767 Humor poems

I didn’t get much sleep last night thinking about underwear Have you ever stopped to consider underwear in the abstract When you really dig into it some shocking problems are raised Underwear is something we all have to deal with Everyone wears some kind of underwear The Pope wears underwear I hope The Governor of Louisiana wears underwear I saw him on TV He must have had tight underwear He squirmed a lot Underwear can really get you in a bind You have seen the underwear ads for men and women so alike but so different Women’s underwear holds things up Men’s underwear holds things down Underwear is one thing men and women have in common Underwear is all we have between us You have seen the three-color pictures with crotches encircled to show the areas of extra strength and three-way stretch promising full freedom of action Don’t be deceived It’s all based on the two-party system which doesn’t allow much freedom of choice the way things are set up America in its Underwear struggles thru the night Underwear controls everything in the end Take foundation garments for instance They are really fascist forms of underground government making people believe something but the truth telling you what you can or can’t do Did you ever try to get around a girdle Perhaps Non-Violent Action is the only answer Did Gandhi wear a girdle? Did Lady Macbeth wear a girdle? Was that why Macbeth murdered sleep? And that spot she was always rubbing— Was it really in her underwear? Modern anglosaxon ladies must have huge guilt complexes always washing and washing and washing Out damned spot Underwear with spots very suspicious Underwear with bulges very shocking Underwear on clothesline a great flag of freedom Someone has escaped his Underwear May be naked somewhere Help! But don’t worry Everybody’s still hung up in it There won’t be no real revolution And poetry still the underwear of the soul And underwear still covering a multitude of faults in the geological sense— strange sedimentary stones, inscrutable cracks! If I were you I’d keep aside an oversize pair of winter underwear Do not go naked into that good night And in the meantime keep calm and warm and dry No use stirring ourselves up prematurely ‘over Nothing’ Move forward with dignity hand in vest Don’t get emotional And death shall have no dominion There’s plenty of time my darling Are we not still young and easy Don’t shout

turtles generate poems No wonder they move so slowly— Somebody in there is Trying to write.

We have orgies at home. Tonight, it’s The Book of Mormon.

The tale which I send, will, I’m sure, hit your fancy, Of Sandy the Captain, and kitchen-maid Nancy; The youth, by friend Colin’s good liquor made gay, Met the damsel, and brimful of frolic and play, He romped with, and kissed her, and tho’ he’d his gun, In vain the poor lassie attempted to run; She pouted and scolded, and liked not the joke, And at least, in the struggle, his finger she broke. Ah! who, my dear brother, would ever believe, That a swain with a look so demure could deceive? We ladies, kind creatures, devoid of suspicion, Were each very ready to play the physician; By Mackay, his sore finger in spirits was laid, And a bag, by my orders, was carefully made. For it neither by one, nor the other was thought That with Nancy, instead of a gate he had fought. But now the poor maiden has told us the truth, As we cannot ourselves have a laugh at the youth; We entreat that from us, you the hero would tell, In his frolicks he ne’er should forget to bribe well; For had but his kisses been seasoned with gold, How he got his lame finger — had never been told.

Adorable images, Plaster of Paris Lilies of the field, You are not alive, therefore Pathos will be out of place. But I have learned A strange fact about your fate, And it is this: After you go out of fashion Beneath your many fashions, Or when your elbows and knees Have been bruised powdery white, So that you are no good to anybody— They will take away your gowns, Your sables and bathing suits, Leaving exposed before all men Your inaccessible bellies And pointless nubilities. Movers will come by night And load you all into trucks And take you away to the Camps, Where soldiers, or the State Police, Will use you as targets For small-arms practice, Leading me to inquire, Since pathos is out of place, What it is that they are practicing. November 1961

Will you read my little pome, O you girls returnèd home From a summertime of sport At the Jolliest Resort, From a Heated Term of joys Far from urban dust and noise? You I speak to in this rhyme, You have had a Glorious Time Swimming, golfing, bridging, dancing, Riding, tennising, romancing, On the springboard, on the raft— You’ve been often photographed. At the place you have forsaken, You have had some pictures taken, Pictures taken of you dancing, Riding, tennising, romancing, Swimming, golfing, and reclining; Snacking, luncheoning, and dining. Cometh now my brief advice; Ladies, be ye ne’er so nice, Be ye ne’er so fascinating, Luring, drawing, captivating, If with interest you’d imbue us, Do not show those pictures to us! Snapshots of the links and lawn Cause in many of us a yawn; (As for me myself, why, I’m Glad to see ’em any time) But—I give it to you square— Lots of people do not care.

Suzanna socked me Sunday, she socked me Monday, too, she also socked me Tuesday, I was turning black and blue. She socked me double Wednesday, and Thursday even more, but when she socked me Friday, she began to get me sore. “Enough’s enough,” I yelled at her, “I hate it when you hit me!” “Well, then I won’t” Suzanna said— that Saturday, she bit me.

It’s always been a wish of mine (Or should I say a dream) To scare my sister half to death And hear her piercing scream. That’s why I squished four bugs until They all were very dead, Then took them to my sister’s room And put them in her bed. After we had said goodnight, My heart began to pound. I waited and I waited, but She never made a sound. And then I got so doggone tired I couldn’t stay awake. I climbed into my own warm bed And shrieked—there was a snake! It wiggled, and I leaped and fell And bruised my bottom half; Then I heard an awful sound— It was my sister’s laugh.

A little girl made of sugar and spice and everything nice was eaten by someone with a sweet tooth the size of an elephant’s tusk. Ah, he said, this darn tooth, it’s driving me nuts. Then another voice is heard. It’s the little girl’s father who says, have you seen a little girl made of sugar and spice and everything nice?--Incidentally, what’s that thing sticking out of your mouth like an elephant’s tusk? My sweet tooth, and it’s really driving me nuts. You ought to see a dentist. But he might want to pull it, and I don’t like people pulling at me. If they want to pull they should pull at their own pullables. So true, said the little girl’s father, people should pull at their own pullables and let other people's pullables alone. But still, he asked again, I wonder if you’ve seen a little girl made of sugar and spice and everything nice?

Swimming in the swimming pool is where I like to “B,” wearing underwater goggles so that I can “C.” Yesterday, before I swam, I drank a cup of “T.” Now the pool’s a “swimming ool” because I took a “P.”