tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89898802024-03-08T00:15:04.850-08:00Brown Paper PackagesNicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-80421110409078529792012-08-25T04:58:00.003-07:002012-08-25T10:34:45.498-07:00City Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a bag of chips<br />
with packaging too glossy<br />
and little content.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a bag of chips,<br />
sealed so tight,<br />
half full of air<br />
waiting to escape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a bag of chips,<br />
seasoned all too much<br />
with little flavor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a bag of chips<br />
way past its expiry date,<br />
left unopened,<br />
forgotten and alone. </div>
</div>
Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-53346711056340817232012-08-19T11:02:00.000-07:002012-08-19T11:02:49.712-07:00Limericks Of My Land<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A wrinkly old madam called Sandra,<br />
Who lived in the suburb of Bandra,<br />
Once flashed her white knickers<br />
To the parish vicars,<br />
She claims with the uttermost candour </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />.........................................................</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A chaste young Tamilian banker<br />
Known always to be a ‘First ranker’<br />
Was smitten by love<br />
Till she gave him the shove<br />
Now he’s an official wanker</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.........................................................
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Marathi missus called Neelam<br />
Was loveless and moody and glum<br />
Till a foreigner boy<br />
Winked at her, rather coy<br />
Seeing her sari well tucked in her bum</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.........................................................
</div>
</div>
Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-88661077184527800082010-04-29T23:50:00.000-07:002010-04-29T23:50:00.401-07:00Butternut creamsButternut creams have a way of<br />Finding their way down the shelves<br />Of the kitchen larder;<br />Round and crumbly, warm and fresh<br />They jump down, into eager hands<br />Of hungry children.<br />They leave evidence, so naturally;<br />Crumbs, scattered over the stone floor.<br />Our dog licks them up,<br />(Who will notice... no one!)<br />Until mum comes home:<br />"What's that smeared all over your mouth?"<br />Ah! The butternut creams have disappeared?<br />The ghost must have visited us again!Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-27417825582293581822010-04-11T12:06:00.000-07:002010-04-11T12:07:35.552-07:00What could have beenCould you take me home and love me<br />Without a trace of lust?<br />Then watch me age, not gracefully<br />But covered in dust.<br />Could you hold my gaze for minutes<br />Without one wayward glance?<br />You could let me know<br />But I won’t give you a chance.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-82880809671067864732009-07-29T06:12:00.000-07:002009-07-29T06:15:04.651-07:00HE NEVER LOOKS AT MEHe looks at the poems that I write<br />With such wonder at its mystery,<br />Eyes poring over every page,<br />But he never looks at me.<br /><br />He looks into the little details<br />As I plan my travel itinerary,<br />Squinting into maps to find locations,<br />But he never looks at me.<br /><br />He’ll look for my pair of red high heels<br />As I’m all dressed up in my finery,<br />Scrounging wide-eyed into musty shoe shelves,<br />But he never looks at me.<br /><br />As he looks out of the balcony, now<br />Waiting for my blue car, anxiously<br />I wonder, will I ever know his ways of seeing?<br />And why he never looks at me?Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-51451842889285198462009-07-29T04:42:00.000-07:002009-07-29T06:20:38.948-07:00Poetry Slam!<p>I went for my first poetry slam in Mumbai and I am thrilled! Well, actually I went for two. First headed over to Prithvi Cafe for the Caferati Open Mic at 7.30pm. After that, we went to MochaMojo, for the slam hosted by the Bombay Elektrik Projekt, where we were treated to three rounds of scintillating verse, witty wisdoms and some power-packed performances till 11.00pm. All in all, a wonderful evening that got me high as a kite without one drop of alcohol! (the Irish coffee at Prithvi was great though!)</p><p></p>Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-45019013554503033622009-07-23T22:16:00.000-07:002009-07-24T02:08:12.331-07:00You know you're a copywriter when:1. You believe that your idea will change the world.<br /><br />2. You create public service ads, warning about the effects of excessive alcohol consumption and then drink the night away.<br /><br />3. You eat last weeks leftovers at 3.20 am and come to work to write about sumptious kebabs, gooey chocolate cake, and soft juicy rosogollas.<br /><br />4. You work in a digital advertising agency, where the internet speed isnt 1/10th the speed of the virus alerts that keep popping up on your PC.<br /><br />5. You frequently escape to the loo, to catch some shut-eye 'cause you can't be caught sleeping at your desk.<br /><br />6. You are part of a fraternity that is so self obsessed that we create awards to celebrate our own work.<br /><br />7. You sell dreams, while you're losing faith in your own.<br /><br />8. Your salary is just a nice word for pocket money.<br /><br />9. You look at innocent kids on the street with a gleam in your eyes, thinking 'target audience'.<br /><br />10. You write all day, but can't seem to find the right words to explain what exactly your job is about, to your family.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-75335995803360713382009-05-25T12:43:00.000-07:002012-08-19T11:14:54.766-07:00Going to Foreign<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
