WHO'S BEEN SLEEPING IN MY PORRIDGE?

This collection of sophomoric verse from McNaughton (Preston’s Goal, p. 897, etc.) isn’t so much wicked as mean—“He’s such a sweet pup,/I could eat him right up—/We’ll have him tonight in the stew!”—and not so much playground-subversive as just plain dumb: “If I was a bird,/My wings I would spread,/I’d swoop over you/And plop on your head!” Instead of wit, exclamations points are used to put the joke across; the lines don’t always scan, and the rhymes are poor (e.g., flaw and bore). A few of the pieces sparkle, or have a measure of flair, albeit for children of another era and country: “Let’s celebrate that wonder,/That overhanging cliff:/The 1950s oiled, spring-loaded/Rock-and-roller’s quiff!” (index) (Poetry. 5-10)