red ones are the worst.
I hate them being blown up,
it scares me when they burst.
They’re nastically plasticky,
they’re ballistically blasticky,
they’re drastically nasticky,
they’re bloodthirstically bombasticky!
I hate balloons at parties
if they’re in the hands of boys.
Or if the magician twists an animal
and there’s that squeaky balloony noise.
It’s excruciatingly nauseating,
it’s frustratingly abominating,
it’s gratingly penetrating,
it’s inflatingly aggravating!
I hate balloons at Christmas
when they’re dangling from the tree.
I shove my fingers in my ears,
in case they pop and scare me.
They’re ponderously wonderous,
they’re plunderously sunderous,
they’re murderously blunderous,
they’re gunpowderously thunderous!
(I’m the only balloonophobic in the balloonophobicphonebook!)