poetry friday

Temper
by Rose Fyleman

“Blow out the light,” they said, they said
(She’d got to the very last page);
“Blow out the light,” they said, they said,
“It’s dreadfully wicked to read in bed”;
Her eyes grew black and her face grew red
And she blew in a terrible rage.

She put out the moon, she did, she did,
So frightfully hard she blew,
She put out the moon, she did, she did;
Over the sky the darkness slid,
The stars all scuttled away and hid —
(A very wise thing to do).

But please don’t whisper the tale about,
She’d get into trouble, she would;
Please don’t whisper the tale about,
If anyone else should ever find out
She’d get into trouble without a doubt,
And now she’s ever so good.

Moomin illustrations by Tove Jansson — no one has a temper quite like Little My!