Thanks in advance.

One evening last October,when I was far from sober
And dragging home a load with manly pride
My feet began to stutter and I fell down in the gutter
And a pig came up and parked right by my side

Then I mumbled,"It's fair weather when good comrades get together"
Till a lady passing by was heard to say,
"You can tell a man that boozes by the playmates that he chooses"
Then the pig got up and slowly walked away.

A Certain Lady
Dorothy Parker

From: Enough Rope (1926)

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You'll never know.

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, --
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me -- marveling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go ....
And what goes on, my love, while you're away,
You'll never know.




The Pig

Ogden Nash

The pig, if I am not mistaken,
Supplies us sausage, ham and bacon.
Let others say his heart is big.
I call it stupid of the pig.



Ogden Nash is a great source for humorous poetry, if you need more...
[www.westegg.com] />
For that matter so is Dorothy Parker. You can find her at...
[www.nth-dimension.co.uk] />

bobo

my choice would be
Samuel Hoffenstein, Margaret Fishback ( not the one from Footprints),
Arthur Guiterman, FPA, Phyllis McGinley, Dorothy Parker,
Ogden Nash

here are some by Pam Ayres:

LIKE YOU WOULD

Well I got up in the morning,
Like you would.
And I cooked a bit of breakfast,
Like you would
But at the door I stopped.
For a message had been dropped,
And I picked it up, and read it,
Like you would.

"Oh Blimey!" I said,
Like you would,
"Have a read of this,
This is good!"
It said: "I live across the way,
And admire you every day,
And my heart, it breaks without you."
Well, it would.

It said: "I'd buy you furs and jewels,
If I could,"
And I go along with that,
I think he should,
It said: "Meet me in the Park,
When it's good and dark,
And so me wife won't see,
I'll wear a hood."

Oh, I blushed with shame and horror,
Like you would,
That a man would ask me that,
As if I could!
So I wrote him back a letter,
Saying "No, I think it's better,
If I meet you in the Rose and Crown,
Like we did last Thursday."
......................................

I WISH I'D LOOKED AFTER ME TEETH

Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth,
And spotted the perils beneath,
All the toffees I chewed,
And the sweet sticky food,
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

I wish I'd been that much more willin'
When I had more tooth there than fillin'
To pass up gobstoppers,
From respect to me choppers
And to buy something else with me shillin'.

When I think of the lollies I licked,
And the liquorice allsorts I picked,
Sherbet dabs, big and little,
All that hard peanut brittle,
My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My Mother, she told me no end,
"If you got a tooth, you got a friend"
I was young then, and careless,
My toothbrush was hairless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,
I flashed it about late at night,
But up-and-down brushin'
And pokin' and fussin'
Didn't seem worth the time... I could bite!

If I'd known I was paving the way,
To cavities, caps and decay,
The murder of fiIlin's
Injections and drillin's
I'd have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lay in the old dentist's chair,
And I gaze up his nose in despair,
And his drill it do whine,
In these molars of mine,
"Two amalgum," he'll say, "for in there."

How I laughed at my Mother's false teeth,
As they foamed in the waters beneath,
But now comes the reckonin'
It's me they are beckonin'
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.
.................................

YES, I'LL MARRY YOU

Yes, I'll marry you, my dear,
And here's the reason why;
So I can push you out of bed
When the baby starts to cry,
And if we hear a knocking
And it's creepy and it's late,
I hand you the torch you see,
And you investigate.

Yes I'll marry you, my dear,
You may not apprehend it,
But when the tumble-drier goes
It's you that has to mend it,
You have to face the neighbour
Should our labrador attack him,
And if a drunkard fondles me
It's you that has to whack him.

Yes, I'll marry you,
You're virile and you're lean,
My house is like a pigsty
You can help to keep it clean.
That sexy little dinner
Which you served by candlelight,
As I do chipolatas,
You can cook it every night!

It's you who has to work the drill
and put up curtain track,
And when I've got PMT it's you who gets the flak,
I do see great advantages,
But none of them for you,
And so before you see the light,
I do, I do, I do!
......................................

OH NO, I'VE GOT A COLD

I am sitting on the sofa.
By the fire and staying in.
Me head is free of comfort
And me nose is free of skin
Me friends have run for cover,
They have left me pale and sick
With me pockets full of tissues
And me nostrils full of Vick

That bloke in the telly adverts,
He's supposed to have a cold.
He has a swig of whatnot
And he drops off, good as gold,
His face like snowing harvest
Slips into sweet repose.
Well I bet this tortured breathing
Never whistled down his nose.

I burnt me bit of dinner
Cause I've lost me sense of smell,
But then, I couldn't taste it,
So that worked out very well,
I'd buy some, down the cafe,
But I know that at the till,
A voice from work will softly say
"I thought that you were ill".

So I'm wrapped up in a blanket
With me feet up on a stool,
I've watched the telly programmes
And the kids come home from school,
But what I haven't watched for
Is any sympathy,
Cause all you ever get is:
"Oh no, keep away from me!"

