silly poems

July 20, 2006

by Tom Lee. Not exactly great poetry (some would say not poetry at all) but I think they’re fun

What’s Dave up to these days?
Not seen Dave for a while I said
What’s he up to these days?
Didn’t you know? he said
He’s pushing up the dandelions now you know
Kicked the proverbial pail he did
You mean he’s beyond the pale I said
Beyond the horizon an all he said
Dead as a gate screw he is
We’re talking about Dave I asked
Dave Prosser? him with the Alpine?
That’s right, gone to meet his manufacturer he has.
No, Dave’s toast
Abandoned the ghost
Where was that? oh, off the Barbary coast
It happened. They played the last post
At his funeral. Well that’s nothing to boast
About they play that most
Of the time. So how did it happen- was he diagnosed
With something? No he was at a lunch- he was the host
Of course- he’d just sat down to his Sunday roast.
Well at last his old lady has closure
That’s what counts. You’re right there, she never once lost her composure
With all the exposure
So where is he now, Dave, I mean .. they put him in the enclosure
by the cucumbers
that’s where he slumbers
Just behind the brussel sprouts
near that shed where the Boy Scouts
Use to meet- that was before the hoodies and them other louts
made the place uninhabitable with their shouts
their fisticuffs, their knockouts and their clouts
I never had any doubt
That they’d put him somewhere nice as he was so devout
Aye he were a stout
lad he always used to say ‘drink as much as you can before the drought’
‘pissed as a trout’,
that was another of his- he could get right legless he could I once saw him black out
And that were no good, him with his gout.
At least they didn’t put him near the spuds
Since that’s the bit that always floods
Yeah, that would be a waste
Well it sure would give the spuds a funny taste.
No, Dave’s alright at last he’s in peace
Which is more than you can say for the local police.
You mean he was in trouble with old Bill?
Well ever since he said he’d kill
the next copper he saw hey were after him and his brother Phil
tracked them all the way to Brazil
they did ‘Eh up’, he used to say ‘there’s trouble at mill’
whenever he saw one- not that he meant them no ill
if you get what I mean, it’s that it gave him a thrill
Still, now he’s five yards under
I must admit I sometimes wonder
whether that was not a blunder
I mean the way he went, as fast as thunder
‘what are you thinking- poison?’
I asked ‘well his missus said there was a funny noise on
the balcony at the time
like someone trying to climb
over the fence
that doesn’t make sense
I said we all knew his days were calculated
poor old Dave was emasculated
the scrawl
was on the wall
he was a dead goose
‘you all make the same excuse’
he said ‘Dave was topped
nothing has stopped
me thinking that someone pulled the plug
from under his rug’
I did my best to smother
my suspicions so I just kept mother
poor Dave
he was brave
he knew how to behave
one day I’ll go to his grave
and give him a wave
like the one he gave
me when I told him to shave
God save his sole
Let him rest in his houl
Dave’s mistake
was that he liked a good stake
uncommon was how he liked it
maybe someone spiked it
more likely he shouldn’t have ate all
that roast- that was what at the end of the night proved fatal.
A history of poetry
Once upon a time
Poems had to rhyme
But now as everyone knows
Anything goes.
In the days of Good Queen Anne
Poetry had to scan
But after the First World War
The iambic pentameter died out like the dinosaur.

The other day a person asked me ‘Sir, is it true you are a poet?’
I was just about to quip ‘Sir, the great ones rarely know it’
When my wife said ‘Him a poet?
That’s a laugh. Ask him just to pen a line and he’ll blow it.
Give him a sonnet
And he’ll try and sit on it
I can assure you there are few things worse
Than his pathetic attempts at verse.
What does he know about words- I’ll tell you, he knows boggerall!
He may call it poetry but I call it doggerel’.
‘Yes dear, I said that’s an interesting word-
The origin of doggerel, or so I heard,
Was when a dog mated with a cockrel
And although the story might be apocryphal
I rather like it- can you imagine Rover
Waking us with his cock-a-doodle-do when the night is over
And what a surprise if Lassie, instead of putting up her paw to beg
Just sat down and laid an egg.’

