# Reading > Poems, Poets, and Poetry >  Your favourite comic poem

## poehee99

PLEASE RESPECT COPYRIGHT LAWS: READ THIS BEFORE POSTING:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=17515

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Most poems are on love or life and it seems that many people believe that a poem should be serious, but i would like to hear your favourite comic poems.
here's one of my favourites:

Opportunity

When Mrs Gorm (Aunt Eloise)
was stung to death by savage bees
Her husband (Pebendary Gorm)
put on his veil, and took the swarm
He's publishing a book next May
on 'How to make bee-keeping pay'

Harry Graham 1874-1936

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## Isagel

What a good idea for a thread. My favorite comic poem writer is Mervyn Peake. They say that his comic writings are full of philosphy and his serious work is full of humour. These three poems are from his "Book of nonsense". 
I think you might enjoy them. 

The trouble with geraniums

The trouble with geraniums
is that theyre much too red!
The trouble with my toast is that
its far too full of bread.

The trouble with a diamond
is that its much too bright.
The same applies to fish and stars
and the electric light.

The troubles with the stars I see
lies in the way they fly.
The trouble with myself is all
self-centred in the eye.

The trouble with my looking-glass
is that it shows me, me;
theres trouble in all sorts of things
where it should never be.

Aunty Flo

When Aunty Flo
Became a Crow
She had a bed put in a tree;
And there she lay
And read all day
Of ornithology. 
´

Uncle Jake

When Uncle Jake
Became a Snake
He never found it out;
And so as no one mentions it
One sees him still about.

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## Isagel

I now this is double posting - but I ju7st got this poem by email. It just fitted so very well:


The Subway Piranhas

Did anyone tell you
that in each subway train
there is one special seat
with a small hole in it
and underneath the seat
is a tank of piranha-fish
which have not been fed
for quite some time.
The fish become quite agitated
by the shoogling of the train
and jump up through the seat.
The resulting skeletons
of unlucky passengers
turn an honest penny
for the transport executive,
hanging far and wide
in medical schools.

-- Edwin Morgan

bakgrund
Some years ago, Edwin Morgan was commissioned by the
Scottish Arts Councilto write a series of poems for the inauguration of
Glasgow's refurbished Underground system. He sent this
sample, which sent such alarm through the Strathclyde
transport executive that they decided against using the
poems.

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## poehee99

you were right isagel i did enjoy them. i had never heard of Mervyn Peake, but now i'll look up more of his poems. how about this one then:

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

on taking a wife

'Come come', said Tom's father, 'At your time of life,
there's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.
It's time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.'
'Why so it is, father. Whose wife shall I take?'

and for those of you who might be offended by the last one, here's one to make it up to you

Wendy Cope 1945-now

Bloody Men (that's not swearing is it?)

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.

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## Isagel

Ha! In sweden there is a saying "Men are like trams - there always another one" - but I thought that Wendy Cope did a better description. 

This is perhaps a totally different kind of humour, but it makes me smile anyway:

Danse Russe 
William Carlos Williams 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,-
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

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## amuse

we so needed a thread like this - thanks!!!!

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## poehee99

The Pig - N.N.

It was an evening in November
as I very well remember
I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,
but my knees were all a-flutter,
and I landed in the gutter
and a pig came up and lay down by my side

Yes, I lay there in the gutter
thinking thoughts I could not utter
when a colleen passing by did softly say
'You can tell a man who boozes
by the company he chooses'
and the pig got up and slowly walked away.

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## bjortan

We've come a long way
said the Cigarette Scientist
as he destroyed a live rabbit
to show the students how it worked.

He took its heart out
plugged it into an electric pump
that kept it beating for nearly two hours.

I know rabbits who can keep their hearts
beating for nearly seven years.

And look at the electricity they save.

(Spike Milligan)

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## Isagel

The Purple Cow

The Purple Cow's Projected Feast:
Reflections on a Mythic Beast,
Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least.

I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.

-- Gelett Burgess

Burgess was later quite annoyed by the fact that the cow poem was the one of his works that had claimed fame. He wrote this :


CONFESSION: and a Portrait, Too,
Upon a Background that I Rue!

