767 Humor poems

I picked up the wrong bag at the airport once got halfway to the taxi before i noticed inside: someone else's life neatly folded labeled going somewhere mine was still on the belt going in circles which is accurate

Ye old mule that think yourself so fair, Leave off with craft your beauty to repair, For it is true, without any fable, No man setteth more by riding in your saddle. Too much travail so do your train appair. Ye old mule With false savour though you deceive th'air, Whoso taste you shall well perceive your lair Savoureth somewhat of a Kappurs stable. Ye old mule Ye must now serve to market and to fair, All for the burden, for panniers a pair. For since gray hairs been powdered in your sable, The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable To purchase it by payment and by prayer, Ye old mule.

of course, I may die in the next ten minutes and I’m ready for that but what I’m really worried about is that my editor-publisher might retire even though he is ten years younger than I. it was just 25 years ago (I was at that ripe old age of 45) when we began our unholy alliance to test the literary waters, neither of us being much known. I think we had some luck and still have some of same yet the odds are pretty fair that he will opt for warm and pleasant afternoons in the garden long before I. writing is its own intoxication while publishing and editing, attempting to collect bills carries its own attrition which also includes dealing with the petty bitchings and demands of many so-called genius darlings who are not. I won’t blame him for getting out and hope he sends me photos of his Rose Lane, his Gardenia Avenue. will I have to seek other promulgators? that fellow in the Russian fur hat? or that beast in the East with all that hair in his ears, with those wet and greasy lips? or will my editor-publisher upon exiting for that world of Trollius and trellis hand over the machinery of his former trade to a cousin, a daughter or some Poundian from Big Sur? or will he just pass the legacy on to the Shipping Clerk who will rise like Lazarus, fingering new-found importance? one can imagine terrible things: “Mr. Chinaski, all your work must now be submitted in Rondo form and typed triple-spaced on rice paper.” power corrupts, life aborts and all you have left is a bunch of warts. “no, no, Mr. Chinaski: Rondo form!” “hey, man,” I’ll ask, “haven’t you heard of the thirties?” “the thirties? what’s that?” my present editor-publisher and I at times did discuss the thirties, the Depression and some of the little tricks it taught us— like how to endure on almost nothing and move forward anyhow. well, John, if it happens enjoy your divertissement to plant husbandry, cultivate and aerate between bushes, water only in the early morning, spread shredding to discourage weed growth and as I do in my writing: use plenty of manure. and thank you for locating me there at 5124 DeLongpre Avenue somewhere between alcoholism and madness. together we laid down the gauntlet and there are takers even at this late date still to be found as the fire sings through the trees.

These New York City Pigeons cooing in the air shaft are responsible for me stubbing my toe spraining my ankle and getting sick on ammonia fumes That pigeon roosting on the clothesline stole my nightgown Those pigeons on the street lamp made me feel foolish while riding in a black car completely splattered with their grey & white poo poo These New York City pigeons are not calm like pigeons of Oxalá in Brazil and do not croon like doves of Zimbabwe New York City pigeons moan strange    low    mournful    quivering cancer-like moans mixed with hungry hyena barks & gulping loss of the forest cries New York City pigeons are not relaxed like pigeons sunning at Marcel Duchamp swimming pool in San Francisco New York City pigeons are not happy like pigeons standing on head of the woman selling bananas on a street corner in Johannesburg New York City pigeons flap viral leather fungus dust from wings into faces then sit on steps vocalizing & waiting for the death of humankind New York City pigeons are not friendly like pigeons eating flaky crescent-shaped rolls at Hotel du Piémont in Paris New York City pigeons are not content like pigeons posing for photos on arms of men in plaza of Caracas New York City pigeons will lounge on ledges & murmur profanity all day will fight for fucking space in the mating season shit on air conditioners & wipe their asses on windows while big cockroaches suck Sucrets in the dark New York City pigeons are not alert like pigeons sitting quietly on bicycles in peace memorial park of Hiroshima New York City pigeons roll their pearly eyes inflate their throats and defecate on the shoulders of pedestrians New York City pigeons have no love for crumb-throwing pigeon lovers & no year of the pigeon is celebrated at least not for these New York City Pigeons

The potato that ate all its carrots, can see in the dark like a mole, its eyes the scars from centuries of shovels, tines. May spelled backwards because it hates the light, pawing its way, padding along, there in the catacombs.

Tom Tigercat is noted for his manners and his wit. He wouldn't think of lion, No, he doesn't cheetah bit. Tom never pretended to be something that he's not. I guess that's why we like him and why he likes ocelot.

Too many needles spoil the cloth. Too many parrots spoil the talk. Too many chapped lips spoil the gloss. Too many teasel burs spoil the paw. Too many bubbles spoil the froth. Too many doorbells spoil the knock. Too many seeds spoil the floss. Too many feathers spoil the claw. Too many lightbulbs spoil the moth. Too many holes spoil the sock. Too many sunbeams spoil the moss. Too many kisses spoil the jaw. Too many wolves spoil the flock. Too many necks spoil the block.

