Page Title

A boy, called Harold Brandon Rose,
Stuck his finger up his nose.
     He wiggled, squiggled, wiggled more
     And really made his nose quite sore.

​

His Mum, when she had finished dusting,
Said: 'Don’t do that!  It’s so disgusting!'
     His teenage brother, thin and lanky,
     Said: 'Blow your nose on this clean hanky.'

​

His Dad, who didn’t mince his words,
Said: 'Stop that now! You look absurd.'
      But Harold went out of their sight
      And picked and picked with all his might.

​

He picked and poked and picked again.
His poor nose cringed under the strain.
    But then his finger seemed quite stuck:
    Oh goodness!  This seemed such bad luck!

​

He tried to get his finger out
But it was stuck, there was no doubt,
     And, feeling worried and dismayed,
     Poor Harold went to seek some aid.
 
His mother, father, brother too,
All tried to think what they could do.
  They looked for help from far and near
    But soon it seemed that things were clear -

​

The finger, stuck, would never, EVER
Be released and so forever
     Poor young Harold Brandon Rose
     Must live with finger stuck in nose.

​

Copyright on all my poems

​

​

​

​

​

​