Ah, Yes! I Wrote the "Purple Cow" --
I'm Sorry, now, I Wrote it!
But I can Tell you Anyhow,
I'll Kill you if you Quote it!

-- Gelett Burgess

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## poehee99

Roald dahl 1916-1960

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.'

Hot and Cold

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

Said I, not being very old
'Bij golly gosh, you must be cold!'
'No, no"!' she cried. 'Indeed I'm not!
I'm feeling devilishly hot!'

So long for the man i always thought was an author of childrens books. well the GVR was one of my favourites. I don't know what it was called in english, but it must be something like the friendly giant or something like that.

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## mono

Any of the few poems Ambrose Bierce wrote always seem oddly humorous. Follow this link, enjoy: http://jollyroger.com/classicalpoetr...Ambrose+Bierce

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## Isagel

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

( I have to admit that I did not find all these poems on my own. I have a friend who sends me at least a poem a week. This is from the collection he has sent me so far. )

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## poehee99

Humbert Wolfe 1885-1940

You cannot hope
to bribe or twist,
thank God! the
British journalist

But, seeing what
the man will do
unbribed, there's 
no occasion to

John Wilmot, earl of Rochester 1647-1680

Here lies our mutton-eating king
whose word no man relies on
Who never said a foolish thing,
nor ever did a wise one

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## Tabac

By Robert W. Service

http://www.wordfocus.com/wordactcremation.html

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## poehee99

Sir Walter Raleigh

I wish I loved the human race
I wished I loved its silly face
And when I'm introduced to one
I wish I thought What jolly fun!

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## Miranda

He Tells Her - Wendy Cope



He tells her that the Earth is flat -
He knows the facts, and that is that.
In altercations fierce and long
She tries her best to prove him wrong.
But he has learned to argue well.
He calls her arguments unsound
And often asks her not to yell.
She cannot win. He stands his ground.

The planet goes on being round.

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## Taliesin

I thought I knew no comic poems in English, but now I remember that once on a Valentine's day I read some.

God made the Earth,
and the sky and the lakes
and woods and meadows too.
And He also made you.
But we all make mistakes.


I love you, I love you, 
I love you, Valentine.
But don't get exited -
I love monkeys too.

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## poehee99

On a tired housewife - N.N.

Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
she lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
her last words on earth were: 'Dear friends , I am going
to where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
for everything there is exact to my wishes,
for where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will allways be ringing,
but having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.'

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## Tabac

Little birdie in the sky
Dropped some white-wash in my eye.
Little birdie, I won't cry:
I'm just glad that cows don't fly!

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## amuse

roflmao  :Biggrin:

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## Pickles

The sex life of the camel
Is not as dull as one thinks
For in moments of animal passion,
He makes crude attempts at the Sphinx.
But the Sphinx's posterior passage
Is clogged with the sands of the Nile,
Which accounts for the hump on the camel,
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile.

anonymous

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## poehee99

John Hegley 1953-

Malcolm

Miserable Malcolm from Morcambe
had rottweilers but would not walk 'em
They were stuck in all day
but no muck would they lay
because Malcambe had managed to cork 'em.

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## Taliesin

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea. 

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh. 

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely ever wrong. 

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect in it's weigh
My chequer tolled me sew. 

-- Sauce unknown

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## Isagel

I imagine that Donne had a sense of humour:

GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

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## Helga

J.S.Mill

John Stuart Mill,
by a mighty effort of will,
overcame his natural bonhomie
and wrote 'Principles of Political Economy'.


Lord Clive

What I like about Clive
is that he is no longer alive.
There is a great deal to be said
for being dead.

George III

George the third
ought never to have occured.
One can only wonder
at so grotesque a blunder.

Savonarola

Savonarola
declined to wear a bowler,
expressing the view that it was gammon
to talk of serving God and Mammon.


these poems are all by Edmund Clerihew Bentley, I love how he talks about everyone like they are all so bad at what they did.

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## byquist

Gwendolyn Brooks'

We Real Cool

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

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## q0987

Dishes, dishes everywhere,
pots and pans and silverware.
I come to work and what mine eyes do see,
all these dishes just for me.

The dirty pots and greasy pans, 
those I have to do by hand.
Not one or two, three or four,
I've done all those and yet theres more.

