Share a funny poem...

Today I was reliving my enjoyment of Richard Brautigan's poetry by pulling his 1971 book Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt off my bookshelf. It has been a fun experience in which I looked back at some of my own poetry which reflected his style of writing.

I laughed out loud at one of Brautigan's poems and thought it might be fun if we could each share a favorite humorous poem with each other.

I'll begin...

Critical Can Opener

(It's the second poem on this link.)

...from Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt by Richard Brautigan

Those Disastrous Ancestors of Mine

Today we buried Great Uncle Ted
'died unexpectedly' the obituary read.
How un-expected can people be,
after all the old fart was a hundred and three.

Great Uncle Ted's father was a hundred and seven
when he popped his cloggs and went to heaven
and his father before him, one hundred and one
they say he died suddenly whilst cleaning his gun.

He was looking down the barrel for hidden dirt
"Your tea's on the table" yelled his manic wife, Gert.
But he chose to ignore her, much to her dismay,
so she pulled the trigger and blew him away.

Great Uncle Ted's brother was Great Uncle Chuck
who sold stolen goods from the back of a truck.
He left two sons and a widow named Florry
when the poor sod fell off the back of a lorry.

Now his eldest sister was my Great Aunt Gwen
and a bit of a raver when it came to men.
Twelve times a night (and she wasn't dreaming),
red hot in her coffin and they say shes still steaming.

The youngest girl was my Great Aunt Trish,
widowed eight times, they all ate poison fish.
All except one, he died from a blow to the head.
"Well he wouldn't eat fish" my Great Aunt Trish said.

Then there was Great Aunt Nell, who had kids by the score
all wrinkled and grey, she said "I will try for one more."
The records are wrong, they can never be true
they say she died giving birth, aged ninety two.

Now my Great Uncle Dick called his son one day.
"You cant marry that girl son, I'm sorry to say.
Just listen to me," he begged in a whisper
"Your mother don't know but that girl is your sister."

Now my cousin twice removed and of little education
ran to his mother in sheer desperation.
"Oh mam," he cried "I'm going off my head,
I can't marry that girl, she's my sister, Dad said."

"There, there," said his mother "Don't you fret my boy.
What I'm about to tell should bring you joy.
You can marry that girl. Go on, off you go,
cause your daddy aint your daddy but your daddy dont know."

Tracing my ancestors was a pleasure for me
although I have to admit there are some oddities.
But a lot more surprises I'm sure to get
I haven't even started on my mothers side yet!

-- Rebecca Stone

I wish I could drink like a lady
I can take one or two at the most
Three and I'm under the table
Four and I'm under the host.

Dorothy Parker

Reflections on Ice-Breaking
by Ogden Nash

Candy
Is Dandy
But liquor
Is quicker

I hope this is funny. It's one of my own.
------------------------
Why Can't I Hold a Steady Job?

In stagnant summer heat,
milkshake gone to slop
clings to these bristles,
then smears onto the stucco wall.

It's not worth drinking anymore
so I will paint this house
vanilla.
Nothing should go to waste.

No. The brown trim isn't chocolate.

a Christmas poem

May All my enemies go to hell,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel.

by Hilaire Belloc

AnneBoleyn,

Dorothy Parker was a character.

David Perrings.

Razors pain you
Rivers are damp
Acids stain you and
Drugs cause cramp
Gas smells awful
Nooses give
Gas smells awful
You might as well live.

This has kept me going many a day. By Dorothy Parker
Here is another by her, bless her shade:

Helen of Troy had a wandering glance
Sappho's restriction was only the sky
Ninon was ever the chatter of France
But oh, what a good girl am I.

A Cat Poem

------by Bill Richardson

My Frog Has Got a Steering Wheel

My frog has got a steering wheel
a radio, a door,
a hefty V-8 engine
and a stick shift on the floor.

My frog is a convertible
with comfy leather seats.
I drive my frog to go to work
or cruise around the streets.

But now my frog is missing.
Though I parked it on the road,
I didn't plug the meter
and it must have gotten toad.

