My sister likes to throw things.
Small, large, or in between,
Throwing apples like they’re footballs,
and she juggles jellybeans.
I ask Ellie why she throws things,
She answers: “Bay-ball fun!”
And chucks a pickle at my nose
Then giggles loud and runs.
I tell her, “You could be like me,
(They call me Sam the Arm)
And pitch a scary fast ball
Past the cows on Grandpa’s farm.”
“Time for lesson one,” I say,
“Ears open, wider please.
Don’t throw things in the toilet bowl.
It’s not for balls or keys.
“Don’t be fooled by how things sound.
A meat-ball’s just a food.
If you toss one at a waiter,
He’ll surely think you’re rude.”
Ellie nodded like she heard, but
I guess I wasn’t clear.
I heard Mom yell, “Oh no! Don’t throw!”
(She’d smashed the chandelier!)
Baseball season came with spring.
Each day we went outside.
I taught Ellie how to throw her best.
(Well, at least I tried.)
For one whole week she listened.
She didn’t throw my hat,
She didn’t throw tomatoes
Or try to throw the cat.
She did her best until one day
A band marched up the street.
She saw the twirlers twirl their flags
And toss them to the beat.
She waved her festive mini flag
And tossed it in the air.
I yelled, “Oh no! Don't throw!” too late.
It landed in the drummer’s hair.
The drummer lost his rhythm,
And when the front line froze
Each twirler bumped the next and fell
Like rows of dominos.
The marching band stopped marching.
Bright flags fell in a pile.
While red balloons filled up the sky
I hid a secret smile.
The seagulls didn’t like balloons,
So they began a-popping.
The crowd looked up and screamed, “Watch out!
It’s raining seagull droppings!”
Add that one to your list,” I say,
“Don’t throw flags at drummers;
Throw baseballs, beach balls, volleyballs
Every day this summer.”
My sister still likes to throw things,
So I tell her, “Count to three . . .”
She whips the ball into my glove.
(She’s a pitcher just like me!)
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