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Hello! My name is Dana, and I'm going to be reading some poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein.

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Shel Silverstein was really famous in the U.S. for his poems and his children's books and his cartoons.

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So the first poem I will read today is called One Inch Tall.

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If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.

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The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.

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A crumb of cake would be a feast and last you seven days at least.

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A flea would be a frightening beast if you were one inch tall.

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If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,

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and it would take about a month to get down to the store.

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A bit of fluff would be your bed. You'd swing upon a spider's thread and wear a thimble on your head

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if you were one inch tall. You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum. You couldn't

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hug your mama. You just have to hug her thumb. You'd run from people's feet in fright. To move

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a pen would take all night? This poem took 14 years to write because I'm just one inch tall.

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Okay, and our next poem is called Snowman. T'was the first day of springtime, and the snowman

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stood alone. As the winter snows were melting, and the pine trees seemed to groan. Ah, you poor

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sad smiling snowman you'll be melting by and by said the snowman what a pity for I'd like to see

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July yes I'd like to see July and please don't ask me why but I'd like to yes I'd like to oh I'd like

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to see July chirped a robin just arriving seasons come and seasons go and the greatest ice must

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crumble when it's flowers time to grow and as one thing is beginning so another thing must die

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and there's never been a snowman who has ever seen july no they never see july no matter how they try

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no they never ever never ever never see july but the snowman sniffed his carrot nose and said at

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least I'll try. And he bravely smiled his frosty smile and blinked his coal black eye. And there

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he stood and faced the sun, a-blazin' from the sky. And I really cannot tell you if he ever saw July.

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Did he ever see July? You can guess as well as I. If he ever, if he never, if he ever saw July.

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Okay, and then our last poem is called Spaghetti. Spaghetti, spaghetti all over the place,

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up to my elbows and up to my face, over the carpet and under the chairs, into the hammock

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and wound round the stairs, filling the bathtub and covering the desk, making the sofa a mad

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mushy mess. The party is ruined. I'm terribly worried. The guests have all left unless they're

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all buried. I told them bring presents. I said throw confetti. I guess they heard wrong because

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they all threw spaghetti. Okay thanks everyone and happy International Book Day.