Child poem, child poems: funny poems for children sorted by: poet, page 1

Child poem, child poems: funny poems for children sorted by: poet, page 1


Funny poems for kids – poet 1 2 · title 1 2 · most popular · newest

Today there is muckefuck.

Today there is muckefuck
and spit cake,
buked the mother
for our sweetie
You swallow muckefuck
Spit cake you spit
The mother looks: Nepomuk!
Don’t spit on the stucco!
Nepomuk chokes.
Nepomuk! Did you
swallowed the core?
Nepomuk says: It doesn’t itch
and ducks.
Because when Nepomuk complains,
he lies like printed.

Victor Blüthgen (1844-1920)

Liese, it rains ropes;
I’m dying of boredom.
I think the bubbles are swimming there –
Now it’s raining like this for four weeks.
I should be dear god.
There would only be rain at night,
And it would always be sunshine,
If I woke up in bed.

Adelbert von Chamisso (1781-1838)

It was someone who was heartfelt,
That the braid was hanging behind him,
He wanted it to be different.

So he thinks: how do I start?
I turn around, that’s it –
The braid hangs behind him.

Then he quickly turned around,
And as it stood, it still stands –
The braid hangs behind him.

He quickly turns around differently,
But it doesn’t get any better –
The braid hangs behind him.

It turns left, it turns right,
It does nothing good, it does nothing bad –
The braid hangs behind him.

It turns like a spinning top,
It doesn’t help in a word –
The braid hangs behind him.

And see, he’s still spinning,
And thinks it will help in the end –
The braid hangs behind him.

Paula Dehmel (1862-1918)

Marie-Marei wants to make roasts,
has no pan;
she takes the slate
from little sister Hanne.
She has a pan.

Marie-Marei wants to make roasts,
has no butter;
borrows them from the canary
quickly a little food.
Does she have butter?.

Marie-Marei wants to make roasts,
has no coals;
red poppies are at the door,
does she go get it?.
Does she have coals?.

Marie-Marei wants to make roasts,
the gosling is still missing;
she takes the bobble hat
from little brother Fränzchen.
She has goslings.

Hey, with these wonder things
the roast must succeed;
please to table!

Richard Dehmel (1863-1920)

Lullaby for my boy

Sleep, my chick – rascal, sleep!
Look: there are two sheep in the mirror,
blows a big one, makes a small one,
and the little one, that’s mine!
Kid, kid, don’t yell,
you damned baby.

Quiet, my sweet angel filling:
tomorrow it’s snowing sugar pills,
The day after tomorrow bare threes,
golden eggs next week,
and dear god who laughs,
that the whole sky is cracking.

And you come and take the donations,
sow them with Sunday hands,
and the earth blooms with colors,
and people do it in sheaves
Lord, the kid doesn’t care,
whatever lies are threshed!

Just wait, you Satan dragon:
tonight you little kite,
through the red arch of hell
comes a butterfly flown,
flits on your nose, hu,
covers both your eyes;

covers the wings gently,
that you dream of silent flames,
of two flames that were found,
Hell heaven silently connected – –
well, now he sleeps; it succeeded;
Heaven hell, thank goodness!

Bat and dragon tooth,
Toad wiping and spider craze!
Tonight is being brewed!
Boilers are built.

Frizzy nails cling tight,
which can be taken quickly.
Beetle legs kick empty,
feel no ground anymore.

Herbs, slimes, boar bristles,
Wine to keep from thirsting!
Everything stuffed into the pot,
coarse mortar, softly pounded.

Stirred and pounded,
All sorts of steam from lids.
Bubble tank and wild giggle,
Witches quarrel, very disgusting!
Everyone wants to be the best!
Boil the warlock.

This, however, unmoved,
tried with caution,
whether the potions work.
Fog creeps between birch trees
and the full moon is pale.

First prize: an inkwell!
(invisible to write –
not in blue, that’s clear. )
And an eagle owl huhuht distant.

You’d like to know who wins?

Well, it got complicated
chosen as the winner
Witch Rosalind Moosmauer
with the drink "toadstool sweet and sour",
which stomachs of all kinds
from rainy rain.
What has tormented the master for a long time,
why he – Klaro! – chooses this.

And the night is coming to an end,
Rosalind rubs her hands.
Some are happy, others grumble.
Slowly they frolic home.
The ghost will soon be over.

And the eagle owl does not lay an egg.

Bernhard Efinger (born 1941)

Where has he gone this year?,
the snow that we children love so much.
Wherever you look, wherever you look,
cheeky thieves stole it.

Oh, it’s hair-raising,
because I wanted to buy the snow,
but nobody made me an offer,
all who could do this turned themselves dead.

What do I want to do as a little imp?,
There is no snow in sight far and wide.
White snow, fresh from above,
oh how I would praise the sky.

I’m pissed off, it’s crying,
there is also no snowman.
No tobogganing or sledding,
how am I supposed to keep calm?.

