Once my friends and I grew out of nursery rhymes and could read for ourselves, Shel Silverstein was our bard of choice. Nobody GOT us–and our loathing of chores like taking out the garbage–like he did. He also had a brilliant knack for conveying adult annoyance for infuriating child behavior in a way kids could actually grasp and not reject. Now that I'm a godmother a few times over, I love introducing his subversive silliness to a whole new generation of the never-so-innocent-as-you-want-to-think. "Sick," the ultimate shameless grand watoosie fib poem (BELOW) remains my favorite.
When I later learned he wrote tons of hit songs (including for Johnny Cash), cartoons for Playboy, as well as other big-deal achievements, I was surprised by my mixed feelings. As an adult, I am always heartened to hear about people who succeed by their wits. But I was blindsided by my inner-child's narcissism, shocked to learn that he had had his own life all along, doing many things besides entertaining little brats like me.
Sick
by Shel Silverstein
[from Where the Sidewalk Ends (Harper & Row, 1974)]
"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measels and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more–that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue–
It might be instamatic flue.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke–
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my spine is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and y heart is–what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is…Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"
After the children are in bed, I recommend laughing yourself to sleep with Uncle Shelby's A B Z Book (Fireside, 1961)
Some excerpts:
"G is for gigolo. See the pretty gigolo. The gigolo makes beautiful music. The next time your mommy goes shopping, ask her to buy you a gigolo. She will tell all the neighbors how cute you are an she will write it into the Reader's Digest and they will print it and send you money."
and
"P.S.
The paper in this book is not really paper…
It is made from candy.
The End."