There’s a limmering up in my hair.
Do not ask what he’s doing up there.
I shoo him away,
but he’s back in a day,
and my friends can do nothing but stare.
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Three aliens came into my room
to see a human child.
I showed my claws and bared my teeth,
but they just laughed and smiled.
They laughed and smiled and laughed some more.
They simply couldn’t stop.
They said I look ridiculous,
in my new pajama top!
I learned a lesson from those three
that every alien knows:
to scare someone, it’s just a must
to wear the proper clothes.
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At night I lie in bed awake
and look up at the stars.
I wonder if there really are
those Martians up on Mars.
And do they have antennas too?
And can they walk on walls?
And do they fly like bumble bees,
or bounce like rubber balls?
I wonder what they like to eat.
I wonder what they drink.
And do they smell like baby’s breath
or do they really stink?
I wonder till my eyelids close,
and soon I fall asleep.
And then I dream the Martians come,
and I am theirs to keep
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Don’t talk about the new kid.
Don’t laugh about his hair.
Don’t point your fingers at his shoes,
or drop your jaw and stare.
Don’t giggle when you see his tail.
It isn’t nice to do.
It’s funny when the kid’s from space,
but not when that kid’s you.
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