“Ol' man Simon, planted a diamond. Grew hisself a garden the likes of none. Sprouts all growin' comin' up glowin' Fruit of jewels all shinin' in the sun. Colors of the rainbow. See the sun and the rain grow sapphires and rubies on ivory vines, Grapes of jade, just ripenin' in the shade, just ready for the squeezin' into green jade wine. Pure gold corn there, Blowin' in the warm air. Ol' crow nibblin' on the amnythyst seeds. In between the diamonds, Ol' man Simon crawls about pullin' out platinum weeds. Pink pearl berries, all you can carry, put 'em in a bushel and haul 'em into town. Up in the tree there's opal nuts and gold pears- Hurry quick, grab a stick and shake some down. Take a silver tater, emerald tomater, fresh plump coral melons. Hangin' in reach. Ol' man Simon, diggin' in his diamonds, stops and rests and dreams about one... real... peach.”

“I opened my eyesAnd looked up at the rain,And it dripped in my headAnd flowed into my brain,And all that I hear as I lie in my bedIs the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.I step very softly,I walk very slow,I can't do a handstand--I might overflow,So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.”

“Nobody loves me, nobody cares,Nobody picks me peaches and pears.Nobody offers me candy and Cokes,Nobody listens and laughs at me jokes.Nobody helps when I get into a fight,Nobody does all my homework at night.Nobody misses me,Nobody cries,Nobody thinks I'm a wonderful guy.So, if you ask me who's my best friend, in a whiz,I'll stand up and tell you NOBODY is!But yesterday night I got quite a scareI woke up and Nobody just WASN'T there!I called out and reached for Nobody's hand,In the darkness where Nobody usually stands,Then I poked through the house, in each cranny and nook,But I found SOMEBODY each place that I looked.I seached till I'm tired, and now with the dawn,There's no doubt about it-NOBODY'S GONE!!”

“The VoiceThere is a voice inside of youThat whispers all day long,"I feel this is right for me,I know that this is wrong."No teacher, preacher, parent, friendOr wise man can decideWhat's right for you--just listen toThe voice that speaks inside.”

“An oak tree and a rosebush grew,Young and green together,Talking the talk of growing things-Wind and water and weather.And while the rosebush sweetly bloomedThe oak tree grew so highThat now it spoke of newer things-Eagles, mountain peaks and sky."I guess you think you're pretty great,"The rose was heard to cry,Screaming as loud as it possibly couldTo the treetop in the sky."And now you have no time for flower talk,Now that you've grown so tall.""It's not so much that I've grown," said the tree,"It's just that you've stayed so small.”

“Sarah Cynthia Sylvia StoutWould not take the garbage out!She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,Candy the yams and spice the hams,And though her daddy would scream and shout,She simply would not take the garbage out.And so it piled up to the ceilings:Coffee grounds, potato peelings,Brown bananas, rotten peas,Chunks of sour cottage cheese.It filled the can, it covered the floor,It cracked the window and blocked the doorWith bacon rinds and chicken bones,Drippy ends of ice cream cones,Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,Pizza crusts and withered greens,Soggy beans and tangerines,Crusts of black burned buttered toast,Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .The garbage rolled on down the hall,It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,Globs of gooey bubble gum,Cellophane from green baloney,Rubbery blubbery macaroni,Peanut butter, caked and dry,Curdled milk and crusts of pie,Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,Cold french fried and rancid meat,Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.At last the garbage reached so highThat it finally touched the sky.And all the neighbors moved away,And none of her friends would come to play.And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"But then, of course, it was too late. . .The garbage reached across the state,From New York to the Golden Gate.And there, in the garbage she did hate,Poor Sarah met an awful fate,That I cannot now relateBecause the hour is much too late.But children, remember Sarah StoutAnd always take the garbage out!”

“A spider lives inside my headWho weaves a strange and wondrous webOf silken threads and silver stringsTo catch all sorts of flying things,Like crumbs of thoughts and bits of smilesAnd specks of dried-up tears,And dust of dreams that catch and clingFor years and years and years...”