Should I Hand In My Homework?

Walking to school, I hear a crack...
A dragon bursts out the tarmac!
Its scythe-like claws tort for attack,
its drool-drenched jaw hung wet and slack.
No beast will eat me for a snack!
I have no muscle (no six-pack)
but I've the brains that dragons lack.
I trap it in my math's book! WHACK!

Although I know I'm no hero
I *did* defeat a dragon... so...
I raise my math's book, cheer 'BRAVO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

Of course...
Dragon's trapped between these pages.
Must keep this book shut... for ages.
Don't unlock these paper cages.
Please don't unleash dragon's rages!
Teachers... aren't wizards or mages.
Think they're smart... but they're no sages.
Sir just snorts. I hope he’ll gauge the
danger trapped between these pages!

'Sir!' I yell, 'Don't look below
my math's book's cover!' (now aglow
as from inside dark smoke rings blow!)
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

‘Without a sword, without cross-bow,
without kung-fu or tae-kwon-do,
with just my book I caught this foe.’
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

My teacher says, 'What nonsense. Right,
you gave the whole class quite a fright.'
He takes the book. Its spine burns bright,
pages smouldering fiery light.
'Please stop!' I cry, 'Look, I'll rewrite
my homework, please, I'll do it tonight!'
He opens the book... Dragon takes flight...
devours Sir in one sharp bite.

Teachers! My moral is more than implied.
Don't wish to corrupt, don't mean to misguide,
but when marking homework keep caution applied
for there might be a dragon... waiting inside!

What's That Smell?

I have a cat. He's small and thin.
Bright ginger fur covers his skin.
His name is Dillen. He's my pet.
My playful, cheerful friend... and yet...
I fear wherever Dillen goes,
for every man will hold his nose
and all the women go beserk
when they smell Dillen's bottom burp.

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

At first, your nose he'll gently tease
with just a whiff, like mouldy cheese.
It gets worse than old football boots,
the stench that comes when Dillen toots.
Like bad eggs rubbed in sweaty feet,
sour milk dripped on rotting meat-
you'll hear no sound, the stink grows steadilly.
Dillen's trumps are silent... but deadly

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

One night, I couldn't sleep. I saw
a rainbow pour beneath my door!
Then in mid-air... saw flowers bloom!
Fireworks burst... in my bedroom!
This was no dream. This was no bluff.
This magic soared from Dillen's guff!
He's been a wizard all along.
Like Harry Potter... but with more pong.

Now Dillen knows many a spell.
Can teleport and fly as well!
Let's tour the world! This show will sell!
A shame he can't dispel the smell...

Now one last truth you might find tragic.
Not all our botty coughs are magic.
In fact, some people act aghast
if you let rip a trouser blast.
I can't believe some folk can't cope
think it's a crime if wind is broke.
It's normal, natural, not obscene.
We've all got gas- even the Queen.

So I'm not shy if people yell
when Dillen's trumping 'What's that smell?'
Magic or not, I'm proud to tell
the truth when they shout 'What's that smell?'