- Kenn Nesbitt

by Maurice Kilwein Guevara

Once When I was in the Eighth Grade

I got caught staring out the window when the bells were ringing
Maybe you want to tell everybody what's so interesting
There's a man with a bottle of wine walking toward the mill
He's wearing rags and the rags are burning blue
In one of his palms there is a green bird
hatchling of the sewing box - She breathes once
every time the earth walks around the sun - I heard her sing
before they used her soft green body in the mines

After that he let me stare out the window the rest of the year
-------------
I used a hyphen where there were three spaces between two words in the original.

The Loch Ness Monster's Song

Sssnnnwhuffffll?
Hnwhuffl hhnnwfl hnfl hfl?
Gdroblboblhobngbl gbl gl g g g g glbgl.
Drublhaflablhaflubhafgabhaflhafl fl fl -
gm grawwwww grf grawf awfgm graw gm.
Hovoplodok-doplodovok-plovodokot-doplodokosh?
Splgraw fok fok splgrafhatchgabrlgabrl fok splfok!
Zgra kra gka fok!
Grof grawff gahf?
Gombl mbl bl -
blm plm,
blm plm,
blm plm,
blp.

Edwin Morgan

A Nursery Rhyme
as it might have been written by T.S. Eliot

Because time will not run backwards
Because time
Because time will not run
Hickory dickory

In the last minute of the first hour
I saw the mouse ascend the ancient timepiece,
Claws whispering like wind in dry hyacinths.

One o'clock,
The street lamp said,
'Remark the mouse that races towards the carpet'.

And the unstilled wheel still turning
Hickory dickory
Hickory dickory
dock

Wendy Cope

Lending Out Books

You're always giving, my therapist said.
You have to learn how to take. Whenever
you meet a woman, the first thing you do
is lend her your books. You think she'll
have to see you again in order to return them.
But what happens is, she doesn't have the time
to read them, & she's afraid if she sees you again
you'll expect her to talk about them, & will
want to lend her even more. So she
cancels the date. You end up losing
a lot of books. You should borrow hers.

- Hal Sirowitz

lor
I think that one may belong in the "poems which may bring a tear to your eye" string. Alas, poor Hal!

Hot and Cold

A woman who my mother knows
Came in and took off all her clothes.

Said I, not being very old,
'By golly gosh, you must be cold!'

'No, no!' she cried. 'Indeed I'm not!
I'm feeling devilishly hot!'

St Ives

As I was going to St Ives
I met a man with seven wives
Said he, 'I think it's much more fun
Than getting stuck with only one.'

Roald Dahl

This one was emailed to me today and I thought it was cute:

An Apology

Forgive me
for backing over
and smashing
your red wheelbarrow.

It was raining
and the rear wiper
does not work on
my new plum-colored SUV.

I am also sorry
about the white
chickens.

- F. J. Bergmann

which, of course, evokes one of my favorite poems, although it isn't at all funny.

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer
by Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure
them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night'air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

"Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee and I'll forgive Thy great big one on me."
-Robert Frost

Pointy Bird
By Steve Martin

Pointy Bird
Oh Pointy Bird
Oh pointy pointy

Anoint me bird
Anoint me bird
Anointy nointy

Truly profound!

Advice to Young Poets

Never pretend
To be a unicorn
By sticking a plunger on your head.

- Martin Espada
From: The Repulic of Poetry

(Probably not intended to be funny, but I laughed.)

Something that made me laugh for hours (and still does): "Very Like a Whale," by Ogden Nash.

The text can be found at the "Wondering Minstrels" website: here.

Celia Celia
by Adrian Mitchell

When I am sad an weary,
When I think all hope has gone,
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on

#18 & 19. Williams is kind of an easy target, I guess. Anyway, I've always liked Kenneth Koch's

Variations On A Theme By William Carlos Williams

1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the
next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

another by Dorothy Parker

COMMENT

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.

If WholeHouseLibrary can include Pointy Birds (#22) (which is brilliant), is it wrong to also include Monty Python?