‘I want to go abroad’, I said<br />
I’ve told my dad before,<br />
He grunted, disapprovingly<br />
‘In exams, first you score!’<br />
‘She wants to go to foreign!!’<br />
He chuckled out aloud<br />
‘Become an engineer instead<br />
And make your parent’s proud’<br />
My mother shut her ears so tight<br />
To block these ‘words of doom’<br />
Then looked at me, in horror<br />
And rushed to the puja room<br />
My sister yawned out lazily<br />
And said, 'By now I’m sure<br />
You must already feel<br />
Just like a foreigner, out here.'</div>
Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-3995756863377704602008-02-14T11:43:00.000-08:002012-08-19T11:04:06.897-07:00VALENTINE DATE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was supposed to be<br />
the dreamiest Valentines Day ever.<br />
And then I opened the door and saw.<br />
A sight to haunt me forever<br />
Upon the doormat, lay<br />
An unidentified creature<br />
Palpitating fiercely<br />
Under some kind of seizure<br />
Its eyes, popping out<br />
Like a ping-pong ball machine<br />
And its heart was where<br />
its stomach should have been.<br />
<br />
(Indeed it’s plain to see<br />
He was blown away by me!)</div>
Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-49508575796226960472007-12-24T01:48:00.000-08:002007-12-24T01:49:55.872-08:00In Pursuit of Purpose<div align="justify"><br />My generation is alarming ‘purposeful’ in everything that they do. I watch from the sidelines, quite amusedly, at their perseverance. On occasions, when I have contemplated upon the purpose of my own existence in the world, I have had to resignedly submit to the fact that I have no real worthy ‘claim’ to existence. While, I am personally quite self-content in this state of being, ironically there are a substantial number of people who seem to have made it their life’s purpose to figure out my purpose in life. Claiming casually that I have no concrete direction or focus in life, it is interesting to observe the varying expressions of perplexity on their faces. This statement usually warrants two responses – by some, I am dismissed regretfully, as a waste of space on the planet. But quite contrary to this response, I am sometimes looked upon as some kind of superhuman, of extremely refined aesthetic sensibilities, likened to several greats who were obviously misunderstood in their time. And it is really quite delightful to be absolutely pretentious, while pretending to intently search your soul for life’s calling.<br /><br />Some people work towards a purposeful career, one that usually translates into a fine pay package. This is the common man’s purpose. Then, there are those people who persevere towards the ideal holiday – this purpose must be fulfilled in order to scale the social ladder. And because these holidays are the ‘purposeful’ kind, they go about exploring and shopping, eating out of exotic places and doing all the “to-do’s”, like maniacs on a mission, such that when they return home finally, they look like they need a holiday to get over the one that they have just returned from. But of all the activities that purposeful people patiently perform, the one that is beyond comprehension is exercise. Having supposedly indulged over the ‘holiday’, they will convince themselves that they have put on five pounds too much and will purposefully undertake the ritual called exercise. It is almost unheard of to take a walk down the street, what with all those unsightly sights of dogs, cows, and suchlike lesser beings. Therefore, it becomes their sole purpose in life to join a gym in an upmarket location simply to lose weight. As they puff and pant and persevere on the treadmills, it is a painful process. They are running towards perfection, but really perhaps they are secretly running away from the perfect life. Soon, this will lead to a nervous breakdown, and then, they will wonder……What was the purpose of it all?</div>Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-58504245833689316992007-11-26T13:12:00.000-08:002007-11-26T13:20:33.741-08:00DisillusionThe air hangs heavy in the room<br />Boredom is thick<br />The silence is uncomfortable<br />The spirit of retort has died within<br />Limp bodies, carving niches in their seats<br />Spectators at an unknown funeral<br />Priests and high lords come and go<br />Pretending to themselves and the world<br />As they persevere towards a purpose<br />Listen...<br />Bodies shift uneasily in their seats<br />Old seats, worn and tirrd with<br />the years of monotony, silent cacophony<br />Now hear, they creak of sterility<br /><br />Outside, natures breast swells<br />Rises in anticipation to receive<br />Enthusiastic feet...<br />The wind whistles a jaunty tune<br />Nature makes a mockery<br />Of our nameless faces<br /><br />In the spaces between conciousness<br />And the dying subconcious...<br />The death toll rings.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-58430443119255501332007-07-31T05:58:00.000-07:002007-07-31T05:29:42.054-07:00Another stranger in the crowd<br />Too pompous, self-absorbed, too proud<br />The world’s not enough and life’s unfair<br />No time to stand and stop and stare<br /><br />Losing sight of what we’re after<br />No time for joy or tears or laughter<br />Behind the mask, lies fear and fury<br />Against the norms of the earths jury<br /><br />Our private worlds are shrinking slowly<br />Spineless creatures, down and lowly<br />The power hungry mob disputes<br />On the endless quest of petty pursuits<br /><br />The seed of rebellion builds within<br />Patience is slowly wearing thin<br />They promised the world to us it seemed<br />Yet freedom is a faraway dream<br /><br />All that’s left now is the gift of choice<br />Yet dare we let our dreams be voiced<br />In pain, in pathos, in guilt we dwell<br />Each one, silently awaiting death’s knell.