Medicinal discovery,
It moves in mighty leaps,
It leapt straight past the common cold
And gave it us for keeps.
Now I'm not a fussy woman,
There's no malice in me eye
But I wish that they could cure
the common cold. That's all. Goodbye.
........................................

by Margaret Fishback :

The spirit is willing

I'd rather be thrilling than meek,
Provocative, rather than kind,
I'd rather be gracefully weak
Than always discreet and refined.

I'd give up a saving accoung
Any day, if I had it, for charm
Of the sort that made Ninon amount
To a genuine cause for alarm.

And that is the way thing have stood,
But still I am just what I am,
Though I'd rather be wicked than good,
My sins don't amount to a damn.

................

.

Sea Sickness
by Arthur Guiterman

I must go down to the seas again, where the billows romp and reel,
So all I ask is a large ship that rides on an even keel,
And a mild breeze and a broad deck with a slight list to leeward,
And a clean chair in a snug nook and a nice, kind steward.

I must go down to the seas again, the sport of wind and tide,
As the grey wave and the green wave play leapfrog over the side.
And all I ask is a glassy calm with a bone-dry scupper,
A good book and a warm rug and a light, plain supper.

I must go down to the seas again, though there I'm a total loss,
And can't say which is worst: the pitch, the plunge, the roll, the toss.
But all I ask is a safe retreat in a bar well tended,
And a soft berth and a smooth course till the long trip's ended.

Berton Braley

Old Man's Advice

published in the New York Times, January 24, 2022

Keep away from women, boy,
And play a lonely game.
For the bad ones make you crooked
And the good ones make you tame.
They want to keep you sheltered
From the stress and storm of chance,
And they hold you from adventure
By the spell of soft romance.
Keep away from women, boy.
They either break your heart
With falseness and with mockery
And coldly cruel art,
Or else, with changing kisses
And with fond and loving charm,
They keep you from the struggle
And they spoil your fighting arm.

Keep away from women, boy,
Wherever they may lurk.
They make your courage falter
And they play the deuce with work.
They weave you silken fetters
Which are stronger far than steel.
They rob your soul of daring
And you heart and brain of zeal.

Keep away from women, boy,
And shun their loveliness,
And you shall tread unswervingly
The pathway to success.
The world shall hail you master,
And fortune heed your call,
And you shall reach the lonely heights
And never live at all.

Norman H. Chance

Old sayings

As poor as a churchmouse,
As thin as a rail,
As fat as a porpoise,
As rough as a gale,
As brave as a lion,
As spry as a cat,
As bright as a sixpence,
As weak as a rat.

As proud as a peacock,
As sly as a fox,
As mad as a March hare,
As strong as an ox,
As fair as a lily,
As empty as air,
As rich as was Croesus,
As cross as a bear.

As pure as an angel,
As neat as a pin,
As smart as a steel trap,
As ugly as sin.
As dead as a door nail,
As white as a sheet,
As flat as a pancake,
As red as a beet.

As round as an apple,
As black as your hat,
As brown as a berry,
As blind as a bat,
As mean as a miser,
As full as a tick,
As plump as a partridge,
As sharp as a stick.

As clean as a penny,
As dark as a pall,
As hard as a millstone,
As bitter as gall,
As fine as a fiddle,
As clear as a bell,
As dry as a herring,
As deep as a well.

As light as a feather,
As hard as a rock,
As stiff as a poker,
As calm as a clock,
As green as a goslin,
As brisk as a bee,
And now let me stop,
Lest you weary of me.
...

Modern romance

Information, speculation, fluctuation, ruination.
Dissipation, degradation, reformation or starvation.
Application, situation, occupation, restoration.
Concentration, enervation, nerve prostration. A vacation.
Destination, country station, nice location, recreation.
Exploration, observation, fascination -- a flirtation.
Trepidation, hesitation, conversation, simulation.
Invitation, acclamation, sequestration, cold libation.
Stimulation, animation, inspiration, new potation.
Demonstration, agitation, circulation, exclamation!
Declaration, acceptation, osculation, sweet sensation.
Exultation, preparation, combination, new relation.

...
From my most beloved book
Chance Hits [1915] by Norman H. Chance.

I like to have a Martini
Two at the very most-
After three I'm under the table,
After four I'm under my host.

Dorothy Parker

Newman Levy's a good choice also.

pam

RAIN
— Newman Levy

On the isle of Pago Pago,
land of palm trees, rice and sago,
Where the Chinaman and Dago
dwell with natives dusky hued,
Lived a dissolute and shady,
bold adventuress named Sadie,
Sadie Thompson was the lady,
and the life she lived was lewd.

She had practised her profession
in our insular possession,
Which, to make a frank confession,
people call the Philippines.
There she'd made a tidy profit
till the clergy, hearing of it,
Made her life as hot as Tophet,
driving her to other scenes.

So this impudent virago
hied herself to Pago Pago
Where the Chinaman and Dago
to her cottage often came.
Trade was lucrative and merry,
till one day the local ferry
Brought a noble missionary,
Rev'rend Davidson by name.

