
Sunday dinner isn't sunny
Easter feasts are just bad luck
When you see it from the viewpoint
Of a chicken or a duck.
Oh how I once loved tuna salad
Pork and lobsters, lamb chops too
'Til I stopped and looked at dinner
From the dinner's point of view.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Hard To Please
(To be said in one breath)
Elaine gives me a pain,
Gill makes me ill,
Winnie is a ninny,
Orin is borin'
Milly is silly,
Rosy is nosy,
Junie is loony,
Gussie is fussy,
Jackie is wacky,
Tommy is balmy,
Mary is scary,
Tammy is clammy,
Abby is crabby,
Patt is batty,
Mazie is lazy,
Tiny is whiney,
Missy is prissy,
Nicky is picky,
And almost everyone
[...] Read more
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Helping
Agatha Fry, she made a pie
And Christopher John helped bake it
Christopher John, he mowed the lawn
And Agatha Fry helped rake it
Now, Zachary Zugg took out the rug
And Jennifer Joy helped shake it
Then Jennifer Joy, she made a toy
And Zachary Zugg helped break it
And some kind of help is the kind of help
That helping's all about
And some kind of help is the kind of help
We all can do without
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Melinda Mae
Have you heard of tiny Melinda Mae,
Who ate a monstrous whale?
She thought she could,
She said she would,
So she started in right at the tail.
And everyone said,'You're much too small,'
But that didn't bother Melinda at all,
She took little bites and she shewed very slow,
Just like a little girl should...
...and eighty-nine years later she ate that whale
Because she said she would!!!
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Enter This Deserted House
But please walk softly as you do.
Frogs dwell here and crickets too.
Ain't no ceiling, only blue.
Jays dwell here and sunbeams too.
Floors are flowers - take a few
Ferns grow here and daisies too.
Swoosh, whoosh - too-whit, too-woo
Bats dwell here and hoot owls too.
Ha-ha-ha, hee-hee, hoo-hoooo,
Gnomes dwell here and goblins too.
And my child, I thought you knew
I dwell here... and so do you
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Forgotten Language
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Bear In There
There's a polar bear
In our Frigidaire-
He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
He's munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he's in there-
That polary bear
In our Fridgitydaire.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Little Boy And The Old Man
Said the little boy, 'Sometimes I drop my spoon.'
Said the old man, 'I do that too.'
The little boy whispered, 'I wet my pants.'
'I do that too,' laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, 'I often cry.'
The old man nodded, 'So do I.'
'But worst of all,' said the boy, 'it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me.'
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
'I know what you mean,' said the little old man.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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