Don't do,
Don't do,
Don't do that.
Don't pull faces,
Don't tease the cat.

Don't pick your ears,
Don't be rude at school.
Who do they think I am?

Some kind of fool?

One day
they'll say
Don't put toffee in my coffee
don't pour gravy on the baby
don't put beer in his ear
don't stick your toes up his nose.

Don't put confetti on the spaghetti
and don't squash peas on your knees.

Don't put ants in your pants
don't put mustard in the custard
don't chuck jelly at the telly
and don't throw fruit at the computer
don't throw fruit at the computer.

Don't what?
Don't throw fruit at the computer.
Don't what?
Don't throw fruit at the computer.
Who do they think I am?
Some kind of fool?

Michael Rosen

I'm going to admit to some sexist thinking her--it surprised me that David likes poetry. As a card carrying feminist and thirty-five years of reading poetry, I should know that men read and write poetry. Duh. And I know that David often does things that are coded as female in our society, the tutu and magic fairy wand, case in point. But most of that stuff is hand me down. If he sees his sister and cousins decked out in pink sparkles, he wants to do it too. He's heard his sister talking about poetry a little, but really, this is his gig.

For three weeks now, David has been insisting I read him poetry at bedtime. I figured he'd be more opportunistic and go for the stories which are longer and therefore extend bedtime, but no. He wants poetry. We've been reading classic Mother Goose, your basic limericks, and a host of good modern. Because I was trying to push the stuff on Rose, we have a lot of poetry in the house.

The one above is David's current favorite. Try saying "Don't throw fruit at the computer" aloud. It's a hilarious tongue twister.

A young interest in poetry feels cute and sweet and cerebral, not the same kid who shoots pretends guns everywhere and literally bounces off walls. I'm going to try to keep my sexist perspective to myself and keep the poems coming.