Stern, austere and apostolic,
life was no amusing frolic.
Braving fevers, colds and colic,
he had come with prayers and hymns,
Most intolerant of wowsers,
to those primitive carousers
Bearing chaste and moral trousers
to encase their nether limbs.

In her quaint exotic bower,
'mid a never-ending shower,
Sadie Thompson, by the hour,
entertained the local trade.
Every night brought more and more men,
soldiers, natives, clerks and store-men,
Sailors, gallant man-of-war men,
while her gay victrola played.

"Ha!" exclaimed the irate pastor,
"straight you're headed for disaster.
I'll convince you who's the master,
shameless woman of the street
"Listen, Rev.," said Sadie tartly,
pardon me for punning smartly
"Though I get your meaning-partly -
still, alas, a girl must eat."

"Girl," he cried in indignation,
"choose at once between salvation
And immediate deportation
from this charming tropic glade.
Like a devastating plague,
0 Scarlet Dame of Pago Pago,
You're as welcome as lumbago,
plying here your brazen trade."

Sadie said, "Though I'm no scoffer,
that's a lousy choice you proffer,
Still I must accept your offer
though my pride has been attacked.
Come on, Rev., and let us kill
a flask or two of sarsaparilla
Here in my delightful villa
while I watch you do your act."

Let us veil the tragic sequel,
for a pious man but weak will
Find, alas, that he's unequal
to a lady's potent charms.
So his long suppressed libido,
sharp as steel of famed Toledo,
Spurning prayers and hymns and credo,
found surcease in Sadie's arms.

There beside the waters tidal,
urged by impulse suicidal,
Lay, next day, the shattered idol,
cleansed at last of sin and taint.
Here's the moral: Though a preacher
fail to make a fallen creature
Pure and saintly as her teacher,
she, perhaps, can make a saint.

ILZA - do you have a SOURCE for the Dorothy Parker "Martini" verse?

She is known to have said at a party: "One more of these and I'll be under the host."

Nigel Rees would like to know whether she actually WROTE the little rhyme, or if it was created by someone else, based on her remark.

Do you know?

MARIAN

When I was one-and-twenty
by A. E. Housman (1859–1936)

WHEN I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies 5
But keep your fancy free.’
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again, 10
‘The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.’
And I am two-and-twenty, 15
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

re martini . . .

as far as I know it was printed in Conning Tower,
a New York Tribune column by FPA, Franklin P. Adams

( they later on published a ( now) very rare little book
Men I am not married to, Women I am not married to ),
rather peculiar, because it was printed with the other author/poems 'upside down', so to make two separate books

I have
The poetry and short stories . . .
The lost poems
You might as well live

and I will have a look, but I believe it is not quoted there

the book I mentioned

Men I'm Not Married To.
Garden City: Doubleday, Page & Company,-1922.

Presumably a later printing (no first edition slug) of the author's first separate book. Bound dos-a-dos with Women I'm Not Married To by Franklin P. Adams

Levy !!!

I have several of his books ( somewhere ... )

Guest room books
by Newman Levy

Besidemy chaste and downy cot
There stands a goodly number
Of stately tomes of prose and pomes
To lull the guest to slumber.

The verse of T.S. Eliot,
A copy of Ulysses,
As though to say - 'No place you'll stay
So cultured is as this is'.

The works ( in French ) of Baudelaire,
And Keat's Epipsychidion
And next to it The Holy Writ,
Purloined, I fear, from Gideon.

A good and narcotic list
Of literary glory,
While down my host, I know,
Is reading Snappy Stories.

...



.

A far man's prayer
Victor Buono ( It could be verse )

Lord, my soul is ripped with riot
incited by my wicked diet.
"We Are What We Eat," said a wise old man!
and, Lord, if that's true, I'm a garbage can.

I want to rise on Judgment Day, that's plain!
but at my present weight, I'll need a crane.
So grant me strength, that I may not fall
into the clutches of cholesterol.

May my flesh with carrot-curls be dated,
that my soul may be poly unsaturated
And show me the light, that I may bear witness
to the President's Council on Physical Fitness.

And at oleomargarine I'll never mutter,
for the road to Hell is spread with butter.
And cream is cursed; and cake is awful;
and Satan is hiding in every waffle.


Mephistopheles lurks in provolone;
the Devil is in each slice of baloney,
Beelzebub is a chocolate drop,
and Lucifer is a lollipop.


Give me this day my daily slice
but, cut it thin and toast it twice.
I beg upon my dimpled knees,
deliver me from jujubees.


And when my days of trial are done,
and my war with malted milk is won,
Let me stand with Heavenly throng,
In a shining robe--size 30 long.

I can do it Lord, If You'll show to me,
the virtues of lettuce and celery.
If You'll teach me the evil of mayonnaise,
of pasta a la Milannaise
potatoes a la Lyonnaise
and crisp-fried chicken from the South.

Lord, if you love me, shut my mouth.

Rebellion
Dorothy Quick ( Laugh while you can)

All my friends have planned for me
A most domestic life,
They think because I cook and sew
I'd make a lovely wife

But I've got idas of my own
Because I truly think
I could make a broker happy -
I'd look so well in mink !