Being modern
How I wish I could be modern
Fashionable, hip, trendy and cool
I’d give my right arm to be in the groove
and my left to be with it. How I drool
Over the latest gizmos and thirst for the approv-
al of the in crowd
Who’d make me so proud.
To be one of them. I want to be voguish, modish and smart
I want to be now with an exclamation mark.
I want to be happening, snazzy and natty
Sipping my caffe con latte
In Cincinatti.
How I hanker
To be as bold as a merchant banker
Or Ravi Shankar
My burning desire
Is to party in ecclesiastical attire
And then retire
With a male voice choir
And a corpulent friar
With whom I’d conspire
To set on fire
All the squares who’re stuck in the mud
All the superannuated dinosaurs out of the ark and the fud-
dy-duddies and old fogeys who’re positively feudal
The square-toed, horse-and-buggy, rinky dinkies and the whole caboodle
I’d send them right back to the ark
I would or banish them to the Cutty Sark
And feed them to a shark
Or make them read the gospel according to St Mark
I would.
But it’s too late. It’s too late to be modern
Because today you’ve got to be postmodern.
I want to be ahead of the date and in front of the minute
Postfangled, postgressive and swinging it
How I wish I could be postcool and posthip
And take a dip
Off the coast of Merida
Where pirates buried a
Load of modern treasure and where I’d frolic with Jacques Derrida
(Who it has to be said
Is no longer postmodern or even modern but just postdead)
I would have asked him to reconsider
His ideas on totality
And get himself a reality
Check. I wish I’d told him his attempts to deconstruct
The planet just sucked
And his theories on hermeneutics
Were just fucked
Up. Go punctuate yourself, I would have instructed
But now it’s too late as he, too is, deconstructed.

Ode to Women
Mothering
is
smothering

Wifing
is
stifling

Even whoring
can sometimes get boring

Mistress
spells
distress

Sister
rhymes with
blister

Concubines
have spikes
like porcubines

Only masturbation
Brings consolation

The Dodo
Why do they say ‘as dead as the dodo’?
Is the dodo deader than other things like a rotten tomato
or a squashed mosquito?
Anyway, I didn’t know
you could be just a little bit dead or ever so
dead. and apropos
why don’t people say ‘as live as something’ like a tv show
for example or the status quo?
it’s like saying you go with the flow
cos that’s the way dead fish go.
Slow-
ly. And how do we know
that the dodo hasn’t just decided to lie low
after all we can’t all be gung ho
like ivanhoe
or jacques cousteau
and so
I think a long time ago
the dodo
decided to go and live on a remote plateau
somewhere or maybe holed up in a chateau
smoking Gauloises and drinking Pernod
or bordeaux
while outside the trees sank beneath the snow
and the wind began to blow.
Do you think so?
No.

Today has been a good day

Today has been a good day
I have committed neither genocide, fratricide, matricide, infanticide or homicide
No acts of paedophilia or necrophilia have been perpetrated by me
No countires have been invaded with or without human collateral damage and UN resolution,
No campaigns of pillaging, genital electrification, desecrating holy books have been waged by myself or anyone under my aegis
No weapons of mass destruction have been developed or deployed as weapons of mass distraction by yours truly or any person or body subject to his control or influence
No regimes were changed by my design
I took back my library books and paid the fine
No bank clerks were pistol-whipped by me in disguise
I emerged stealthily from John Lewis having purloined or otherwise removed without undue authorisation no garments or other merchandise
i did not invade the Falklands or Iraq or destroy the works of Ptolemy
no Lithuanian nuns were raped in their convent by me
I did no happy slapping
Neither was I caught trapping
endangered species like rhinos
or torching some down and out winos
those who indulged in cannibalism
or the unacceptable face of capitalism
did so without any involvement from me.
for all those who chopped their girlfriends into pieces and took a nibble
I cannot be held responsible.
when there was insider trading
I was on the outside wading
through streams where I left no footprints
in the mud
neither did I spill any blood
cause I kept my nose clean
I played it cool as an ice machine
kept aloof
So there’s no proof
Stuck my head in the sands
And washed my hands
Of it all.That’s why today has been a good day.

Young Nicholas

Nicholas was an adorable child
Perfect manners, sweet and mild
He always loved to run and play
And frighten little girls away
But the pastime he preferred
Was pulling feathers off a baby bird
One day he asked me if he could
Go and look for fledgelings in the wood
Of course I said as he took his gun
Run and play, have lots of fun
But what I didn’t tell him or at least he never heard
Was that in the woods there lived a giant bird
That used to swoop without a noise
Snatch up any passing boys
And whisk them off to bake them in an urn
Which might explain why Nicholas did not return.

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