Oh no! oh no! I've just got hit,
and I'm by myself in the pit.
Gotta move fast, theres no time to lose!
and the later on I be in the booze.

What's that you say, what is it now?
I'll bring the dishes, don't have a cow!
I bring the dishes, stacked row by row.
I'm getting tired, and moving slow.

Well some people think that I'm a saint,
because I do the dishes with no complaint.
but if they only knew the truth, you see,
If I had my way I'd be His- tor -Y!

Well the rush is over, the cooks are gone.
And here I am to carry on.
Tho' I"m almost finished, I have no joy but sorrow,
because I have to be back again tommow!

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## mono

*bump*

I happened to stumble across this one earlier today - a true gem!  :FRlol: 

Hate Poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I'm digging from
under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you pick out the cashews hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant "good morning": hate.
You know how when I'm sleepy I nuzzle my head under your
arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning to night hate
you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity of
my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

Julie Sheehan

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## glitterandtwang

*Oh how sad I'll be*

when I'm an old man
and can't jump around my apartment
to all those funky 
guitar riffs

Someone
please tell me
old men can jump
Tell me there is a secret society
of mad moon jumpers
who have abandoned this planet
for a thinner atmosphere
and less
gravitational bring-
down

Tell me there are
old men
floating
across and above
the moon's surface, singing

We don't need no hundred dollar sneakers
Alls I need is a bigger pair of speakers!

David Cameron

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## Jabberwocky

My friend e-mailed me this poem awhile ago. I'm not really sure if the words are too explicit for this site. If they are, let me know, and I'll take it down. 


I shave my legs, 
I sit down to pee. 
And I can justify 
any shopping spree. 

Don't go to a barber, 
but a beauty salon. 
I can get a massage 
without a hard-on. 

I can balance the checkbook, 
I can pump my own gas. 
Can talk to my friends, 
about the size of my ***. 

My beauty's a masterpiece, 
and yes, it takes long. 
At least I can admit, 
to others when I'm wrong. 

I don't drive in circles, 
at any cost. 
And I don't have a problem, 
admitting I'm lost. 

I never forget, 
an important date. 
You just gotta deal with it, 
I'm usually late. 

I don't watch movies, 
with lots of gore. 
Don't need instant replay, 
to remember the score. 

I won't lose my hair, 
I don't get jock itch. 
And just cause I'm assertive, 
Don't call me a *****. 

Don't say to your friends, 
Oh yeah, I can get her. 
In your dreams, my dear, 
I can do better! 

Flowers are okay, 
But jewelry's best. 
Look at me you idiot... 
Not at my chest???? 

I don't have a problem, 
With expressing my feelings. 
I know when you're lying, 
You look at the ceiling. 

DON'T call me a GIRL, 
a BABE or a CHICK. 
I am a WOMAN. 
Get it?, you DICK!?!

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## Bix12

Boa Constrictor

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . . 


_Shel Silverstein_

 :Goof:

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## Bix12

THE NYUM-NYUM
_An anonymous poem_

THE Nyum-Nyum chortled by the sea, 
And sipped the wavelets green: 
He wondered how the sky could be 
So very nice and clean; 

He wondered if the chambermaid 
Had swept the dust away, 
And if the scrumptious Jabberwock 
Had mopped it up that day. 

And then in sadness to his love 
The Nyum-Nyum weeping said, 
I know no reason why the sea 
Should not be white or red. 

I know no reason why the sea 
Should not be red, I say; 
And why the slithy Bandersnatch 
Has not been round to-day. 

He swore he'd call at two o' clock, 
And now it's half-past four. 
"Stay," said the Nyum-Nyum's love, "I think 
I hear him at the door." 

In twenty minutes in there came 
A creature black as ink, 
Which puts its feet upon a chair 
And called for beer to drink. 

They gave him porter in a tub, 
But, "Give me more!" he cried; 
And then he drew a heavy sigh, 
And laid him down, and died. 

He died, and in the Nyum-Nyum's cave 
A cry of mourning rose; 
The Nyum-Nyum sobbed a gentle sob, 
And silly blew his nose. 

The Nyum-Nyum's love, we need not state, 
Was overwhelmed and sad; 
She said, "Oh, take the corpse away, 
Or you will drive me mad!" 