I don’t get any snow,
because Ms. Holle no longer thinks of me.
I will now write to the weather bureau,
such a winter can be stolen from me.

Fred Endrikat (1890-1942)

Monologue of an asthmatic earthworm

Oh, why was I born an earthworm?,
with no feathers, no bristles, no hooves?
I’m in the dirt, whether it’s raining or storming.
Oh, how poor worm worms me terribly.
The other animals can run, swim or fly.
I have to lie on the floor with a bare stomach
and squinted upwards, sighed sad look:
I can only cough, I can’t go on.

Of young children and the greatest idiots
I’ll be trampled and stung in the droppings
No devil and no god help me in my woe.
No paragraph protects me, not even the Salvation Army.
I have to beware of the chickens and the sparrows,
because if they scratch, then I have to scratch my life.
I’m completely defenseless if I get caught,
I can only cough, I can go on niching.

So I have to push myself through this existence.
Oh, why didn’t I prefer to be aborted??
What should I do here, poor poor birth?
My misery will surely beat the world record.
I would also like to sit on a plane
and look down on my misery puddles.
That cannot be, my life is botched.
I can only cough, I can go on sleeping.

When this earthly hype is over,
then maybe I’ll get into the bumblebee.
It is only there that I become happy with my life.
I sing "Hallelujo" all day.
Then when Peter comes and shines with the candle,
searches my sin for my sins,
I say to him transfigured in the face:
"I just coughed, I didn’t do anything else."

The walking bell

It was a child that never wanted to
Comfort yourself to the church,
And on Sundays it always found a how,
To take the path into the field.

The mother said: "The bell rings,
And so you are commanded,
And didn’t you get used to it?,
It comes and will fetch you."

The child thinks: the bell hangs
There on the chair.
It has already led the way into the field,
As if it went out of school.

The bell, bell no longer sounds,
The mother torched.
But what a horror afterwards!
The bell comes shaking.

It wobbles quickly, you can hardly believe it;
The poor child in terror,
It runs, it comes as if in a dream:
The bell will cover it.

But it takes its shoo right,
And with skillful speed
Hurry through anger, field and bush
To the church, to the chapel.

And every Sunday and public holiday
Think of the damage,
Leaves through the first chime,
Don’t load yourself in person.

The virtuous dog

A poodle with a good joint
Brutus had the beautiful name,
Was very famous across the country
For his virtue and his mind.
He was a model of morality,
The long-suffering and modesty.
You could hear him praising, you could hear him praise
As a four-footed Nathan the Wise.
He was a real dog jewel!
So honest and loyal! a beautiful soul!
His master also gave in all pieces
Confidence in him, he could send him
Even the butcher. The noble dog
Then carried a hanging basket in her mouth,
In which the butcher the nicely chopped
Beef, sheep meat, also pork packed. –
How lovely and enticing the smell of fat,
The Brutus didn’t touch a bone,
And calm and safe, with stoic dignity,
Did he carry the precious burden home.

But it is found among the dogs
A lot of rag dogs too
– Like among us – common dog,
Day thieves, Neidharde, heavy killers,
Those without a sense of moral joy
Wasting your life in a rush of senses!
Such rascals had conspired
Against the Brutus, who is faithful and brave,
With his basket in his mouth, not
Departed from the path of duty. –

And one day when he came
From the butcher and took his way back
Home, suddenly he was everyone
Conspiring beasts;
Then the basket with the flesh was torn from him,
The tastiest bites fell to the floor,
And eager to eat the prey
The whole hungry pack threw themselves. –
Brutus initially watched the spectacle,
With philosophical peace of mind ‘;
But when he saw that like that
All dogs feasted and ate,
Then he also took part in the meal
And dined a Schöpsenkeul ‘.

You too, my Brutus, you too, you eat?
So the moralist calls wistfully.
Yes, bad example can seduce;
And, oh! equal to all mammals,
Is not entirely perfect
The virtuous dog – he eats!

Wilhelm Hey (1789-1854)

Oh, ox, what are you thinking about,
That you lie there almost all day,
And you even make a learned face?
Thank you for the honor! It’s not that bad.
The scholarship, I have to give it to you;
I think of chewing more than thinking.

And when he chewed for a while
(He wasn’t in the greatest hurry),
Then they cocked him in front of the car;
He should pull a heavy load.
He did that very well;
He couldn’t think so well.

August Kopisch (1799-1853)

The dwarves in Pinneberg

‘There’s a wedding in Pinneberg, open up, you funny
Swift where there is something to eat, we’re sneaking around
"Yes!" Cried all the gnomes,
»To Pinneberg – to Pinneberg!«
With fine voices: »Pinneberg!«
With coarser – »To Pinneberg!
Yes Pinneberg!
To Pinneberg! «

The guests are already sitting at the table and are now thinking
But the ghost people squat between them, and it begins quickly
A guest turns to the neighbor,
Slip down, his soup is gone!
It makes no sense,
He looks around, where has she gone??
Where did she go,
Where did she go?

