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Those who were following me from my early years at HubPages may be familiar with this nonsense poem which was previously published as part of my hub "Verse for the Young at Heart." However, I had originally intended to write a sequel to it and had in fact written another four stanzas. Somehow, in my busy life I had misplaced them and try as I might I could not remember what I had written .. suddenly, voila .. during my recent move and packing and unpacking, I found them!
I have now added those four stanzas to the original poem 'Betelgeuse' and this is the finished product. May the child in you enjoy.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.— Edgar Allan Poe
The quamby sat and smoked a pipe,
Within a wandang tree.
A purple leaf fell on his nose,
And made him gently squee.
Three button birds flew swiftly by,
Towards the pea green sun.
The quamby flashed a furry paw
And caught the closest one.
He opened up his four-foot mouth
And swallowed whole his prey.
The button bird cried, "Let me out!"
But didn't get his way.
Upon the ground, in serpent grass,
Two fluff-puff kittens played.
Leaping high into the air,
The breeze blew them away.
Beside Lake Coolywillowong
The patchwork palm trees grow.
A myriad of colored leaves,
They house the galago.
The galago are flightless birds
Who bounce along the ground.
The fifteen-meter patchwork palms,
They scale with just one bound.
Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.— Dylan Thomas
On rolling hills of chocolate grass
The tri-horned cattle graze.
A rota-dactyl spins on by,
Pursuing calves that stray.
With violet trunks and scarlet fronds,
Kaleidoscope palms sway
While bunches of their shining fruit
Tempt hungry boomaray.
The boomaray are herbivores
Who bound between the trees.
They leap ten meters in one bound,
Obtaining fruit with ease.
By night the moon is deep chartreuse,
the wolvercote howls,
And haunting wails sweep 'cross the plains.
The hoots of phantom owls.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.— Carl Sandburg
A wishworm flashed across the sand
And dashed towards its hole.
Two silver scooters took up chase,
But couldn't reach their goal.
If a wishworm's ever caught
It grants a wish, they say,
But nothing's ever caught one yet,
At least not to this day.
The silver scooters stood in awe
And dusted off their scales.
They thought with six legs they were swift,
To wishworms they were snails.
Oh what a world is Betelgeuse,
A wondrous place to be.
Fantastic creatures there abound,
The likes you'll never see.
Though one night when you're sleeping
You may just chance to dream,
About this distant never land,
And marvel at the scene.