The Nyum-Nyum in his supple arms 
Took up the gruesome weight, 
And, with a cry of bitter fear, 
He threw it at his mate. 

And then he wept, and tore his hair, 
And threw it in the sea, 
And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes 
That such a thing could be. 

The ox, that mumbled in his stall, 
Perspired and gently sighed, 
And then, in sympathy, it fell 
Upon its back and died. 

The hen that sat upon her eggs, 
With high ambition fired, 
Arose in simple majesty, 
And, with a cluck, expired. 

The jubejube bird, that carolled there, 
Sat down upon a post, 
And with a reverential caw, 
Gave up its little ghost. 

And ere its kind and loving life 
Eternally had ceased, 
The donkey, in the ancient barn, 
In agony deceased. 

The raven, perched upon the elm, 
Gave forth a scraping note, 
And ere the sound had died away, 
Had cut its tuneful throat. 

The Nyum-Nyum's love was sorrowful; 
And, after she had cried, 
She, with a brand-new carving knife, 
Committed suicide. 

"Alas!" the Nyum-Nyum said, "alas! 
With thee I will not part," 
And straightway seized a rolling-pin 
And drove it through his heart. 

The mourners came and gathered up 
The bits that lay about; 
But why the massacre had been, 
They could not quite make out. 

One said there was a mystery 
Connected with the deaths; 
But others thought the silent ones 
Perhaps had lost their breaths. 

The doctor soon arrived, and viewed 
The corpses as they lay; 
He could not give them life again, 
So he was heard to say. 

But, oh! it was a horrid sight; 
It made the blood run cold, 
To see the bodies carried off 
And covered up with mould. 

The Toves across the briny sea 
Wept buckets-full of tears; 
They were relations of the dead, 
And had been friends for years. 

The Jabberwock upon the hill 
Gave forth a gloomy wail, 
When in his airy seat he sat, 
And told the awful tale. 

And who can wonder that it made 
That loving creature cry? 
For he had done the dreadful work 
And caused the things to die. 

That Jabberwock was passing bad-- 
That Jabberwock was wrong, 
And with this verdict I conclude 
One portion of my song.

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## Bix12

Hi Jabberwocky...  :Wave:  That happens to be one of my favorite poems _Of All Time_ ! Lewis Carroll is incredible. I've got a very cool picture of the lad waiting by the Tumtum tree, waiting with vorpal sword in hand, waiting to slay the Jabberwocky (the one in the poem  :Wink:  ), and I thought I'd share it with you...

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## Scheherazade

*Heaps of Stuff*

How I wish that I was tidy
How I wish that I was neat
How I wish I was methodical
Like others down out street.
I tried to stem the rising tide
I tried to hold it back
But I have been the victim
Of a heap of stuff attack.

Yes, heaps of stuff come creeping,
They clutter up the hall.
And heaps of stuff are softly
Climbing halfway up the wall.
At each end of the staircase
Is a giant heap, a stack;
One to carry up the stairs
And one to carry back.

In a heap of stuff invasion
They settle everywhere -
They grovel on the lino
They tower on the chair.
You're searching for a jacket,
"Is it in here?" you shout,
And, opening the cupboard door,
A heap of stuff falls out.

But heaps are many-faceted
And heaps are multi-faced
And what a heap is made of
Will depend on where it's placed.
Now if it's in the passage
It is mostly boots and shoes
And if it's on the sofa
It is magazines and news.

If it's in the shed
It's broken propagating frames
And if it's in the bathroom
Well, it's best to say no names,
And if it's in the bedroom -
Your own and not the guest's -
The heap of stuff is mostly made
Of socks and shirts and vests.

For a heap is indestructible,
It's something you can't fight.
If you split it up by day
It joins back up at night.
So cunningly positioned
as from room to room you trek,
Increasing all the chances
That you trip and break your neck.

But step into my parlour
Now I've forced the door ajar;
I'll excavate an easy chair -
Just cling there where you are.
And together we'll survey it
Till our eyes they feast enough
On the tidiest home in England
Underneath the heaps of stuff.