'Can I have £50 to Mend the Shed.'
by Ewan McTeagle

Can I have Fifty pounds to mend the shed?
I'm right on my Uppers.
I can pay you back
When I get this postal order from Australia
Honestly.
Hope the bladder trouble's getting better.
Love, Ewen?

yes

I Was Stolen By the Gypsies

I was stolen by the gypsies. My parents stole me back. Then the gypsies stole me again. This went on for some time. One minute I was in the caravan suckling the dark teat of my new mother, the next I sat at the long dining room table eating my breakfast with a silver spoon. It was the first day of spring. One of my fathers was singing in the bathtub; the other one was painting a live sparrow the colors of a tropical bird.

- Charles Simic

Sigh. Withdrawn!

Well then - my favourite Ogden Nash instead...

THE EEL
I don't mind eels
Except as meals.
And the way they feels.

And now, I think it is time for some "Therapy" for (Men) kind.

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife!
Who has no will by her high permission,
Who has no sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to he, his dear friend's secrets tell.
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had befallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch!

Robert Burns

One of my favorites is "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins from his book The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems
It always makes me laugh aloud.

"The Lanyard"

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

I'm so grateful for this great thread (especially #14, #18, and #33). Thanks for the laughs!

>#18 and #19. I wrote an analysis of these two poems here SurvivingNiki Review Thanks for sharing them. I had read Williams poem before, but it was the first time I had racross Bergmann

Any prince to any princess -- Adrian Henri

August is coming
and the goose, I'm afraid,
is getting fat.
There have been
no golden eggs for some months now.
Straw has fallen well below market price
despite my frantic spinning
and the sedge is,
as you rightly point out,
withered.

I can't imagine how the pea
got under your mattress. I apologize
humbly. The chambermaid has, of course,
been sacked. As has the frog footman.
I understand that, during my recent fact-finding tour of the
Golden River,
despite your nightly unavailing efforts,
he remained obstinately
froggish.

I hope that the Three Wishes granted by the General
Assembly
will go some way towards redressing
this unfortunate recent sequence of events.
The fall in output from the shoe-factory, for example:
no one could have foreseen the work-to-rule
by the National Union of Elves. Not to mention the fact
that the court has been fast asleep
for the last six and a half years.

The matter of the poisoned apple has been taken up
by the Board of Trade: I think I can assure you
the incident will not be
repeated.

I can quite understand, in the circumstances,
your reluctance to let down
your golden tresses. However
I feel I must point out
that the weather isn't getting any better
and I already have a nasty chill
from waiting at the base
of the White Tower. You must see
the absurdity of the
situation.
Some of the courtiers are beginning to talk,
not to mention the humble villagers.
It's been three weeks now, and not even
a word.

Princess,
a cold, black wind
howls through our empty palace.
Dead leaves litter the bedchamber;
the mirror on the wall hasn't said a thing
since you left. I can only ask,
bearing all this in mind,
that you think again,

let down your hair,

reconsider.

Dear extrajoker

I love it ! :D

yareader2 --

I'm glad! I loved it from the first time I heard it, which was on "The Writer's Almanac" on NPR. :)

Balloon Fight -- Roger McGough

'This morning, the American, Steve Fossett, ended his Round-The-World
balloon fight...I'm sorry, balloon "flight"...in northern India.'
- The Today Programme, Radio 4, 20 January 1997

It ended in Uttar Pradesh.
It had to.
You can't go around the world
attacking people with balloons
and expect to get away with it.

What may be mildly amusing
at children's parties
in Upper Manhattan
will not seem so funny ha ha
on the Falls Road.

How Fossett fought his way
across the former Yugoslavia
I'll never know.
Some folk never grow up.
Hang on to their childhood.

Believing in the Tooth Fairy,
watched over by the Man in the Moon.
Thank you, Mr Newsreader,
for bringing him down to earth.
For bursting his balloon.

Loss

The day he moved out was terrible -
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn't a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well....

-Wendy Cope

The Pope's Penis
Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

What, still alive at twenty-two,
A clean upstanding chap like you?
Why, if your throat is hard to slit,
Slit your girl's and swing for it!
Like enough you won't be glad
When they come to hang you, lad,
But bacon's not the only thing
That's cured by hanging from a string.
When the blotting pad of night
Sucks the latest drop of light,
Lads whose job is still to do
Shall whet their knives and think of you.

Owen Seaman mocking Housman.