IF the butterfly courted the bee, And the owl the porcupine; If churches were built in the sea, And three times one was nine; If the pony rode his master, If the buttercups ate the cows, If the cats had the dire disaster To be worried, sir, by the mouse; If mamma, sir, sold the baby To a gypsy for half a crown; If a gentleman, sir, was a lady,— The world would be Upside-down! If any or all of these wonders Should ever come about, I should not consider them blunders, For I should be Inside-out! Chorus

Tell you I chyll, If that ye wyll A whyle be styll, Of a comely gyll That dwelt on a hyll: But she is not gryll, For she is somwhat sage And well worne in age; For her vysage It would aswage A mannes courage. Her lothely lere Is nothynge clere, But ugly of chere, Droupy and drowsy, Scurvy and lowsy; Her face all bowsy, Comely crynkled, Woundersly wrynkled, Lyke a rost pygges eare, Brystled wyth here. Her lewde lyppes twayne, They slaver, men sayne, Lyke a ropy rayne, A gummy glayre: She is ugly fayre; Her nose somdele hoked, And camously croked, Never stoppynge, But ever droppynge; Her skynne lose and slacke, Grained lyke a sacke; With a croked backe. Her eyen gowndy Are full unsowndy, For they are blered; And she gray hered; Jawed lyke a jetty; A man would have pytty To se how she is gumbed, Fyngered and thumbed, Gently joynted, Gresed and annoynted Up to the knockles; The bones of her huckels Lyke as they were with buckels Togyther made fast: Her youth is farre past: Foted lyke a plane, Legged lyke a crane; And yet she wyll jet, Lyke a jollyvet, In her furred flocket, And gray russet rocket, With symper the cocket. Her huke of Lyncole grene, It had ben hers, I wene, More then fourty yere; And so doth it apere, For the grene bare thredes Loke lyke sere wedes, Wyddered lyke hay, The woll worne away; And yet I dare saye She thynketh herselfe gaye Upon the holy daye, Whan she doth her aray, And gyrdeth in her gytes Stytched and pranked with pletes; Her kyrtel Brystow red, With clothes upon her hed That wey a sowe of led, Wrythen in wonder wyse, After the Sarasyns gyse With a whym wham, Knyt with a trym tram, Upon her brayne pan, Lyke an Egyptian, Capped about: When she goeth out Herselfe for to shewe, She dryveth downe the dewe Wyth a payre of heles As brode as two wheles; She hobles as a gose With her blanket hose Over the falowe; Her shone smered wyth talowe, Gresed upon dyrt That baudeth her skyrt. And this comely dame, I understande, her name Is Elynour Rummynge, At home in her wonnynge; And as men say She dwelt in Sothray, In a certayne stede Bysyde Lederhede. She is a tonnysh gyb; The devyll and she be syb. But to make up my tale, She breweth noppy ale, And maketh therof port sale To travellars, to tynkers, To sweters, to swynkers, And all good ale drynkers, That wyll nothynge spare, But drynke tyll they stare And brynge themselfe bare, With, "Now away the mare, And let us sley care, As wyse as an hare!" Come who so wyll To Elynour on the hyll, Wyth, "Fyll the cup, fyll," And syt there by styll, Erly and late: Thyther cometh Kate, Cysly, and Sare, With theyr legges bare, And also theyr fete, Hardely, full unswete; Wyth theyr heles dagged, Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged, Theyr smockes all to-ragged, Wyth titters and tatters, Brynge dysshes and platters, Wyth all theyr myght runnynge To Elynour Rummynge, To have of her tunnynge: She leneth them on the same. And thus begynneth the game. Instede of coyne and monny, Some brynge her a conny, And some a pot with honny, Some a salt, and some a spone, Some theyr hose, some theyr shone; Some ran a good trot With a skellet or a pot; Some fyll theyr pot full Of good Lemster woll: An huswyfe of trust, Whan she is athrust, Suche a webbe can spyn, Her thryft is full thyn. Some go streyght thyder, Be it slaty or slyder; They holde the hye waye, They care not what men say, Be that as be maye; Some, lothe to be espyde, Start in at the backe syde, Over the hedge and pale, And all for the good ale. Some renne tyll they swete, Brynge wyth them malte or whete, And dame Elynour entrete To byrle them of the best. Than cometh an other gest; She swered by the rode of rest, Her lyppes are so drye, Without drynke she must dye; Therefore fyll it by and by, And have here a pecke of ry. Anone cometh another, As drye as the other, And wyth her doth brynge Mele, salte, or other thynge, Her harvest gyrdle, her weddyng rynge, To pay for her scot As cometh to her lot. Som bryngeth her husbandes hood, Because the ale is good; Another brought her his cap To offer to the ale-tap, Wyth flaxe and wyth towe; And some brought sowre dowe; Wyth, "Hey, and wyth, Howe, Syt we downe a-rowe, And drynke tyll we blowe, And pype tyrly tyrlowe!" Some layde to pledge Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge, Theyr hekell and theyr rele, Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele; And some went so narrowe, They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe, Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell, Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell: Here was scant thryft Whan they made suche shyft Theyr thrust was so great, They asked never for mete, But drynke, styll drynke, "And let the cat wynke, Let us washe our gommes From the drye crommes!" But some than sat ryght sad That nothynge had There of theyre awne, Neyther gelt nor pawne; Suche were there menny That had not a penny, But, whan they should walke, Were fayne wyth a chalke To score on the balke, Or score on the tayle: God gyve it yll hayle! For my fyngers ytche; I have wrytten to mytche Of this mad mummynge Of Elynour Rummynge: Thus endeth the gest Of this worthy fest! Quod Skelton, Laureat.

Shed a tear for Twickham Tweer who ate uncommon meals, who often peeled bananas and then only ate the peels, who emptied jars of marmalade and only ate the jars, and only ate the wrappers off of chocolate candy bars. When Twickham cooked a chicken he would only eat the bones, he discarded scoops of ice cream though he always ate the cones, he’d boil a small potato but he’d only eat the skin, and pass up canned asparagus to gobble down the tin. He sometimes dined on apple cores and bags of peanut shells, on cottage cheese containers, cellophane from caramels, but Twickham Tweer passed on last year, that odd and novel man, when he fried an egg one morning and then ate the frying pan.