I cooked my math book in a broth
and stirred it to a steaming froth.
I threw in papers—pencils, too—
to make a pot of homework stew.
I turned the flame up nice and hot
and tossed my binder in the pot.
I sprinkled in my book report
with colored markers by the quart.
Despite its putrid, noxious gas,
I proudly took my stew to class.
And though the smell was so grotesque,
I set it on my teacher's desk.
My teacher said, 'You're quite a chef.
But still you're going to get an F.
I didn't ask for ‘homework stew,'
I said, ‘Tomorrow, homework's due.''
POEM This is not a poem, It obviously doesn't rhyme. The syllables are out of tune, It even make me cry.
My teacher loved this poem and I would love to read more.
A humor greatly enjoyable by school going children. Thanks for sharing.10 points.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is hard to write about.My teacher asked for a poem analysis but I'm stuck.