A Subaltern's Love Song
by John Betjeman

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Orbison Consolations
by Kit Wright

"Only" the lonely
Know the way you feel tonight?
Surely the poorly
Have "some" insight?
Oddly, the godly
Also might,
And slowly the lowly
Will learn to read you right.

Simply the pimply
Have some idea.
Quaintly the saintly
Have got quite near.
Quickly the sickly
Empathise
And prob'ly the knobbly
Look deep into your eyes.

Rumly, the comely
Will understand.
Shortly the portly
Will take your hand.
Early the surly
Dispraised and panned,
But lately the stately
Have joined your saraband.

"Only" the lonely
Know the way you feel tonight?
Singly the tingly
Conceive your plight,
But "doubly" the bubbly
Fly your kite...
And lastly the ghastly
Know the way you feel tonight.

My child, do not exaggerate,
Lest you incur a horrid fate—
As ancient oracles relate,
And modern texts corroborate.
For if you ever fabricate,
Dissimulate, prevaricate,
Or even minor facts inflate,
The fist of doom will crush you straight.
Suppose you choose to overstate
How long a spell you had to wait
Until a cab, two minutes late,
Responded to your calls irate.
Before this whopper can abate
Your heart will start to palpitate,
Your vital juices desiccate,
Your kidneys cease to operate.
Not only that: at lightning rate
Your mental functions, small and great,
Will shrivel and deteriorate
To pablum in your puny pate.
Thereafter, sentiments of hate
Will justly start to agitate
Your sturdy colleagues, man and mate,
And prompt them to vituperate,
Till through the world, a weary weight
Upon the modern welfare state,
You reel, you slump, you sob, you prate,
And choose your life to terminate.
But let me not too long dilate
Upon the horrors that await
A person who, disdaining fate,
Should ever once exaggerate.

--Dennis Lee

This popped up as my poem of the day and I laughed and laughed. Alright, it may just be me.

Compulsively Allergic to the Truth
by Jeffrey McDaniel


I'm sorry I was late.
I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.
I'm sorry I was late.
I was on my way
when I felt a plot
thickening in my arm.
I have a fear of heights.
Luckily the Earth
is on the second floor
of the universe.
I am not the egg man.
I am the owl
who just witnessed
another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.
I am your father
shaking his head
at the thought of you.
I am his words dissolving
in your mind like footprints
in a rainstorm.
I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives
to the bull inside you.
I am decorating
your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots
of all the people
who've gotten lost
in your corridors.

Shopping Urban

Flip-flopped, noosed in puka beads, my daughter
breezes through the store from headband to toe ring,
shooing me away from the bongs,
lace thongs, and studded dog collars.
And I don't want to see her in that black muscle tee
with SLUT stamped in gold glitter
shrink-wrapped over her breasts,
or those brown and chartreuse retro-plaid
hip-huggers ripped at the crotch.

There's not a shopper here a day over twenty
except me and another mother
parked in chairs at the dressing room entrance
beyond which we are forbidden to go.
We're human clothes racks.
Our daughters have trained us
to tamp down the least flicker of enthusiasm
for the nice dress with room to grow into,
an item they regard with sullen, nauseated,
eyeball-rolling disdain.

Waiting in the line for a dressing room,
my daughter checks her cleavage.
Her bellybutton's a Cyclops eye
peeking at other girls' armloads of clothes.
What if she's missed something—
that faux leopard hoodie? those coffee-wash flares?
Sinking under her stash of blouses,
she's a Shiva of tangled sleeves.

And where did she dig up that new tie-dyed
tank top I threw away in '69,
and the purple wash 'n' wear psychedelic dress
I washed and wore
and lost on my Grand Tour of Europe,
and my retired hippie Peace necklace
now recycled, revived, re-hip?

I thought they were gone—
like the tutus and tiaras and wands
when she morphed from ballerina
to fairy princess to mermaid to tomboy,
refusing to wear dresses ever again.
Gone, those pastel party dresses,
the sleeves, puffed water wings buoying her up
as she swam into waters over her head.