Pam Ayres

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## Aramis

*A Modest Wit*- _Anonymous_

A supercilious nabob of the East-
Haughty, being great- purse-proud, being rich-
A governor, or general, at the least, 
I have forgotten which-
Had in his family a humble youth, 
Who went from England in his patron's suite, 
An unassuming boy, and in truth 
A lad of decent parts, and good repute. 

This youth had sense and spirit; 
But yet, with all his sense, 
Excessive diffidence 
Obscured his merit. 

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, 
His honor, proudly free, severely merry, 
Conceived it would be vastly fine 
To crack a joke upon his secretary. 

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, 
Did your good father gain a livelihood?"-
"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, 
"And in his time was reckoned good." 

"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, 
Instead of teaching you to sew! 
Pray, why did not your father make 
A saddler, sir, of you?" 

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, 
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. 
At length Modestus, bowing low, 
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), 
"Sir, by your leave, I fain would know 
Your father's trade!" 

"My father's trade! Bless me, that's too bad! 
My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? 
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." 

"Excuse the liberty I take," 
Modestus said, with archness on his brow, 
"Pray, why did not your father make 
A gentleman of you?"

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## mono

> *A Modest Wit*- _Anonymous_


I have always loved this one! Thank you for posting it, Aramis. Unfortunately, not a lot of people know this one, but Seeleck Osborn wrote _A Modest Wit_ - very funny poem.  :Wink:

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## mono

I read this one today, and found it interestingly humorous - very related to this website's purpose.

The Hundred Best Books

First there's the Bible, 
And then the Koran, 
Odgers on Libel, 
Pope's Essay on Man, 
Confessions of Rousseau, 
The Essays of Lamb, 
Robinson Crusoe 
And Omar Khayyam, 
Volumes of Shelley 
And venerable Bede, 
Machiavelli 
And Captain Mayne Reid, 
Fox upon Martyrs 
And Liddell and Scott, 
Stubbs on the Charters, 
The works of La Motte, 
The Seasons by Thompson, 
And Paul de Verlaine, 
Theodore Mommsen 
And Clemens (Mark Twain), 
The Rocks of Hugh Miller, 
The Mill on the Floss, 
The Poems of Schiller, 
The Iliados, 
Don Quixote (Cervantes), 
La Pucelle by Voltaire, 
Inferno (that's Dante's), 
And Vanity Fair, 
Conybeare-Howson, 
Brillat-Savarin, 
And Baron Munchausen, 
Mademoiselle De Maupin, 
The Dramas of Marlowe, 
The Three Musketeers, 
Clarissa Harlowe, 
And the Pioneers, 
Sterne's Tristram Shandy, 
The Ring and the Book, 
And Handy Andy, 
and Captain Cook, 
The Plato of Jowett, 
And Mill's Pol. Econ., 
The Haunts of Howitt, 
The Encheiridion, 
Lothair by Disraeli, 
And Boccaccio, 
The Student's Paley, 
And Westward Ho! 
The Pharmacopoeia, 
Macaulay's Lays, 
Of course The Medea, 
And Sheridan's Plays, 
The Odes of Horace, 
And Verdant Green, 
The Poems of Morris, 
The Faery Queen, 
The Stones of Venice, 
Natural History (White's), 
And then Pendennis, 
The Arabian Nights, 
Cicero's Orations, 
Plain Tales from the Hills, 
The Wealth of Nations, 
And Byles on Bills, 
As in a Glass Darkly, 
Demosthenes' Crown, 
The Treatise of Berkeley, 
Tom Hughes's Tom Brown, 
The Mahabharata, 
The Humor of Hook, 
The Kreutzer Sonata, 
And Lalla Rookh, 
Great Battles by Creasy, 
And Hudibras, 
And Midshipman Easy, 
And Rasselas, 
Shakespear in extenso 
And the Aeneid, 
And Euclid (Colenso), 
The Woman Who Did, 
Poe's Tales of Mystery, 
Then Rabelais, 
Guizot's French History, 
And Men of the Day, 
Rienzi, by Lytton, 
The Poems of Burns, 
The Story of Britain, 
The Journey (that's Sterne's), 
The House of Seven Gables, 
Carroll's Looking-glass, 
Aesop his Fables, 
And Leaves of Grass, 
Departmental Ditties, 
The Woman in White, 
The Tale of Two Cities, 
Ships that Pass in the Night, 
Meredith's Feverel, 
Gibbon's Decline, 
Walter Scott's Peveril, 
And--some verses of mine.

