New poem thread

odd poems

Excerpt from The Monotony Song
My Sweetheart is an ugly witch
And you should see her noses twitch
But Goodness Me, her father's rich!
-And I'm not Hugh nor Harry!

A Song of Thanks
It's sensible that icicles
Hang downward as they grow,
For I should hate to step on one
That's buried in the snow.

It's really best that tides come in
And then return to sea;
For if they kept on coming in,
How wet we all would be!

I've often thought tomatoes are
Much better red than blue.
A blue tomato is a food
I'd certainly eschew.

It's best of all that everyone's
So tolerant today
That I can write this sort of stuff
And not get put away.

The Spangled Pandemonium
The spangled pandemonium
Is missing form the zoo.
He bent the bars the barest bit,
And slithered glibly through.

He crawled across the moated wall,
He climbed the mango tree,
And the the keeper scrambled up,
He nipped him in the knee.

To all of you a warning
Not to wander after dark,
Or if you must, make very sure
You stay out of the park.

For the spangled pandemonium
Is missing from the zoo,
And since he nipped his keeper,
He would just as soon nip you!

Three Hens
When three hens go a-walking, they
Observe this order and array:
The first hen walks in front, and then
Behind her walks the second hen,
While, move they slow or move they fast,
You find the third hen walking last.

The Ingenious Little Old Man
A little old man of the sea
Went out in a boat for a sail,
The water came in
Almost up to his chin
And he had nothing which which to bail.

But this little old man of the sea
Just drew out his jackknife so stout,
And a hole with its blade
In the bottom he made,
So that all of the water ran out.

Josephine
Josephine, Josephine,
The meanest girl I've ever seen.
Her eyes are red, her hair is green
And she takes baths in gasoline.

Wrong Recipe
The vichyssoise is almost chilled,
The salad's crisp and crunchy,
The duck l'orange smells divine,
The apple pie looks muchy,
The coffee's brewing on the stove,
The Riesling's my love potion -
Surely when he's had his fill
He'll speak of his devotion?

I scrape the plates, I clear the decks,
I glumly fill the dregs-can.
I should have know it (damn his eyes!) -
He was a steak-and-eggs man.

The Cumberbunce
I strolled beside the shining sea,
I was as lonely as could be;
No one to cheer me in my walk
But stones and sand, which cannot talk -
Sand and stones and bits of shell,
Which never have a thing to tell.

But as I sauntered by the tide
I saw a something at my side,
A something green, and blue, and pink,
And brown, and purple, too, I think.
I would not say how large it was;
I would not venture that because
It took me rather by surprise,
And I have not the best of eyes.

Should you compare it to a cat,
I'd say it was as large as that;
Or should you as me if the thing
Was smaller than a sparrow's wing,
I should be apt to think you knew,
And simple answer, "Very true!"
Well, as I looked upon the thing,
It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"
And then I knew its name at once -
It plainly was a Cumberbunce.

You are amazed that I could tell
The creatures name so quickly? Well,
I knew it was not a paper doll,
A pencil or a parasol,
A tennis racket or a cheese,
And, as it was not one of these,
And I am not a perfect dunce -
It had to be a Cumberbunce!

With pleading voice and tearful eye
It seemed as though about to cry.
It looked so pitiful and sad
It made me feel extremely bad.
My heart was softened to the thing
That asked me if it, please, could sing.

Its little hand I longed to shake,
But, oh, it had no hand to take!
I bent and drew the creature near,
And whispered in its pale-blue ear,
"What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!
Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

The Cumberbunce, without ado,
Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,
And, lifting up its little head,
In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
And why the sea is wet,
Of jellyfish and conger eels,
And things that I forget.
And I would hum a plaintive tune
Of why the waves are hot
As boiling water on a stove,
Excepting that they're not!

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
And why the sea is slant,
And gaily tips the little ships,
Excepting that I can't!
I never sang a single song,
I never hummed a note.
There is in me no melody,
No music in my throat.