Jane Shore

Another one from "The Writer's Almanac":

Man Writes Poem -- Jay Leeming

This just in a man has begun writing a poem
in a small room in Brooklyn. His curtains
are apparently blowing in the breeze. We go now
to our man Harry on the scene, what's

the story down there Harry? "Well Chuck
he has begun the second stanza and seems
to be doing fine, he's using a blue pen, most
poets these days use blue or black ink so blue

is a fine choice. His curtains are indeed blowing
in a breeze of some kind and what's more his radiator
is 'whistling' somewhat. No metaphors have been written yet,
but I'm sure he's rummaging around down there

in the tin cans of his soul and will turn up something
for us soon. Hang on—just breaking news here Chuck,
there are 'birds singing' outside his window, and a car
with a bad muffler has just gone by. Yes ... definitely

a confirmation on the singing birds." Excuse me Harry
but the poem seems to be taking on a very auditory quality
at this point wouldn't you say? "Yes Chuck, you're right,
but after years of experience I would hesitate to predict

exactly where this poem is going to go. Why I remember
being on the scene with Frost in '47, and with Stevens in '53,
and if there's one thing about poems these days it's that
hang on, something's happening here, he's just compared the curtains

to his mother, and he's described the radiator as 'Roaring deep
with the red walrus of History.' Now that's a key line,
especially appearing here, somewhat late in the poem,
when all of the similes are about to go home. In fact he seems

a bit knocked out with the effort of writing that line,
and who wouldn't be? Looks like ... yes, he's put down his pen
and has gone to brush his teeth. Back to you Chuck." Well
thanks Harry. Wow, the life of the artist. That's it for now,

but we'll keep you informed of more details as they arise.

couple of Chaucer takeoffs:

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,

So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM

-Ezra Pound

Whan that Junne with hys sunshyn soote The Capitol hath dazzled to the roote And blossoms bloome on the cherry, Then folk break in and bugge Waterbury.

A good WYF was ther, Mr. Mitchell's owne, Wel koude she carp upon hir telephone. She lyk to tel the papers, quote-unquote: "Dorst noon can mak myn housband a scapegoate."

The MITCHELL was a stout and placyd type, Ful byg he was, and suckyn on hys pype. "The Whyt Hous Horrors had not my accorde, But all was mete to reelect Milord."

The CHAIRMAN oft wolde set hys brows to crymple. He clept hymself a Country Lawyer Symple. A badde man or fals wolde hym mak syckyn, Men koud hym trust for used car or fryd chyckyn.¹

The BAKER was a faire and deep-voicd boye, Had wed of royl blood from Illinoye. So certeynly didst Howyrd pleas the crowd, A star was born (lyk Lancelot of Loud).

A CLERK OF LAW was too, a John of DEANE, He borrowed gold to wed the Maid Maureene. Hys memory was ful; of dates koude answyr, "I warned Milord," quod he, "of Creepyng Cancyr."

The LYDDY has a mustache and byg chartyse For kydnappyngs and wyrtaps and tartyse.² What tale koud tell? Is thys some kind of Nutte? In gaol y-sits and keeps hys lippes shutte.

ULASEWICZ ther also was, forsooth, Koud wel hide gold in any olde phone booth. Koud gette Hernya (shold watch hys steppen). From so much hevy laundry bags y-schleppen.

The LORD he reigned in Ov1 Ofys³ sphere, Ful oft strove he to mak thyngs parfait clere.4 But wonder, though it get him legal scrapes, He, verraily, refus to clere The Tapyse.

A HALDEMAN ther came, a crew-cutoon, Foks seyd he ran the Whyt Hous lik a Hun. But strang, whan he befor Committee satte, So mild was he as any pussye catte.

The EHRLICHMAN explan the word "coverte," (He look lyk he eat babys for desserte). He trow, to sav the Nation from the Pynkes, "Milord hath Rights Divine to burgl Shrynkes."5

Thus spak the PATRYK GRAY, a baldyng guye, "Ful wel I loved to serv the FBYe, But shame, I burnd the fyls and sore hav synnd And dizzy-grow from hangyn slow, slow in the wynd." Thys was the merrye crew, on TV cache. And who can say if cumen in impeache? Nor yet whych man will ansyr to what cry me? No oon can know, at Thysse Poynt in Tyme.

