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It was many and many a year ago, 
   In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
   By the name of ANNABEL LEE;-- 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
   Than to love and be loved by me. 
She was a child and I was a child, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love-- 
   I and my Annabel Lee-- 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
   Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud by night 
   Chilling my Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 
   And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 
   In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, 
   Went envying her and me:-- 
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 
   In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling 
   And killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
   Of those who were older than we-- 
   Of many far wiser than we- 
And neither the angels in Heaven above, 
   Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:-- 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, 
   In her sepulchre there by the sea-- 
   In her tomb by the side of the sea. 

My mom makes disgusting spaghetti
with horseradish sauce and sardines.
She tops it with pickles and mustard,
bananas and barbecued beans.

She serves it for supper on Sunday.
On Monday we have it for lunch.
It's breakfast on Tuesday and Wednesday.
By Thursday, you guessed it, it's brunch.

I don't like to hurt my mom's feelings.
I said that I loved it. (I lied.)
I always gave mine to our doggy.
And that's why our poor doggy died.

So next time you serve us spaghetti,
dear mother, don't make it like that.
Please serve it with red sauce and meatballs,
and that way it won't kill the cat.

--Kenn Nesbitt and Donna Lee Murphy

My mom’s spaghetti is the best; 
no other mom can beat it;
and every time she cooks it
I can hardly wait to eat it.
I twist the strands around my fork
with wonderful control,
but as I raise them to my mouth
they fall back in the bowl.
I twirl the noodles once again
with all the skill I’m able,
but as I lift them up to eat
they tumble to the table.
I spin my fork; spaghetti winds
around and round once more;
but as it nears my waiting lips
it slithers to the floor.
My mom’s spaghetti is the best;
no other mom can beat it;
but I would like it better
if I got a chance to eat it.
Text © Leslie D. Perkins