The dwarfs cannot be seen, they have fog caps,
They twist, turn, duck, it’s difficult to do
They cave out the whole fish,
They pull the wipe out of the goose,
They pull the candy off the table,
You drink fresh from the glasses
Wine and mix

The dance begins, you get up now, the guests are still
The stomach growls, and you weren’t able to take it
Yes, so much came in,
The dwarf people were right behind,
Beer, mead and wine were gone immediately,
Every plate in no time
Of treats and sweets!

The guests are as light to dance as if it was before
Hei! how did the couple manage to circle around the hall!
But dust soon rises
So powerful and terrible,
As if invisible danced here
The Püsterich with Alberich
And Alberich
With calf.

And see! so it was; the dwarves are full of wine
There is dragging around in the hall, hobbling and limping!
Some people have itchy skin,
He kisses the beautiful bride heartily,
And what one dares,
All bad herb dares:
The bride is horrified,
That feels, doesn’t look.

The groom is annoyed by the thing: he beats around in
And hits, a cap flies from the one dwarf
The groom then catches it
And now sees the little man,
But he looks at him pleadingly
And cries as much as you can cry:
‘Don’t be a bully!
Let go of the spell! «

"Hold on!" A guest called to him, "then others will come
They will bring you a lot of beautiful things from the mountains for your ransom.
So! pinch him right! then he screams a lot,
Dwarves are coming more and more:
Look! nobody has their hands empty,
And everyone carries treasures with difficulty;
They gasp very hard: pinch him even more! «

How difficult it is to get someone with a gold chain
And begs the beautiful bride to save her comrade.
The bride, happy with the purchase,
Now put on the rogue’s cap,
Gives him a kiss on top
And says: "Well, poor prankster, now run.
Run dwarf,
Up the hill!"

The whole people ran away as fast as it could
And quarreled for a long time, you can hear it deep in the mountains.
They said, “Never to Pinneberg –
Does someone still speak of Pinneberg,
We send it to Pinneberg,
And leave him in Pinneberg!
In Pinneberg,
In Pinneberg. «

At the feet of the bride, however, the room is full of treasures,
And every guest receives a piece that it is his turn
have joy.
The whole festival begins again;
And now the wasp nest,
Everyone can also enjoy it,
What you bring him from east and west,
And hold on to it
Except for the rest.

Detlev von Liliencron (1844-1909)

Ballad in U major

Mr. Kunz von Karfunkel lived
With his wrinkled kunkel
Punk punk on his castle
In silence and storm.
His life story was dark,
Many rumors murmured
Around its tower.

He showed up every day
When going up and down
In the beautiful elm avenues
His noble estate.
Sometimes he stopped
And let the feathers blow
His baron hat.

He was just a hundred years old,
Had snow-white hair
And came to terms with himself:
I am not dying.
Away with the cursed stretcher
And similar corpses!
Get the gout!

I get drunk with curiosity
Sunk into the garden grass,
Discovered by the old scoundrel,
Then he grunts clumsily:
Töw moorhen, ick wil di glieks dip
In the Uhlenpfuhl to the toads,
You shriveled scoundrel.

I was once in hiding
In the park on the rose hedge,
Then came on the elm section
Something called.
I shake, I scare:
Without scythe comes with scraps
Death, the scoundrel.

And from the other side,
With the cane as an escort,
In a growl,
Does anyone come here?.
It does not look into the distance,
It doesn’t look wide,
Goes hard.

Hello, you little mosquito,
Death grumbles with malice,
Here is a gap in the grave,
Down into the hole!
Allow me to pick you,
Otherwise I’ll hit you on the wig,
Oller jailbone.

The old man, with grimaces,
Does his crutch hold tight:
What do you have to watch here,
You owl you!
Get out of my alleys,
Otherwise I want to scrape you
to the Uriansruh!

His cane whizzes agile
On the skinny, greedy hands,
The ankle and bone bandages:
Friend Hein shouts: Ouch, put an end to it!
Au, au, I’m running off-road
Straight home.

Mr. Kunz von Karfunkel still lives today
With his wrinkled kunkel
Punk punk on his castle
In silence and storm.
His life story is dark,
Some murmurs and murmurs
Around its tower.

The two roots

Two fir roots big and old
talk in the forest.

What rustles in the tree tops,
that is exchanged down here.

An old squirrel is sitting there
and probably knit stockings for the two.

One says: King. The other says: knag.
That is enough for a day.

Strides on his nose
accompanied by the Nasobem,
accompanied by his child.
It is not yet in Brehm.

It is not yet in the Meyer.
And neither in the Brockhaus.
It came out of my Leyer
for the first time.

Strides on his nose
(as I said) ever since,
accompanied by his child,
accompanied by the Nasobem.

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