If I had a Mantasaurus I think that I might call him Boris.
Or Loris. Or Horace. Or maybe even James, but definitely not Doris!
I would have him wash my clothes, the pots and pans, and wipe my nose.
He would be just as good as any man, but he’d be a Mantasaurus.
If I had a Wrenchasaurus he would do the plumbing for us.
His name is Gus; he clears the rust into his coffeepot, nonplussed.
He’d twist, and twist, and turn the pipes until the water came out just right.
Except that I’d still have to bathe. Never mind the Wrenchasaurus!
Now a Hydrasaurus! He could take my baths! I’d never see the tub again,
Until perhaps 2010 when I turn five and five, and ten.
And then…my mom will tell me, “Noris! Go take a shower.
You smell so awful, like Maquiladoras” I really want a Hydrasaurus.
How about an Oratorasaurus? The kind you find in Moroccan forests.
I’ve heard they like to sing in chorus,
So it’s best if you find two or three so they can sing in harmony
While singing in their chorus. Now that’d be cool! An, Oratorasaurus.
My mom would like a Tergasaurus, and so would dad I’m sure.
In fact, they said they might send in for one that’s really poor.
“Because,” mom says, “he’d be so grateful. He’d always do his chores,
and eat his limas, for he knows it builds the health of dinosaurs.
“And where’d I sleep? I’d like to know!”
“We’d send you back instead.” My mom is adamant a dinosaur could fit into my bed,
and all because he won’t complain and does his stink’ chores.
Ha! I’d like to see a Tergasaurus try vacuuming the floor!
But more than any other kind -saurus, I’d most prefer my own Thesaurus.
Dad says they’re great for saving time while writing paragraphs or stories.
And even poetry, I’ve heard, would go a whole lot faster
If I had my own Thesaurus to be their wordy master.
Or Loris. Or Horace. Or maybe even James, but definitely not Doris!
I would have him wash my clothes, the pots and pans, and wipe my nose.
He would be just as good as any man, but he’d be a Mantasaurus.
If I had a Wrenchasaurus he would do the plumbing for us.
His name is Gus; he clears the rust into his coffeepot, nonplussed.
He’d twist, and twist, and turn the pipes until the water came out just right.
Except that I’d still have to bathe. Never mind the Wrenchasaurus!
Now a Hydrasaurus! He could take my baths! I’d never see the tub again,
Until perhaps 2010 when I turn five and five, and ten.
And then…my mom will tell me, “Noris! Go take a shower.
You smell so awful, like Maquiladoras” I really want a Hydrasaurus.
How about an Oratorasaurus? The kind you find in Moroccan forests.
I’ve heard they like to sing in chorus,
So it’s best if you find two or three so they can sing in harmony
While singing in their chorus. Now that’d be cool! An, Oratorasaurus.
My mom would like a Tergasaurus, and so would dad I’m sure.
In fact, they said they might send in for one that’s really poor.
“Because,” mom says, “he’d be so grateful. He’d always do his chores,
and eat his limas, for he knows it builds the health of dinosaurs.
“And where’d I sleep? I’d like to know!”
“We’d send you back instead.” My mom is adamant a dinosaur could fit into my bed,
and all because he won’t complain and does his stink’ chores.
Ha! I’d like to see a Tergasaurus try vacuuming the floor!
But more than any other kind -saurus, I’d most prefer my own Thesaurus.
Dad says they’re great for saving time while writing paragraphs or stories.
And even poetry, I’ve heard, would go a whole lot faster
If I had my own Thesaurus to be their wordy master.
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