Blogger Party

It's a valid question, I think, one that speaks to the absurdity of the songs I was forced to sing as a child whilst shaking a pair of maracas or banging on a cowbell.

How about this one?

Miss Lucy had a baby
She named him Tiny Tim
She put him in the bath tub
To see if he could swim
He drank up all the water
He ate up all the soap
He tried to eat the bath tub
But it wouldn't go down his throat

Miss Lucy called the Docter
Miss Lucy called the Nurse
Miss Lucy called the Lady
With the Alligator Purse

Mumps said the Doctor
Measles said the Nurse
Nothing said the Lady
With the Alligator Purse

Miss Lucy punched the Doctor
Miss Lucy Knocked the Nurse
Miss Lucy payed the Lady
With the Alligator Purse.

Now I ask you. WTF?

I wonder that, having been exposed to such twaddle in the years when my brain was in its most critical stage of development, I have emerged from childhood with a master's degree and job that requires higher language skills. I'm writing a novel, for crying out loud. If I don't publish it, do I get to blame the guy who wrote this little gem?

On top of spaghetti,
All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball,
When somebody sneezed.

It rolled off the table,
And on to the floor,
And then my poor meatball,
Rolled out of the door.

It rolled in the garden,
And under a bush,
And then my poor meatball,
Was nothing but mush.

The mush was as tasty
As tasty could be,
And then the next summer,
It grew into a tree.

Posted in Word Witch | | | | 334 reads