I was doing some research on Richard 1, and this poem turned up - a history lesson from a slightly different perspective..



Richard the First, Coeur-de-Lion,
Is a name that we speak of with pride,
Though he only lived six months in England
From his birth to the day that he died.

He spent all his time fighting battles,
Dressed up in most rigid attire,
For he had his suits made by the Blacksmith,
And his underwear knitted of wire.

He married a lady from Flanders,
Berengaria's what they called her;
She turned out a good wife to Richard,
In spite of a name like that there.

For when he came home from his fighting
She'd bandage the wounds in his sconce,
And every time a snake bit him
She'd suck out the poison at once.

In their house they'd a minstrel called Blondel
To amuse them at the end of the day,
And the King had but one thing against him -
He had only one tune he could play.

The Queen saw nought wrong with the number
And would have it again and again,
And when Richard said: "Put a sock in it!"
She'd give him a look full of pain.

The King got fed up at the finish,
And was so sick of hearing it played
That he packed his spare suit on a wagon
And went off and joined the Crusade.

He got fighting the moment he landed,
And though Saracen lads did their best,
He cut off their heads in such numbers,
That the hatmakers lodged a protest.

The Sultan, whose name was Saladin,
Thought he'd best try this business to stem,
So he rode up to Richard and told him
He mustn't do that there to them.

Said Richard: "Oh! Who's going to stop me?"
Said Saladin: "I will- and quick!"
So the King poked his sword at the Sultan,
Who, in turn, swiped his dagger at Dick.

They fought all that day without ceasing;
They fought till at last they both saw
That each was a match for the other,
So they chucked it and called it a draw.

As Richard rode home in the moonlight
He heard someone trying to croon,
And there by the roadside stood Blondel,
Still playing his signature tune.

He'd worked out his passage from England
In search of his Master and Lord,
And had swum the last part of the journey
'Cos his tune got him thrown overboard.

This meeting filled Richard with panic:
He rode off and never drew rein
Till he got past the Austrian border
And felt he could breathe once again.

He hid in a neighbouring Castle,
But he hadn't been there very long
When one night just outside his window
Stood Blondel, still singing his song.

This took the heart out of Richard;
He went home dejected and low,
And the very next fight he got into
He was killed without striking a blow.


Marriott Edgar.

Something short & dry ? Here goes -

Gourmandise

In Japan it's always sushi
Or other dishes which would make you pale.
But the plate they like best, and that's not in jest,
Is a slice of the ass of a whale.

An apple a day, keeps the doctor away.
That is an old adage.
But you won't have many friends either,
If you eat a lot of green cabbage.

And out in the land of Israel
The meat of a pig is forbidden.
But I knew a guy who ate a pork chop,
He consumed it while he was hidden.

A selection from my collection of approximately 230
rhymes on " Epicurean Delights". Wanna see more ?

E.J. Lewis

Speaking of English kings, here's another.

I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings,
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England,
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.
It were this way - one day in October
The Duke, who were always a toff,
Having no battles on at the moment,
Had given his lads a day off.
They'd all taken boats to go fishing,
When some chap t'Conqueror's ear
Said 'Let's go and put breeze up the Saxons;'
Said Bill - 'By gum, that's an idea.
Then turning around to his soldiers,
He lifted his big Norman voice,
Shouting - 'Hands up who's coming to England.'
That was swank 'cos they hadn't no choice.
They started away about tea-time -
The sea was so calm and so still,
And at quarter to ten the next morning
They landed at place called Bexhill.
King 'Arold came up as they landed -
His face full of venom and 'ate -
He said 'If you've come for t'Regatta
You've got here just six weeks too late.'
At this William rose, cool but 'aughty,
And said - 'Give us none of your cheek;
You'd best have your throne re-upholstered,
I'll be wanting to use it next week.'
When 'Arold heard this 'ere defiance'
With rage he turned purple and blue,
And shouted some rude words in Saxon,
To which William answered -'And you.'
'Twere a beautiful day for a battle;
The Normans set off with a will,
And when both sides was duly assembled,
They tossed for the top of the hill.
King 'Arold he won the advantage,
On the hill-top he took up his stand,
With his knaves and his cads all around him,
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.
The Normans had nowt in their favour,
Their chance of a victory seemed small,
For the slope of the field were against them,
And the wind in their faces and all.
The kick-off were sharp at two-thirty,
And soon as the whistle had went
Both sides started banging each other
Till the swineherds could hear them in Kent.
The Saxons had best line of forwards,
Well armed with both buckler and sword -
But the Normans had best combination,
And when half-time came no-one had scored.
So the Duke called his cohorts together
And said - 'Let's pretend that we're beat,
Once we get Saxons on t'level
We'll cut off their means of retreat.'
So they ran - and the Saxons ran after,
Just exactly as William had planned,
Leaving 'Arold alone on the hill top
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.
When the Conqueror saw what had happened,
A bow and an arrow he drew;
He went right up to 'Arold and shot him.
He were off-side, but what could they do?
The Normans turned round in a fury,
And gave back both parry and thrust,
Till t'fightin' were all over bar shouting,
And you couldn't see Saxons for dust.
And after the battle were over
They found 'Arold so stately and grand,
Sitting there with an eye full of arrow
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.

