If You Give A Boy A Boogie 

If you give a boy a boogie, he'll want to stretch it.

He’ll stretch it til it’s ten feet long.

Then he’ll tie one end to a chair, and the other end to another chair.

He’ll call his invention a slingshot.

He’ll be able to use his slingshot for many things.

To chuck potato chips over the sofa.

To hurl the hamster over the fence.

To toss Timmy into orbit.

But he’ll hear his mom.

So he’ll take his slingshot apart.

Then roll the boogie string into a ball.

And try to hide it.

He’ll plop it into his mouth.

He’ll chew and chew and chew.

Then he’ll try to blow a bubble.

But there will be no boogie bubble.

Only a slimy, green mess.

He will hear his mom getting closer.

He will have to get rid of the mess.

He will remember what his teacher said about recycling.

Gulp.

If You Give a Boy A Banjo

He’ll look in the refrigerator. A recipe will pop into his head.

He will pour soda into the blender.

He will melt ice-cream in the microwave.

He will wash tomatoes in the dishwasher.

But he’ll hear his mom.

So he’ll shove everything into his mouth.

The fizzy soda. The steamy ice-cream. The soggy tomatoes.

The goop will ooze out of his mouth and onto his shirt.

He will hear his mom getting closer.

So he’ll run out the door with his banjo.

He will find a shady spot in the crowded park.

He will play his banjo and open his mouth to sing a song.

Burp.