"So that is why I do not sing
Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise,
My wonder showing in my eyes.
"Then why, O Cumberbunce," I cried,
"Did you come walking at my side
And ask me if you, please, might sing,
When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir,
I really did not, I aver.
You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.
I did not ask you if I might.
Had you correctly understood,
You'd know I asked you if I could
So, as I cannot sing a song,
Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.
The fact I could not sing I knew,
But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea.
"Farewell! My mate is calling me!"
I saw the creature disappear,
Its voice, in parting, smote my ear -
"I thought all people understood
The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

That Head
I suppose I've passed him a hundred times,
but I always stop for a minute
And look at his head, that tragic head,
the head with nobody in it.

We Three Kings
We three kings of Orient are,
One in a taxi,
One in a car,
One in a scooter,
Blowing his hooter,
Smoking a big cigar

Mr Kartoffel
Mr Kartoffel's a whimsical man;
He drinks his beer from a watering can,
And for no good reason that I can see
He fills his pockets with china tea.
He parts his hair with a knife and fork
And takes his ducks on a Sunday walk.
Says he, "If my wife and I should choose
To wear our stockings outside our shoes,
Plant tulip bulbs in the baby's pram
And eat tobacco instead of jam
And fill the bath with cauliflowers,
That's nobody's business at all but ours."
Says Mrs. K., "I may choose to travel
With a sack of grass or a sack of gravel,
Or paint my toes, one black, one white,
Or sit on a bird's nest half the night -
But whatever I do that is rum or rare,
I rather think that is my affair.
So fill up your pockets with stamps and string,
And let us be ready for anything!"
Says Mr. K. to his whimsical wife,
"How can we face the storms of life,
Unless we are ready for anything?
So if you've provided the stamps and the string,
Let us pump up the saddle and harness the horse
And fill him with carrots and custard and sauce,
Let us leap on him lightly and give him a shove
And it's over the sea and away, my love!"

Down the Stream the Swans All Glide
Down the stream the swans all glide;
It's quite the cheapest way to ride.
Their legs get wet,
Their tummies wetter:
I think after all
The bus is better.

Spelling
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead: it's said like bed, not bead;
For goodness' sake, don't call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat.
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.)
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother.

Flipped
I used to laugh at love in bloom;
Now I'm howling at the moon.
Love has grabbed me round the gullet.
Love has stunned me like a mullet.
Admire your brain, adore your body -
Love has clubbed me with a waddy.
What did I do to be so lucky
To have you for my rubber ducky?
My manuscript will go quite soon
Addressed to Messrs Mills and Boon -
Newcomer I, adrift in heartland,
Move over passé Barbara Cartland.

roses are red
violets are blue
poems

roses are red
violets are blue
pink stuff are funny
how about you

roses are red
violets are blue
you are too smelly
how do you do

roses are red
violets are blue
do you eat noses
that are pink blues

roses are red
violets are blue
I do vomet
so do you

roses are red
violets are blue
my news is loud
do you need clues

roses are red
violets are blue
i hate poems
that end without further ado

roses are red
galexys are blue
how do you know
that im not one too

im under your bed
eating you lead
smelling stinky socks

chicken taste bad
you hate my dad
i eat no chicken
that has gone bad
i know you hate
getting a debate
but you need lead
to eat your big head
that has been so dear
to your mothers ear
how do you eat the hairs
that are bare without

Ladies and jelly spoons, hobos and tramps,
Cross-eyed mosquitoes and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
To tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
There’s a Mother’s Day meeting for fathers only.
Wear your best clothes if you haven’t any.
Please come if you can’t; if you can, stay at home.
Admission is free; pay at the door.
Pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit;
The man in the gallery’s sure to spit.
The show is over, but before you go,
Let me tell you a story I don’t really know.

It rained all night
the day I left,
the weather it was dry.
The sun so hot,
I froze to death.
Susannah, don't you cry

In the land of the Bumbley Boo
The People are red white and blue,
They never blow noses,
Or ever wear closes,
What a sensible thing to do

 

Everything i touch i taint
Everything i feel i hate
Everything i say i scream
Everything i do i dream