Mostyn T. Pigott (1865-1927)

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## blp

some sick ones, from memory:

Willy built a guillotine
Tried it out on sister Jean
Said mother as she got the mop
'These messy games have got to stop'

____________________________________

Father took his children three
Bathing. They were drowned, but he
Drying cried in wild abandon
'Three towels to use and one to stand on'

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## blp

Also, not from memory: 

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus

In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn't anybody's joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.
In school he never led his classes,
He hid old ladies' reading glasses,
His mouth was open while he chewed,
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked No Admittance.
He said he acted thus because
There wasn't any Santa Claus.
Another trick that tickled Jabez
Was crying "Boo!" at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town,
Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin
And viewed his antics with a grin
Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,
"There isn't any Santa Claus!"
Deploring how he did behave,
His parents quickly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly,
And Jabez left the funeral early.
Like whooping cough, from child to child,
He sped to spread the rumor wild:
"Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes
There isn't any Santa Claus!"
Slunk like a weasel or a marten
Through nursery and kindergarten,
Whispering low to every tot,
"There isn't any, no, there's not!
No beard, no pipe, no scarlet clothes,
No twinkling eyes, no cherry nose,
No sleigh, and furthermore, by Jiminy,
Nobody coming down the chimney!"
The children wept all Christmas Eve
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking.
He sprawled on his untidy bed,
Fresh malice dancing in his head,
When presently with scalp a-tingling,
Jabez heard a distant jingling;
He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof
Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door?
A shower of soot was on the floor.
Jabez beheld, oh, awe of awes,
The fireplace full of Santa Claus!
Then Jabez fell upon his knees
With cries of "Don't" and "Pretty please."
He howled, "I don't know where you read it.
I swear some other fellow said it!"
"Jabez," replied the angry saint,
"It isn't I, it's you that ain't.
Although there is a Santa Claus,
There isn't any Jabez Dawes!"
Said Jabez then with impudent vim,
"Oh, yes there is; and I am him!
Your language don't scare me, it doesn't-"
And suddenly he found he wasn't!
From grinning feet to unkempt locks
Jabez became a jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy in Santa's sack,
Mounting the flue on Santa's back.
The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.
All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,
The saucy boy who told the saint off;
The child who got him, licked his paint off.

- Ogden Nash

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## Sarah's_Chanson

I can't remember the name of the poem or the author! It was something about eating a really strange load of food, like something out of a fantasy book for tea. I have a feeling it might be Roald Dahl.

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## Isagel

The Grey Squirrel


Like a small grey
coffee-pot,
sits the squirrel.
He is not

all he should be,
kills by dozens
trees, and eats
his red-brown cousins.

The keeper on the
other hand,
who shot him, is
a Christian, and

loves his enemies,
which shows
the squirrel was not
one of those.

-- Humbert Wolfe

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## Johnny Odd

What a wonderful beast is the pelican,
Its bill can hold more than its belly can.
It can hold in its beak
enough food for a week 
and I'm damned if I know how the hell he can!

....I don't know who that's by or if I got it all correct, but it's a poem I remember from childhood.

Rocky Racoon.

(somewhere up in the billhill mountains of dakota there lived a young boy named rocky racoon and one day his woman ran off with another guy - hit young rocky didn't like that much, he said, "I'm gonna get that boy". And so...)

Rocky Racoon
Checked into his room,
only to find Gideon's bible.
Rocky had come
equiped with a gun
to shoot off the legs of his rival.

His rival it seems
had broken his dreams
by stealing the girl of his fancy.
Her name was McGill
but she called herself Lill
and everyone knew her as Nancy.

Now, she and her man
who called himself Dan
were in the next room at the Ho-down.
Rocky burst in,
grining a grin,
he said, "Danny-boy, this is a showdown!"

But Daniel was hot,
he drew first and shot
and Rocky collapsed in the corner!
--------
The doctor came in
stinking of gin
and proceeded to lie on the table.
He said, "Rocky, you met your match."
And Rocky said, "Doc it's only a scratch!
And I'll be better just as soon as I am able!"

