Our hands are our tools.
Our hands give out rules.
They can help a man,
they can build a dam.
Our hands can help us further –
our hands can commit murder.
Our hands can pick up.
Our hands can tell others to shut up.
Hands that tell the time.
Hands that can make a ryhme.
By Mark Quinn
My favourite dish
Dish of the day,
that’s what I say;
I’ll make it in my bowl of clay.
What shall I have? Hummus and peas?
Go on then, yes please!
I’ll pick some berries from the trees
and get some beans from the deep freeze.
I’m a vegan,
so no cheese please.
I’ll use my favourite spoon.
Enjoy your dinner, I’ll see you soon.
Walking down the street,
cobbled stones beneath my feet.
Houses built from stone and brick,
the nosey neighbours don’t miss a trick.
The street has only one blossoming tree;
where the birds and wildlife are set free.
On the street there are no cars;
just happy people selling treats
stuffed into marmalade jars.
On the street nothing happens that’s tragic –
because the street is pure magic.
I shuffle my feet,
I feel pretty neat;
then shake my hips
and purse my lips.
I open my mouth
and out come the words;
I wiggle my tongue
and out comes a song.
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