To a Thesaurus - Franklin P. Adams


O precious codex, volume, tome,
Book, writing, compilation, work
Attend the while I pen a pome,
A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.

For I would pen, engross, indite,
Transcribe, set forth, compose, address,
Record, submit -- yea, even write
An ode, an elegy to bless --

To bless, set store by, celebrate,
Approve, esteem, endow with soul,
Commend, acclaim, appreciate,
Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.

How could I manage, live, exist,
Obtain, produce, be real, prevail,
Be present in the flesh, subsist,
Have place, become, breathe or inhale

Without thy help, recruit, support,
Opitulation, furtherance,
Assistance, rescue, aid, resort,
Favour, sustention and advance?

Alas! Alack! and well-a-day!
My case would then be dour and sad,
Likewise distressing, dismal, gray,
Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.

* * *

Though I could keep this up all day,
This lyric, elegiac, song,
Meseems hath come the time to say
Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!

I like FPA sooooooooo much

I have just finished reading FPA The life and times of Franklin Pierce Adams
by Sally Ashley

nearly 100 years ago . . .
yet it sounds so familiar . . .

Our Idea of Nothing At All

From the book Are Women People? by Alice Duer Miller, 1915

("I am opposed to woman suffrage, but I am not opposed to woman.' -- Anti-suffrage speech of Mr. Webb of North Carolina.)

0 WOMEN, have you heard the news
Of charity and grace?
Look, look, how joy and gratitude
Are beaming in my face!
For Mr. Webb is not opposed
To woman in her place!

0 Mr. Webb, how kind you are
To let us live at all,
To let us light the kitchen range
And tidy up the hall;
To tolerate the female sex
In spite of Adam's fall.

0 girls, suppose that Mr. Webb
Should alter his decree!
Suppose he were opposed to us-
Opposed to you and me.
What would be left for us to do-
Except to cease to be?

nearly 100 years ago . . .
yet it sounds so familiar . . .

Our Idea of Nothing At All

From the book Are Women People? by Alice Duer Miller, 1915

("I am opposed to woman suffrage, but I am not opposed to woman.' -- Anti-suffrage speech of Mr. Webb of North Carolina.)

0 WOMEN, have you heard the news
Of charity and grace?
Look, look, how joy and gratitude
Are beaming in my face!
For Mr. Webb is not opposed
To woman in her place!

0 Mr. Webb, how kind you are
To let us live at all,
To let us light the kitchen range
And tidy up the hall;
To tolerate the female sex
In spite of Adam's fall.

0 girls, suppose that Mr. Webb
Should alter his decree!
Suppose he were opposed to us-
Opposed to you and me.
What would be left for us to do-
Except to cease to be?

a friend of mine told me she made that verse after a quote by
The New Yorker editor ( and her friend )Wolcott Gibbs, who said:

There is no such a thing as one martini.

"nothing at all?" - hmm....
this reminds me of something i read recently:

An English professor wrote the words, "Woman without her man is
nothing" on the blackboard and directed the students to punctuate it correctly.

The men wrote: "Woman, without her man, is nothing."
The women wrote: "Woman! Without her, man is nothing."

PIPPA PASSES, BUT I CAN'T GET AROUND THIS TRUCK
Margaret Blaker

Morning's at seven,
The plane's at the airport
God's in Heaven,
But I'm still in Fairport.

............................
The Naughty Preposition
Morris Bishop

I lately lost a preposition:
It hid, I thought, beneath my chair.
And angrily I cried: Perdition!<br /> Up from out of in under there!''<br /> <br /> Correctness is my vade mecum,<br /> And straggling phrases I abhor;<br /> And yet I wondered:What should he come
Up from out of in under for?''

.....................................
Me old Akubra hat
by John McCaskill

I met her many years ago,
fell in love near right away,
fitted me just like a glove,
together we would stay.

From the city to the outback,
from the river to the sea,
we roamed this country far and wide,
she was just the one for me.

At first I treated her with care,
and tender loving ways,
and likewise she protected me,
from winter storms and scorching rays.

In those very early days,
her touch was smooth as felt,
she hugged me with a vengeance,
like for fear that I would melt.

We'd seen the Darwin Cup,
and climbed the flamin' rock,
been along the Oodnadatta track,
in New South we'd mustered stock.

At Queensland's Mt Surprise,
we spent time chasing sapphire,
and in most Australia's opal fields,
she never seemed to tire.

From fishing in the mountain streams,
to way out in Bass Strait,
from the Kimberlys' to the Gulf savannah,
we tagged along she was me mate.

She'd fallen down a mine shaft,
and fell off a moving truck,
got shot while chasing ducks,
and from the ocean had been plucked.

I guess my caring sort of waned,
and I maybe treated her quite rough,
I'd leave here sitting on a bar stool,
by herself and all that stuff.

The years go by and take their toll,
now she's bent and marked,
but still so soft to touch,
flail of character and spark.

All the good times had together,
as like with most things had to end,
I know I've lost a mate,
something more than just a friend.

