more comic verse

August 15, 2006

Some of this verse is intentionally comic, others unintentionally. Some is known, some little known (perhaps deservedly). Anyway, I think they’re fun.

This was my absolutely number 1 favourite when I was around seven years old:

Parody of Longfellow’s Hiawatha

He killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the cold side skin side outside.
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
George A. Strong
The Shades of Night Were Falling Fast
by
A. E. Housman

The shades of night were falling fast
And the rain was falling faster,
When through an Alpine village passed
An Alpine village pastor;
A youth who bore mid snow and ice
A bird that wouldn’t chirrup,
And a banner, with the strange device-
‘Mrs. Winslow’s soothing syrup.’

‘Beware the pass,’ the old man said,
‘My bold and desperate fellah;
Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
And you’ll want your umberella;
And the roaring torrent is deep and wide —
You may hear how it washes.’
But still that clarion voice replied:
‘I’ve got my old goloshes.’

‘Oh stay,’ the maiden said, ‘and rest
(For the wind blows from the nor’ward)
Thy weary head upon my breast —
And please don’t think me forward.’
A tear stood in his bright blue eye
And gladly he would have tarried;
But still he answered with a sigh:
‘Unhappily I’m married.’

Good King…

Good King Wenceslas looked out
on the feast of Eustace
saying to a passing trout –
nothing rhymes with Eustace

“Maybe not” the trout replied
taking off his glasses
“But you might at least have tried”
(cows enjoy molasses)

“Look beyond the harbour light
tell me what is sailing
I no longer see the sight
for my toes are failing”

“Nothing but a virtual tree
gaily hung with presents
tartan slippers, two or three
and a brace of pheasants”

“Fetch the pheasants ere they drown
garnish them with spices
roast them till they’re golden brown
serve them up with ices

We shall have a merry pheast
trout and king together
kingy man and swimmy beast
clad in yellow leather”

Quoth the raven “nevermore
shall I dine with Wency
he has gone to distant shore
we won’t him again see

Why did he desert us so
on the feast of Steven?”
(from the distance “HoHoHo
Santa Claus gets even”)

If you’ve read it to the end
don’t be disappointed
Merry Christmas, cyber-friend.
(pigs are double jointed)

Copyright (c) Dave McClure

Love is Only a Double Negative

My memories of you go by
like rows of butterflies on crutches.

We were the blind desperately unbuttoning the blind,
lost in the blur of the forbidden.

Until your voice, like the shock of cold chicken,
ripped my heart out
and beat it like a seal pup,
into your front porch.

Suddenly, my life was invaded
by a drunken synchronized-swim team of emotions…

As the book of my soul began to fill with coffee rings.

Now I know that my life is a only metaphor,
for something infinitely worse –

But your cruelty can never keep its freshness.

One day, your beauty too, will be gone
like lost socks from a dryer.
Elas Giordano 1995
The Good Poet

A good poet in this day
is rust and iron

tastes of old
concrete pilings,

does not
lapse into beauty.

Only a dull poet

would seek out a flower,
instead of
the electric whine
of a garage
door
opening.

© Elas Giordano 1995
Insipidity

It’s said that all bad
poetry
is just one poem:

“I’m deep… and in pain

… and it’s raining outside.”

whereas mine go:

“I’m shallow… I’m
drunk

… and I just took a shower.”

This often leaves me several rain-drops
short,
for readings.

Unless I come
straight from the dentist,
through
a hurricane –

which is still only
two out of three.

© Elas Giordano 1995
funnypoetry.com
Love is a Concussion of the Soul

One look, and I want desperately
to take your
breath away for a dirty weekend.

When I glimpse down your blouse, my
heart pounds
like two deaf cats tap-dancing on an old wash-tub.

This
isn’t just love, for when my soul falls into your eyes
I know that on the
great sweater of life,
I’ve found another fuzz-ball like myself.

Someone who wouldn’t look at a print
of Da Vinci’s “Last Supper”,
and
ask what a table like that would cost,
nowadays.

Someone who knows that
love
isn’t what you have to do
if you can’t find your TV Guide

anywhere.

© Elas Giordano 1995
funnypoetry.com
Love is All Box and No Cornflakes

Now that we both know
the
opposite sex
is grief’s retail outlet –

And you won’t spit on my
grave,
in case something grows –

Now that I’ve taken the fly off my
neck
I wore when I heard your husband say
he wouldn’t hurt one,

Now
we’re both angry as cornered pacifists
because forever didn’t last
long
enough for me to get
my shoes and socks back on….

I’ll admit – that
when I cooked,
and we were short of vinegar
– I just used Windex.

© Elas Giordano 1995
funnypoetry.com
I had written to Aunt Maud,
Who was on a trip abroad,
When I heard she’d died of cramp
Just too late to save the stamp.
H. Graham, Ruthless Rhymes, Mr Jones

Boil on my bum
I woke up just now with a boil on my bum
And one half of a buttock totally numb
So are you surprised if I’m feeling all glum
And mightily rage against those who can thumb
their nose at posterior afflictions that descend on some
like me who never thought he’d succumb
to something so humdrum
as a boil on the bum
so what will they say in days to come
he couldn’t half play the drum
he was a number ,by gum
he’s swum every ocean
he was my greatest chum
oh no, forget any thought of a crumb
of comfort  they’ll say who? oh him with the boil on his bum.
I could’ve been dumb
or lived in a slum
condemned by society as nothing but scum,
drowned in a stupour of whisky and rum
someone who even his own mum
would disown as a piece of flotsam
an insignificant sliver of jetsam
in the morning tide, all this I could have borne with applomb
But now what’s left for me, what will I become
a nobody, a no-hoper, a cypher in sum
Oh, yes, he was the guy with the boil on his bum.

Tom Lee

The chicken is a noble beast
The cow is much forlorner
Standing in the pouring rain
A leg on every corner
anon

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4 Responses to “more comic verse”

  1. ro har Says:

    William Topaz McGonagall wrote this poem —-

    The chicken is a noble beast
    The cow is much forlorner
    Standing in the pouring rain
    A leg on every corner

    for confimation see his web site.

  2. ro har Says:

    McGonagall Online.
    Check this is the site for the world’s worst poet who wrote , among many things, the chicken is……

  3. tomeemayeepa Says:

    Thanks. I should have checked first- there’s some wonderfully bad verse there.

  4. jack Says:

    William McGonagall is also reputed to have produced the shortest “Anglo-Scottish poem”
    There was a small hill near his home in Dundee called the Law.
    He wrote this disparaging poem of it:
    “The Law! Haw Haw!”


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