767 Humor poems

De Camptown ladies sing dis song—Doo-dah! doo-dah! De Camp-town race-track five miles long—Oh! doo-dah day! I come down dah wid my hat caved in—Doo-dah! doo-dah! I go back home wid a pocket full of tin—Oh! doo-dah day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay. De long tail filly and de big black hoss—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Dey fly de track and dey both cut across—Oh! doo-dah-day! De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Can’t touch bottom wid a ten foot pole—Oh! doo-dah-day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay. Old muley cow come on to de track—Doo-dah! doo-dah! De bob-tail fling her ober his back—Oh! doo-dah-day! Den fly along like a rail-road car—Doo-dah! doo-dah! Runnin’ a race wid a shootin’ star—Oh! doo-dah-day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay. See dem flyin’ on a ten mile heat—Doo-dah doo-dah! Round de race track, den repeat—Oh! doo-dah-day! I win my money on de bob-tail nag—Doo-dah! doo-dah! I keep my money in an old tow-bag—Oh! doo-dah-day! Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag— Somebody bet on de bay.

I've watched his eyelids sag, spring open Vaguely and gradually go sliding Shut again, fly up With a kind of drunken surprise, then wobble Peacefully together to send him Home from one school early. Soon his lashes Flutter in REM sleep. I suppose he's dreaming What all of us kings and poets and peasants Have dreamed: of not making the grade, Of draining the inexhaustible horn cup Of the cerebral cortex where ganglions Are ganging up on us with more connections Than atoms in heaven, but coming up once more Empty. I see a clear stillness Settle over his face, a calming of the surface Of water when the wind dies. Somewhere Down there, he's taking another course Whose resonance (let's hope) resembles The muttered thunder, the gutter bowling, the lightning Of minor minions of Thor, the groans and gurgling Of feral lovers and preliterate Mowglis, the songs Of shamans whistled through bird bones. A worried neighbor Gives him the elbow, and he shudders Awake, recollects himself, brings back His hands from aboriginal outposts, Takes in new light, reorganizes his shoes, Stands up in them at the buzzer, barely recalls His books and notebooks, meets my eyes And wonders what to say and whether to say it, Then keeps it to himself as today's lesson.

“What’s the French for fiddle-de-dee?” “Fiddle-de-dee’s not English,” Alice replied gravely. “Whoever said it was,” said the Red queen ... What’s the French for “fiddle-de-dee”? But “fiddle-de-dee’s not English” (we Learn from Alice, and must agree). The “Fiddle” we know, but what’s from “Dee”? Le chat assis in an English tree? —Well, what’s the French for “fiddle-de-dench”? (That is to say, for “monkey wrench”) —Once in the works, it produced a stench What’s the Greek for “fiddle-de-dex”? (That is to say, for “Brekekekex”) —The frog-prince turned out to be great at sex. What’s the Erse for “fiddle-de-derse”? (That is to say, for “violent curse”?) —Bad cess to you for your English verse! What’s the Malay for “fiddle-de-day”? (That is to say, for “That is to say ...”) —...[There are no true synonyms, anyway ...] What’s the Pali for “fiddle-de-dally”? (That is to say, for “Silicon Valley”) —Maya deceives you: the Nasdaq won’t rally. What’s the Norwegian for “fiddle-de-degian”? (That is to say, for “His name is Legion”) —This aquavit’s known in every region. What’s the Punjabi for “fiddle-de-dabi”? (That is to say, for “crucifer lobby”) —They asked for dall but were sent kohl-rabi. What’s the Dutch for “fiddle-de-Dutch”? (That is to say, for “overmuch”) —Pea-soup and burghers and tulips and such. What’s the Farsi for “fiddle-de-darsi?” (That is to say for “devote yourself”—“darsi” In Italian—the Irish would spell it “D’Arcy”) Well, what’s the Italian for “fiddle-de-dallion”? (That is to say, for “spotted stallion”) —It makes him more randy to munch on a scallion. Having made so free with “fiddle-de-dee,” What’s to become now of “fiddle-de-dum”? —I think I know. But the word’s still mum.

True, my office is a gold Camino nineteen eighty-two & front-work’s on a laptop, but there are older tricks: this knack I have to spy a sham address: figures pried off siding or the silhouette that’s left when eight is changed to three; my talent to discern the perp who hides behind the car or ducks among the bins or sidles, slams the screen & tries for silence then behind his gutted door. Some will wave a gun or summon dogs. Once a rooster. Once an alderman who menaced with a mallet (croquet) when his trucking company was sued & there’s still this lucent bruise on my right heel— long story: swan shot, tree house, veteran. Though no one wants this dachshund’s weight of paper compiled by some paralegal underpaid in Phoenix, I assure you I will always serve. I am the envoy (a ball cap hides my third eye). Put me in swift shoes or wings, at some cosmic door with only sky behind— black-clad, the Prophet of Xerox, steadfast bearer of a clerk court’s smeared truncated seal. I know these streets: the houses boarded up, the other heralds driving slow on fractured blacktop; the sidewalks’ glass & fenders scattered; vacant quarter acres returning now to palm & pampas, trees of heaven. I am waiting at the crossroads, here at your broken gate where barbed acacias stoop to shade my trespass.

