The rhythm of this poem, and the list-like structure – recalls Dorothy Parker’s light verse, but the poem is quintessential Shel Silverstein. Some of his complaints are understandable and relatable – the ground being too dusty, for instance, or his shoes being too tight – while others reveal him to be a complete misery-guts: complaining that other people are too happy, for example (no chance of that with Mr Grumpledump himself!), or that clouds are too fluffy. Everything is wrong, because everything in the world is ‘too’ something: days are too long, the sunshine is too hot for him, and the moon is too high. Mr Grumpledump, as his name perhaps suggests, hates everything – or at least, seems to.
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