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1534677404077958742007-05-15T16:35:00.000-07:002007-05-15T05:32:50.420-07:00Mind Your Language!My family’s multi-lingual<br />And it makes them very proud<br />My father unabashedly<br />Recites French verse aloud<br />Mother is competitive<br />Will not accept defeat<br />She shows off her <em>shayaris<br /></em>Quite an awesome feat!<br />Aunty Chen and Lily<br />Come from exotic lands<br />As fluently as they speak<br />The rest, ‘pretend’ to understand<br />My brother speaks Swahili<br />Or so, he highly claims<br />And everyone’s impressed<br />As he reels off abusive names<br />Watching from the sidelines<br />I stand up, all of three<br />Muttering much gibberish<br />I’m the pride of the family!Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-44331563737671947912007-04-26T00:07:00.000-07:002007-04-25T12:53:14.951-07:00The Animal Olympics<span>The King of the Jungle, </span><br />The mighty lion roared<br />The traffic stopped, it was a sight<br />They’d never seen before<br />Poor chicken was so stricken<br />But was not to be outdone<br />It was a funny sight to see<br />A flock of chicken run<br />Peacock proudly walked across<br />The drivers winked and smiled<br />Showing off his feathers<br />And parading past in style<br />The sheep were very well behaved<br />And constantly policed<br />The black sheep overtook the rest<br />Who felt completely fleeced.<br />The zebras at the crossing<br />Pondered upon the code<br />It seemed a most confusing task<br />That they must cross the road.<br />You thought the tortoise won the race?<br />He ought to be defaced<br />The loser is still persevering<br />Aiming for last place<br />The real winner was dinosaur<br />Most ancient and most clever<br />He trampled all, he claimed his prize<br />Then disappeared forever.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1169376200831706002007-01-21T16:15:00.000-08:002007-01-21T02:43:20.860-08:00'Gluttony is a Sin'Greedily, our eyes devour the frozen cocoa custard (ice-cream) sitting in neat little squares in tiny steel bowls. Our hands though, play a trick on our eyes and delicately, most intricately divide the portion of ice cream into neat squares that we gently place upon watery tongues. Mother is satisfied, we have not let her down in front of our grandmother. Yet hunger is a most wicked thin - especailly when it resides in the stomachs of small children. Our mother watches in stark horror as my brother picks up his jelly bottom and ventures towads the table for MORE, looking straight ahead with mock confidence - never daring to look sideways, where predictably my mother sits 'making big eyes' at her her eldest son who deliberately makes no sign of paying attention. Until....and my grandmother is unrelenting...her mouth twists into that all too familiat expression of disgust; and in the dryest voice ever, laced with abundant sarcasm , she says "YOU LIKE..?" It is the easiness of the drawl with which it is said that that instantly causes the flushed face and paralysis of every muscle in the body. Resignedly, and certainly with an element of hurt at this public embarassment, my forever hignry sibling squeaks... 'No, it's okay'. The icecream, inide, churns itself into a thick sludge, oozing along the walls of the digestive system, perhaps that is responsible for the uneasiness associatd with guilty pleasures.<br /><br />Then...almost miraculously (and we are yet to fathom how and where the sudden grandmotherly bouts of kindness come from) her heart softens and quite amused, she erupts into her generous laugh and says 'Go baba, have some more'. This unexpected treat, of course makes the second bowl of icecream doubly appetising. Obviously, this is a rare treat and must therefore be enjoyed to the fullest when offered. Of course, my grandmother believes it wouldnt do much harm to reinforce the lesson by actually throwing into the conversation a remark.."You know....'Glutony is a sin'. Our eldest cousin, in an attempt to give her, her just dessert, cockishly replies, "We know".Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1162291306981140112006-10-31T14:46:00.000-08:002006-10-31T02:41:47.020-08:00Smart SolutionsWhen it’s time to go to play,<br />My mum declares ‘a clean-up day’<br /><br />She says that my bed<br />Is a sight to dread <br /><br />So I pick up my stuff<br />And throw it on the floor instead.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1161593458317762362006-10-23T12:55:00.000-07:002006-10-23T01:50:58.343-07:00----/----<p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> <strong><span style="color:#333333;"> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;color:#ff6666;"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#333333;">Friends</span> </span></strong><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;color:#ff6666;"><strong><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#333333;">Lovers</span></strong></p></span></span><blockquote></blockquote><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> </p></span><blockquote><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></blockquote><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"> '</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> '</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> '</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"> <strong><span style="font-size:180%;"> </span></strong></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"> <span style="font-family:courier new;">LIES</span></span></strong></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;color:#999999;"><em>The perfect painted picture</em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">.......