1 A holy bird thought to have first been discovered by the White Knight of Sanders. Even the simplest peasants undertook frequent pilgrimages to its shrines, hoping to bring home enough bones for the whole family.

2 Hookyrs.

3 'Scholars disagree on exact translation. Some say it is "Oval" (i.e., a place where you can't be cornered). Others claim, "Offal" (bawdy) or "Awful," (rare).

4 That is, except when he mak thyngs parfait obscur.

5 ln medieval times, a doctor thought to be of help in "gettyng thy hed togethyr."

- Judith Wax

Hasty writing led to unjustified Chaucertitude on our part. The original of the first of these poems is actually by Mr. Anonymous.

I was inspired to write this poem in the mid-1960s, the period of the meteoric rise of the long-haired Beatles. I liked to write small poems that rhyme, but didn't have, necessarily, a proper meter.

'Hollywood Boulevard'

As I walked down the street,
A pretty girl I chanced to meet,
With hair in curls down to her shoulder.

Seeing this vision made me bolder
And I approached, my heart filled with joy.
But she turned out to be a boy.
_______________________________

Years earlier, in Junior High (now Middle School), I actually had this little quatrain published in the school anthology.

'Touchdown'

He galloped down the field.
Past the opposing team he tore,
Until he reached the goal line,
And added six points to the score.

I don't write poetry any more.

An old traditional one from the Isles:

There was once a virgin from Malta
who swooned on the boat to Gibraltar.
She lost her virginity
within that vicinity,
but still made it to the altar.

there's a lot to be said for the limerick!
thanks

All I remembered of this was Miss Joan Hunter Dunn
Its a wonderful semi-humerous love poem.

Some of my favourite books of humorous poetry are by Christopher Matthew. For those who haven't discovered these yet, they are pastiches of the Christopher Robin poems by A A Milne and are accompanied by beautiful drawings by David Eccles. Two of my favourite poems on the 'joys' of ageing come from Now We Are Sixty:

Marriage (after A Thought)

If I were Bess and Bess were Me,
Then she'd sit here and I'd make tea.
If Bess were Me and I were Bess,
I wouldn't ever wear this dress.

and

Wrinklies (after The Morning Walk0

When Viv and I go to the shops
For milk and bread and cheese and chops,
We look at all the wrinklies there,
Who shuffle round the shelves and stare,

And tell oursielves when we are old
Our hands won't shake, we won't lose hold.
And when we're halfway home, we find
We've left the cheese and chops behind.

Just discovered them thanks.

I'm a big Odgen Nash fan, but for pure vicious jibes, you can't beat Alexander Pope. I've heard that he composed a couplet for the collar of a dog belonging to the Prince of Wales:

"I am his Highness's dog at Kew,
Pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?"

Awh, ow look here! I remember these. Thanks Booksloth.

I found this thread and want to set it in motion again...

Okay Squeaky, you want more pomes? Hows about this one from the great John Hegley. I think it's called 'Love Poem by my Dog' -

I saw you in the park
I wanted to be your friend
I tunnelled my snout
up your non-barking end

The cabbage is a funny veg
All crisp and green and brainy.
I sometimes wear one on my head
When it is cold and rainy.

Roger McGough

I think this thread needs at least one Wendy Cope per year. It looks like we missed 2009.

So here are two to make up for it:

The Uncertainty of the Poet

I am a poet.
I am very fond of bananas.

I am bananas.
I am very fond of a poet.

I am a poet of bananas.
I am very fond.

A fond poet of 'I am, I am'-
Very bananas.

Fond of 'Am I bananas?
Am I?'-a very poet.

Bananas of a poet!
Am I fond? Am I very?

Poet bananas! I am.
I am fond of a 'very.'

I am of very fond bananas.
Am I a poet?

-- Wendy Cope

************************
Bloody Men

Bloody men are like bloody buses-
you wait for about a year
and as soon as one approaches your stop
two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,
offering you a ride.
you're trying to read the destinations,
you haven't much time to decide.

if you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
jump off, and you'll stand there and gaze
While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
and the minutes, the hours, the days.

-- Wendy Cope