A Song About Myself Magic Hands

Hello! Come on, everybody, take a seat.

-Woo!

-BOTH: Hello!

-BOTH:

-Hello!

Wiggle your fingers and cross your feet.

Are you ready?

One, two, three, watch me.

Four, five, six, I've got some tricks.

Seven, eight, nine, it's almost time.

Ten!

ALL: Magic Hands!

# Just look at my magic

# My magic hands

# Make your fingers super-duper. #

Magic Hands!

BOTH: Hello.

My name is...

And my name is...

Look at what my hands can do.

Oh, look.

It's a leaf.

But it isn't green.

It's all brown and crispy.

Look!

I love autumn.

I know a poem about autumn.

It was written by John Keats.

Hold on. Isn't John Keats a famous poet?

He wrote a lot of other poems, too.

I love his poem, A Song About Myself.

-Do you want to hear that first?

-Ooh, yes.

Are you ready?

There was a naughty boy

A naughty boy was he

He would not stop at home

He could not quiet be

He took in his knapsack

A book full of vowels

And a shirt with some towels

A slight cap

For night cap

A hair brush

Comb ditto

New stockings

For old ones

Would split-o!

This knapsack

Tight at's back

He rivetted close

And followed his nose

To the north To the north

And followed his nose

To the north.

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he

For nothing would he do but scribble poetry

He took an ink stand in his hand

And a pen, big as ten, in the other

And away in a pother he ran

To the mountains And fountains

And ghostes And postes

And witches And ditches

And wrote In his coat

When the weather as cool

Fear of gout

And without When the weather was warm

Och, the charm When we choose

To follow one's nose To the north

To the north

To follow one's nose

To the north!

I love that poem. I don't think he was a naughty boy.

He was just excited to explore the world.

When that boy grew up, he became a really famous poet.

He wrote many beautiful poems.

And there's one that describes the season autumn as if it's a person.

Would you like to hear the poem?

It's by John Keats again and it's called To Autumn.

Are you ready?

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core

To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel

To set budding more

And still more

Later flowers for the bees

Until they think warm days will never cease

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee

Sitting careless on a granary floor

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep

Drows'd with the fume of poppies

While thy hook spares the next swath

And all its twined flowers

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep steady

Thy laden head across a brook

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring?

Aye, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too...

SHEEP BLEAT

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn

CRICKETS CHIRP

Hedge-crickets sing and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from the garden-croft...

BIRDSONG

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

What a lovely poem.

I love how the poet makes it sound as if autumn is a person.

Why don't you have a go at writing a poem?

It could be about you or your garden, or even the seaside.

Anything! Go on, give it a go.

-BOTH:

-Bye.

Magic Hands!

# Just look at my magic

# My magic hands

# Make your fingers super duper. #

Magic Hands!