I need to find a poem that is funny but deals with a serious topic. Any ideas would be helpful!!

This poem although serious in message is very humorous:

John Barleycorn: A Ballad
by Robert Burns

There was three kings unto the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he bagan to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Les

This is about the men who ruled the politics of the early 20th century in America.

Ezra on the Strike
by Ezra Pound

Wal, Thanksgivin' do be comin' round.
With the price of turkeys on the bound,
And coal, by gum! Thet were just found,
Is surely gettin' cheaper.

The winds will soon begin to howl,
And winter, in its yearly growl,
Across the medders begin to prowl,
And Jack Frost gettin' deeper.

By shucks! It seems to me,
That you I orter be
Thankful, that our Ted could see
A way to operate it.

I sez to Mandy, sure, sez I,
I'll bet thet air patch o' rye
Thet he'll squash 'em by-and-by,
And he did, by cricket!

No use talkin', he's the man -
One of the best thet ever ran,
Fer didn't I turn Republican
One o' the fust?

I 'lowed as how he'd beat the rest,
But old Si Perkins, he hemmed and guessed,
And sed as how it wuzn't best
To meddle with the trust.

Les

Or the old English version of John Barleycorn can be found here (complete with music score)

[sniff.numachi.com]

[www.cs.rice.edu]

Try Death of an Aircraft by Charles Causley:

DEATH OF AN AIRCRAFT Charles Causley

One day in our village in the month of July
An aeroplane sank from the sea of the sky,
White as a whale it smashed on the shore
Bleeding oil and petrol all over the floor.

The Germans advanced in the vertical heat
To save the dead plane from the people of Crete,
And round the glass wreck in a circus of snow
Set seven mechanical sentries to go.

Seven stalking spiders about the sharp sun
Clicking like clockwork and each with a gun
But at ‘Come to the Cookhouse’ they all wheeled about
And sat down to sausages and sauerkraut.

Down from the mountain burning so brown
Wriggled three heroes from Kastelo town
Deep in the sand they silently sank
And each struck a match for a petrol tank.

Up went the plane in a feather of fire
As the bubbling boys began to retire
And, grey in the guardhouse, seven Berliners
Lost their stripes as well as their dinners.

Down in the village, at murder-stations,
The Germans fell in friends and relations:
But not a Kastelian snapped an eye
As he spat in the eye and prepared to die.

Not a Kastelian whispered a word
Dressed with the dust to be massacred,
And squinted up in the sky with a frown
As three bubbly boys came walking down.

One was sent to the county gaol
Too young for bullets if not for bail,
But the other two were in prime condition
To take on a load of ammunition.

In Archonti they stood in the weather
Naked, hungry, chained together;
Stark as the stones in the market-place,
Under the eyes of the populace.

Their irons unlocked as their naked hearts
They faced the squad and their funeral –carts.
The Captain cried, ‘Before you’re away
Is there any last word you’d like to say?’

‘I want no words’, said one ‘with my lead,
Only some water to cool my head’.
‘Water’, the other said ‘ ‘s all very fine
But I’ll be taking a glass of wine.

‘A glass of wine for the afternoon
With permission to sing a signature tune!’
And he ran the raki down this throat
And took a deep breath for the leading note.

But before the squad could shoot or stay
Like the impala he leapt away
Over the rifles, under the biers,
The bullets rattling round his ears.

‘Run’, they cried to the boy of stone
Who now stood there in the street alone,
But, ‘Rather than bring revenge on your head
It is better for me to die’, he said.

The soldiers turned their machine guns round
And shot him down with a dreadful sound
Scrubbed his face with perpetual dark
And rubbed it out like a pencil mark.

But his comrade slept in the olive tree
And sailed by night on the gnawing sea,
The soldier’s silver shilling earned,
And, armed like an archangel, returned.

cool thats a cool poem i will use that