Now we've parted company,
the Tibooburra Pub is where she's at,
hanging up above the bar,
me old Akubra hat.

Don't tell your friends about your indigestion.
'How are you.' - is a greeting, not a question.
...
Admitting error clears the score
And proves you wiser than before.
...
Keep out of ruts: a rut is something which
If traveled too much, becomes a ditch.
...
No true reform has ever come to pass
Unchallenged by a liar and an ass.
...

For the young Gaels of Ireland
Are the lads that drive me mad,
For half their words need footnotes
And half their rhymes are bad.

...

Amoebas at the start
Were not complex;
They tore themselves apart
And started sex.

...


all above by Arthur Guiterman

..............................................

As we get older
Harry Rowe

I notice things have changed a lot,
to what they used to be,
The corner shop that was so close,
is getting hard to see;
I notice that they've changed the hill
- the one I used to climb,
There's something wrong with clocks today;
that walk takes so much time.

Today, the bus leaves sooner
- I sometimes have to run,
The days are getting shorter
- no time for having fun,
Street signs, that used to be quite large,
are getting very small,
Newspaper print has got so small,
I can't read it at all.
Yes, things are much more quiet
than what they used to be,
My friends don't speak as loud as they did
- they're even blaming me,
They seem to talk in whispers
- not wanting me to hear,
They're keeping secrets from me
- It comes though loud and clear'.<br /> The young folk, too, are changing <br /> - they're younger; don't you think?<br /> But, people of my age group,<br /> are really on the brink,<br /> I wonder why they look so old<br /> - why can't they be like me?<br /> And, why don't they make mirrors clear, <br /> like they used to be?<br /> <br /> I used to know the people's names,<br /> that lived along the street,<br /> But, now it seems they've changed them <br /> - for many that I meet,<br /> Walk past me, just like strangers; <br /> Yes, they forget my name!<br /> I speak just like I used to<br /> - but they won't do the same.<br /> <br /> Oh Well! - I guess they're getting old,<br /> and some have put on weight,<br /> The clothes they make are smaller now<br /> - My goodness, it is late!<br /> They'll soon come out to look for me <br /> - I'm always beingbossed',
I'm here! Why can't they find me?
They're always getting lost.

that's funny, to say the least

Alice Duer Miller would have enjoyed it . . .
she had a sharp sense of humor
(no wonder she was a friend of the Algonquin group, Marx Brothers, etc )

Kitty Wants To Write

Kitty wants to write! Kitty intellectual!
What has been effectual to turn her stockings blue?
Kitty's seventh season has brought sufficient reason,
She has done 'most everything that there is left to do!
Half of them to laugh about and half of them to rue, -
Now we wait in terror for Kitty's wildest error.
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Débutante was Kitty,
Frivolous and witty as ever bud that blew,
Kitty lacked sobriety, yet she ran society,
A leader whom the chaperons indulged a year or two;
Corner-men, eligibles, dancing-dolls she knew, -
Kitty then was slighted, ne'er again invited;
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! At the Social Settlement
Girls of Kitty's mettle meant a mission for a few;
Men to teach the classes, men to mould the masses,
Men to follow Kitty to adventures strange and new,
Some of her benevolence was hidden out of view! -
A patroness offended, Kitty's slumming ended,
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a mystic,
Deep from cabalistic lore many hints she drew!
Freaks of all description, Hindoo and Egyptian,
Prattled in her parlor - such a wild and hairy crew!
Many came for money, and one or two to woo -
Kitty's pet astrologer wanted to acknowledge her!
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a doctor;
Nothing ever shocked her, though they hazed a little, too!
Kitty learned of medicos how a heart unsteady goes,
Kitty's course in medicine gave her many a clue -
Much of modern history now is less a mystery.
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Everybody's writing!
Won't it be exciting, the panic to ensue?
We who all have known her, think what we have shown her!
Read it in the magazines! Which half of this is true?
Where did she get that idea? Is it him, or who? -
Kitty's wretched enemies now will learn what venom is!
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Gelett Burgess


Who Kitty was, I have no clue. Apparently the readers at that time would have had no problem identifying her, I surmise.

Kitty Poems? Here is one by Thackeray.

A DOE IN THE CITY.


Little KITTY LORIMER,
Fair, and young, and witty,
What has brought your ladyship
Rambling to the City?

All the Stags in Capel Court
Saw her lightly trip it;
All the lads of Stock Exchange
Twigg'd her muff and tippet.

With a sweet perplexity,
And a mystery pretty,
Threading through Threadneedle Street,
Trots the little KITTY.

What was my astonishment--
What was my compunction,
When she reached the Offices
Of the Didland Junction!

Up the Didland stairs she went,
To the Didland door, Sir;
Porters lost in wonderment,
Let her pass before, Sir.

"Madam," says the old chief Clerk,
"Sure we can't admit ye."
"Where's the Didland Junction deed?"
Dauntlessly says KITTY.

"If you doubt my honesty,
Look at my receipt, Sir."
Up then jumps the old chief Clerk,
Smiling as he meets her.

