This poem was written as nun-chucks to stab bad-guys in the eye. This poem was written in the shape of a plumed garbage bag to be held high above the head while jumping from a jungle gym. This poem was written as the jungle gym we built in the back yard. This poem was written to fit on your feet so that you can run the fastest. The words of this poem were written to be disassembled and then used to build the most awesome spaceship-that-looks-like-that-one-from-star-wars ever with lots of extra guns and is also a boat. This poem will help you find Teddy and the blanket you named Tickle. The words of this poem are pink, unless they're purple, unless they're light blue. The words of this poem spin really, really fast. You can spread peanut butter and strawberry jam on this poem to make it even more delicious than it already is; I baked this poem myself, when you were seven.
Brian Quinn is a chef and a poet. Being from the South, his food and writing radiate with heat and humidity. He currently resides in Milwaukee with his dazzling wife and brilliant son. His wife likes neither his food nor his poetry. She loves him despite these flaws.