</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">.......</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">......</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">.....</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">....</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">..</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">..</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;color:#c0c0c0;">Is but a disguise</span></p>Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1161443938750982782006-10-21T19:23:00.000-07:002006-10-21T08:18:58.780-07:00The Second ComingTURNING and turning in the widening gyre<br />The falcon cannot hear the falconer;<br />Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;<br />Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,<br />The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere<br />The ceremony of innocence is drowned;<br />The best lack all conviction, while the worst<br />Are full of passionate intensity.<br /><br />Surely some revelation is at hand;<br />Surely the Second Coming is at hand.<br />The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out<br />When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi<br />Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert<br />A shape with lion body and the head of a man,<br />A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,<br />Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it<br />Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.<br />The darkness drops again; but now I know<br />That twenty centuries of stony sleep<br />Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,<br />And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,<br />Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?<br /><br /> - <span style="color:#cc6600;"><strong>William Butler Yeats</strong></span>Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1155493485194589342006-08-13T11:49:00.000-07:002006-08-13T11:24:45.196-07:00<span style="color:#660000;"><em>Loneliness</em> is a shadow, a reflection of the inner pathos.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#990000;"><em>Loneliness</em> shies away from the light, because light recognizes loneliness</span>.<br /><br /><span style="color:#993300;"><em>Loneliness</em> is an untold secret that belongs to no one.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff9966;"><em>Loneliness</em> is the darkest night that never ends</span>.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1153758799229967762006-07-24T21:58:00.001-07:002006-07-25T06:45:00.180-07:00Inner CallingMy truth is their perception,<br />I victimize myself.<br />Retreating into the abyss ,<br />Into the primitive self<br />There is mere catharsis.<br />The white walls engulf<br />The bitter remnants,<br />Of a forgotten soul;<br />A soul that wanders<br />In the shadows of the alley cats.Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1152795766673931722006-07-13T18:28:00.000-07:002006-07-13T06:02:46.780-07:00<em><span style="color:#006600;">Life is death, death is life,</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#006600;">Fear not the final passing,</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#006600;">For there, is found, God's love.</span></em>Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1151869835580576002006-07-03T00:16:00.000-07:002006-07-02T12:50:35.606-07:00Playing at PoetryBasketball and badminton<br />And football fill me up with dread<br />Now I've a game thats all my own<br />And its played in my head<br />An athletic adjective<br />Lightly leaps across the page<br />As prepositions prance around<br />A proper noun takes centre stage<br />A simile compares itself<br />To high and mighty metphors<br />Alliteration speeds along<br />Competing fiercely with its peers<br />You think my game is stupid<br />And perhaps that I am wierd<br />But oh, how I love poetry<br />The joy of playing with wordsNicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1148919321167751982006-06-05T17:23:00.000-07:002006-06-05T06:16:44.130-07:00The Sense That Smells TroubleThere was an awful girl we knew,<br />She was a mighty pain,<br />Forever turning up her nose<br />At us in such disdain.<br />She'd a nose that could smell touble,<br />For it smelled all kinds of dirt,<br />Until one day she found a foul smell<br />Right beneath her shirt.<br />She held her breath with mighty strength,<br />Till she grew pale and grey.<br />But no amount of deoderant,<br />Would send the smell away.<br />She washed and bathed, scrubbed her skin<br />Till it turned wrinkly pink,<br />But nothing that she tried to do<br />Would rid her of the stink!<br />And so be smelly, dont be proud<br />That you can smell so well<br />Share the smells of all the smellies<br />Or things won't turn out well!Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1149170130324036872006-06-01T06:54:00.000-07:002006-06-01T06:55:30.350-07:00HELP! My blog has disappeared!Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8989880.post-1148846007780276272006-05-29T00:00:00.000-07:002006-05-28T13:03:04.920-07:00Uncool SchoolMy school is weird and different,<br />The teachers are one of a kind,<br />In science class we feast on fungus ,<br />That will<em> '</em>mold' our tender minds.<br />At Mathematics I’m quite good,<br />In fact I think that I am Queen<br />My math teacher though, thinks I’m average<br />And that is just plain 'mean'!!<br />My English teacher speaks in puns,<br />That leave me utterly confused<br />Don’t limp into my class, she shouts<br />With your 'lame' excuse.<br />I think that education,<br />Really makes you quite a git<br />Or perhaps its just my school<br />I hate the principal of it!Nicole Braganzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00710570141127957898noreply@blogger.com8