KITTY at the table sits
(Whither the old Clerk leads her),
"I deliver this," she says,
"As my act and deed, Sir."

When I heard these funny words
Come from lips so pretty;
This, I thought, should surely be
Subject for a ditty.

What! are ladies stagging it?
Sure, the more's the pity;
But I've lost my heart to her,--
Naughty little KITTY.

Although I answered with a couple of poems (see Lewis), I got to thinking about your request. Do you realize the enormity of the task you have asked of us. There must be thousands of comical rhyming verses and hundreds of poets writing same. The response would be imponderable. You've got to be a debutant to poetry to have asked such a question. To help you along with learning about comical poetry, I refer you to "The Faber Book Of Comical Verse", edited by Michael Roberts as published by Faber and Faber, Ltd. (London - Boston). First published in 1942. Revised in 1974. Reprinted in 1980 and later reissued in 1989. Not too expensive, it's a paperback - cost you about 12 Pounds Sterling plus postage. Its ISBN reference is 0-571-11263-3 Pbk. It's a mine of information and contains comical verse from every aspect of the English language. Items are from the 16th century to about 1970 which consists of 389 poems attributed to 160 specific authors; plus 48 of anonymous origin; 15 epitahs; and 16 limericks. How's that for starters ? Once you've digested some of this, you'll be ready to ask some pertinent questions. Good luck, old boy !
P.S. Sorry I can't help you out with a couple of website addresses - maybe 'ilza' could aid - she (or) he seems to know quite a bit about this kind of stuff.

As poets of old have oft sung,
God takes the innocent young,
The rolling in money,
The screamingly funny,
And those who are very well hung.

(Sorry, I have misplaced the author)

It's Auden.

ilza, I am unable to locate Chance Hits by Norman H. Chance. I did find a Norman A. Chance, but no book by that name. Got the ISBN?

"The Faber Book Of Comical Verse", edited by Michael Roberts

Thanks, this one was new to me; I should have a copy next week. Maryland (where I am) has a nice online library search feature they call 'Marina'. I can search for any book that any Maryland library has available, and have it sent to my local branch where I can drop by and grab it. I discovered this only last year, but it has saved me lots of money in not having to locate and buy used books over the internet. I don't know if other states have the same system in effect, but it is definitly worth, um, checking out.

Bump, for Jack.

Some threads here even predate, you and me.


Les

As the poets have mournfully sung,
Death takes the innocent young,
The rolling-in-money,
The screamingly-funny,
And those who are very well hung.

W. H. Auden

Try Russell Edson's prose poems.
"Urinating" and "Madam's Heart" are a few comical ones.

Lisa

I thought this might be appreciated, no offence to Mr. Poe


" Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bed sheets, still I sat there doing
spreadsheets.
Having reached the bottom line I took a floppy from the drawer,
I then invoked the SAVE command and waited for the disk to store,
Only this and nothing more.

Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing,
Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to churn some more.
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token.
"Save!" I said, "You cursed mother! Save my data from before!"
One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more,
Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

Was this some occult illusion, some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before.
Carefully I weighed the choices as the disk made impish noises.
The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more.
Clearly I must press a key, choosing one and nothing more,
From "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

With fingers pale and trembling, slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored,
Praying for some guarantee, timidly, I pressed a key.
But on the screen there still persisted words appearing as before.
Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore,
Saying "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

I tried to catch the chips off guard, and pressed again, but twice as
hard.
I pleaded with the cursed machine: I begged and cried and then I swore.
Now in mighty desperation, trying random combinations,
Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before.
Cursor blinking, angrily winking, blinking nonsense as before.
Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted.
Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw a dreadful sight: a lightning bolt cut through the night.
A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core.
The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore.
Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

To this day I do not know the place to which lost data go.
What demonic nether world us wrought where lost data will be stored,
Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, into black holes?
But sure as there's C, Pascal, Lotus, Ashton-Tate and more,
You will be one day be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore,
Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

But perhaps Marcus Bales would be offended at the lack of attribution? Easy to fix:

[www.shades-of-night.com]

Reading An Anthology Of Chinese Poems Of The Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire The Length And Clarity Of Their Titles

---Billy Collins

It seems these poets have nothing
up their ample sleeves
they turn over so many cards so early,
telling us before the first line
whether it is wet or dry,
night or day, the season the man is standing in,
even how much he has had to drink.

Maybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow.
Maybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name.

"Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune
on a Cloudy Afternoon" is one of Sun Tung Po's.
"Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea"
is another one, or just
"On a Boat, Awake at Night."

And Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with
"In a Boat on a Summer Evening
I Heard the Cry of a Waterbird.
It Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying
My Woman Is Cruel--Moved, I Wrote This Poem."

There is no iron turnstile to push against here
as with headings like "Vortex on a String,"
"The Horn of Neurosis," or whatever.
No confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over.

Instead, "I Walk Out on a Summer Morning
to the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall"
is a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders.

And "Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors"
is a servant who shows me into the room
where a poet with a thin beard
is sitting on a mat with a jug of wine
whispering something about clouds and cold wind,
about sickness and the loss of friends.