Rocky Racoon
fell back in his room,
only to find Gideon's bible.
Gideon'd checked out
but he left it no doubt
to help with good Rocky's revival....

-The Beatles

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## Pendragon

I've got the poem somewhere, I don't have time to dig it out just now. If anyone knows it, please post it, or I will try tomorrow. It's called "Some Hallucinations" by Lewis Carroll  :FRlol:

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## Rocket618

_Jabberwocky_ is my favorite comical poem but _Happiness_ comes
in a very close second and I could not, not type it.

_Jabberwocky_

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
 
He took his Vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came?

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy"
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
-Lewis Carroll


_Happiness_

John had
Great Big
Waterproof
Boots on;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Hat;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Mackintosh-
And that
(Said John)
Is
That.
-A. A. Milne

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## PistisSophia

Christopher Smart - Jubilate Agno

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey............
(actually an extract from the much longer work 'Jubilate Agno'). 
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. 
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually--Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep. 

Gregory Corso - Marriage

'Marriage' by Gregory Corso
Thanks to Gene R. Truex ([email protected]) for typing this wonderful poem in.

Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

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## PistisSophia

Marriage - Gregory Corso - continuation

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible 
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

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## Pendragon

You may like this one...

*The Raven: A Parody* 

I have often seen that raven with his crest all shorn and shaven
Ghastly grim and all so brave and sitting on the bust above my door
I have heard his horrid croak as the fire I softly stoked
While the Nights enfolding cloak sheltered me from a day so sore
While the enfolding cloak of night sheltered me from a day so sore
When the bird said, Nevermore.

Just one thing, though, that I wonder, on one thing my soul doth ponder,
Each time I see him sitting yonder on the bust above my door.
One question that I ask, as I go about my daily tasks
Each time I hear the raven rasp Nevermore above my door
Each time that ebon bird of ill-omen croaks Nevermore above my door
And that is: *WHO THE HECK IS LENORE?!*  

Jonathan Blade

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## Darlin

I adore Poe's poems so this little twist is quite witty, Pendragon. You should mention who the heck Jonathan Blade is so you can take a bow! Take full credit!  :Smile:

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## Pendragon

Very well. Since Darlin has given me away...

Jonathan Blade is a pseudonym under which I write poetry, short fiction, etc. That doesn't mean that this poem isn't from a legitimate published source. I just own the copyrights to all my poetry and short stories, so I am free to do with them as I please.

This poem first was published in *MOBIUS MAGAZINE* Spring/Summer 1997. I am not certain if they are even still in circulation. Most of my poetry has been take by small poetry magazines that are published by and for poets. Payment is a copy of the magazine in which your poem appears. All copyrights revert to the author upon publication. With 130+ published poems and 18 short stories to date, I consider myself fortunate. And besides, it's fun!  :Smile:

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## ReynardtheFox

Roger McGough - Let Me Die A Young Man's Death

Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death

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## firefangled

The Purist 
by Ogden Nash

I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist,
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."

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## stlukesguild

*The Vine* by Robert Herreck made me smile:

I DREAM'D this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv'lits were embrac'd:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem'd to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.

There are some great ones by Sir John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester... but we can't post those here. :Blush:

----------


## aswelch

> Gwendolyn Brooks'
> 
> We Real Cool
> 
> We real cool. We
> Left school. We
> 
> Lurk late. We
> Strike straight. We
> ...


Hmm...I never thought of this as a comic poem. Did I miss something about it? It seems incredibly sad.

----------


## aswelch

Oh and my favorite has already made it on the board. I love Jabberwocky.

----------


## Tournesol

'The Germ'
by Ogden Nash


A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

----------


## Haven

*Rebecca*
Hilaire Belloc
Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably

A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy bankers little daughter
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this furious sport.

She would deliberately go
And slam the door like billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild;
She was an aggravating child

It happened that a marble bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the door this little lamb
Had carefully prepared to slam,
And down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that.

Her funeral sermon (which was long
And followed by a sacred song)
Mentioned her virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her vices too,
And showed the deadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun.

The children who were brought to hear
The awful tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the door,
 As often they had done before.
Online text © 1998-2007 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Cautionary Tales for Children | 1920

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