How easy he has made it for me to enter here,
to sit down in a corner,
cross my legs like his, and listen.


Les

Well, this is a variation to the one Bales wrote. I don't know who wrote this one.
But you are right I should have made some allusion to the original.

J.

Either that or hope that Marcus Bales never visits this page.


"The Ballad of Mr. Cooke"
-Bret Harte-

Legend of the Cliff House, San Francisco


''Where the sturdy ocean breeze
Drives the spray of roaring seas,
That the Cliff House balconies
Overlook:

There, in spite of rain that balked,
With his sandals duly chalked,
Once upon a tight-rope walked
Mr. Cooke.

But the jester’s lightsome mien,
And his spangles and his sheen,
All had vanished when the scene
He forsook.

Yet in some delusive hope,
In some vague desire to cope,
One still came to view the rope
Walked by Cooke.

* * * *

Amid Beauty’s bright array,
On that strange eventful day,
Partly hidden from the spray,
In a nook,

Stood Florinda Vere de Vere;
Who, with wind-disheveled hair,
And a rapt, distracted air,
Gazed on Cooke.

Then she turned, and quickly cried
To her lover at her side,
While her form with love and pride
Wildly shook:

“Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now!
Here I break each plighted vow;
There’s but one to whom I bow,
And that’s Cooke!”

Haughtily that young man spoke:
“I descend from noble folk;
‘Seven Oaks,’ and then ‘Se’nnoak,’
Lastly ‘Snook,’

Is the way my name I trace.
Shall a youth of noble race
In affairs of love give place
To a Cooke?”

“Clifford Snook, I know thy claim
To that lineage and name,
And I think I’ve read the same
In Horne Tooke;

But I swear, by all divine,
Never, never, to be thine,
Till thou canst upon yon line
Walk like Cooke.”

Though to that gymnastic feat
He no closer might compete
Than to strike a balance-sheet
In a book;

Yet thenceforward from that day
He his figure would display
In some wild athletic way,
After Cooke.

On some household eminence,
On a clothes-line or a fence,
Over ditches, drains, and thence
O’er a brook,

He, by high ambition led,
Ever walked and balanced,
Till the people, wondering, said,
“How like Cooke!”

Step by step did he proceed,
Nerved by valor, not by greed,
And at last the crowning deed
Undertook.

Misty was the midnight air,
And the cliff was bleak and bare,
When he came to do and dare,
Just like Cooke.

Through the darkness, o’er the flow,
Stretched the line where he should go,
Straight across as flies the crow
Or the rook.

One wild glance around he cast;
Then he faced the ocean blast,
And he strode the cable last
Touched by Cooke.

Vainly roared the angry seas,
Vainly blew the ocean breeze;
But, alas! the walker’s knees
Had a crook;

And before he reached the rock
Did they both together knock,
And he stumbled with a shock—
Unlike Cooke!

Downward dropping in the dark,
Like an arrow to its mark,
Or a fish-pole when a shark
Bites the hook,

Dropped the pole he could not save,
Dropped the walker, and the wave
Swift engulfed the rival brave
Of J. Cooke!

Came a roar across the sea
Of sea-lions in their glee,
In a tongue remarkably
Like Chinook;

And the maddened sea-gull seemed
Still to utter, as he screamed,
“Perish thus the wretch who deemed
Himself Cooke!”

But on misty moonlit nights
Comes a skeleton in tights,
Walks once more the giddy heights
He mistook;

And unseen to mortal eyes,
Purged of grosser earthly ties,
Now at last in spirit guise
Outdoes Cooke.

Still the sturdy ocean breeze
Sweeps the spray of roaring seas,
Where the Cliff House balconies
Overlook;

And the maidens in their prime,
Reading of this mournful rhyme,
Weep where, in the olden time,
Walked J. Cooke.

In the Austen family word-games were very popular on cold winter nights (and presumably other nights as well) This particular game required Verses that rhyme with "Rose"

Written by J. Austen's mother:

This morning I'woke from a quiet repose,
I first rubb'd my eyes & I next blew my nose.
With my Stockings & Shoes I then cover'd my toes
And proceeded to put on the rest of my Cloathes.
This was finish'd in less than an hour I suppose;
I employ'd myself next in repairing my hose
'Twas a work of necessity, not what I chose;
Of my sock I'd much rather have knit twenty Rows._
My work being done, I looked through the windows
And with pleasure beheld all the Bucks & the Does,
The Cows & the Bullocks, the Wethers & Ewes.
To the Libr'ry each morn, all the Family goes,
So I went with the rest, though I felt rather froze.
My flesh is much warmer, my blood freer flows
When I work in the garden with rakes & with hoes.
And now I believe I must come to a close,
For I find I grow stupid e'en while I compose;
If I write any longer my verse will be prose.

Written by J. Austen:

Happy the Lab'rer in his Sunday Cloathes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd Hose
And hat upon his head to Church he goes;
As oft with conscious pride he downward throws
A glance upon the ample Cabbage rose
Which stuck in Buttonhole regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In Church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the Place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the Prayers whose meaning least he knows,
List to the Sermon in a softening Doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close._