For it was the first day of Rosh Ha'shanah, New Year's Day, day of remembrance, of ancient sacrifices and averted calamities. For I started the day by eating an apple dipped in honey, as ritual required. For I went to the local synagogue to listen to the ram's horn blown. For I asked Our Father, Our King, to save us for his sake if not for ours, for the sake of his abundant mercies, for the sake of his right hand, for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of his name. For despite the use of a microphone and other gross violations of ceremony, I gave myself up gladly to the synagogue's sensual insatiable vast womb. For what right have I to feel offended? For I communed with my dead father, and a conspicuous tear rolled down my right cheek, and there was loud crying inside me. For I understood how that tear could become an orb. For the Hebrew melodies comforted me. For I lost my voice. For I met a friend who asked "is this a day of high seriousness" and when I said yes he said "it has taken your voice away." For he was right, for I felt the strong lashes of the wind lashing me by the throat. For I thought there shall come a day that the watchmen upon the hills of Ephraim shall cry, Arise and let us go up to Zion unto the Lord our God. For the virgin shall rejoice in the dance, and the young and old in each other's arms, and their soul shall be as a watered garden, and neither shall they learn war any more. For God shall lower the price of bread and corn and wine and oil, he shall let our cry come up to him. For it is customary on the first day of Rosh Ha'shanah to cast a stone into the depths of the sea, to weep and pray to weep no more. For the stone represents all the sins of the people. For I asked you and Molly to accompany me to Cascadilla Creek, there being no ocean nearby. For we talked about the Psalms of David along the way, and the story of Hannah, mother of Samuel, who sought the most robust bard to remedy her barrenness. For Isaac said "I see the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?" For as soon as I saw the stone, white flat oblong and heavy, I knew that it had summoned me. For I heard the voice locked inside that stone, for I pictured a dry wilderness in which, with a wave of my staff, I could command sweet waters to flow forth from that stone. For I cast the stone into the stream and watched it sink to the bottom where dozens of smaller stones, all of them black, gathered around it. For the waterfall performed the function of the chorus. For after the moment of solemnity dissolved, you playfully tossed Molly into the stream. For you tossed her three times, and three times she swam back for her life. For she shook the water off her body, refreshed. For you removed the leash from her neck and let her roam freely. For she darted off into the brush and speared a small gray moving thing in the neck. For this was the work of an instant. For we looked and behold! the small gray thing was a rat. For Molly had killed the rat with a single efficient bite, in conformance with Jewish law. For I took the rat and cast him into the stream, and both of us congratulated Molly. For now she resumed her noble gait. For she does not lie awake in the dark and weep for her sins, and whine about her condition, and discuss her duty to God. For I'd as lief pray with your dog Molly as with any man. For she knows that God is her savior.

They’re tipping their battered derbies and striding forward In step for a change, chipper, self-assured, Their cardboard suitcases labeled Guest of Steerage. They’ve just arrived at the boot camp Of the good old French Foreign Legion Which they’ve chosen as their slice of life Instead of drowning themselves. Once again They’re about to become their own mothers and fathers And their own unknowable children Who will rehearse sad laughter and mock tears, Will frown with completely unsuccessful Concentration, and will practice the amazement Of suddenly understanding everything That baffles them and will go on baffling them While they pretend they’re only one reel away From belonging in the world. Their arrival Will mark a new beginning of meaningless Hostilities with a slaphappy ending. In a moment, They’ll hear music, and as if they’d known all along This was what they’d come for, they’ll put down The mops and buckets given them as charms With which to cleanse the Sahara and move their feet With a calm, sure, delicate disregard For all close-order drill and begin dancing.

Then, take this tambourine inside the sheep barn, listen to the anaconda's intestines, the shark's walking stick, learn the river insect's secret neon calligraphy, swim through Frida Khalo's hair and come out smelling like orchids, lift your appetite towards the certified blue turtle, feast on Garcia Lorca's leather shoes and taste the sun, the worms of Andalusia, don't hesitate in front of a donut, a ferris wheel, the crab nebula, excavate diamond-eyed demons, Chaucer's liver, Minoan helmets, paste Anne Sexton's face on a $1,000 bill and purchase a dozen metaphors, beware of the absolute scorpion, the iguana with the limping leg, permit indwelling, white words around the eyes, the confrontation of windows, never feed your towel to the alligator, he will eat you and eat you and eat you.

He’s supposed to call his doctor, but for now he’s the May King with his own maypole. He’s hallelujah. He’s glory hole. The world has more women than he can shake a stick at. The world is his brickbat, no conscience to prick at, all of us Germans he can

In the men’s room at the office today some wag has labelled the two stalls the Erotic and the Political. The second seems suitable for the results of my business, not for what thinking ordinarily accompanies it. So I’ve locked myself into the first because, though farther from the lightbulb overhead, it remains the more conventional and thereby illuminating choice. The wit on its walls is more desperate. As if I had written them there myself, but only because by now I have seen them day after day, I know each boast, each plea, the runty widower’s resentments, the phone number for good head. Today’s fresh drawing: a woman’s torso, neck to outflung knees, with breasts like targets and at her crotch red felt-tip “hair” to guard a treasure half wound, half wisecrack. The first critic of the flesh is always the self-possessed sensualist. With all that wall as his margin, he had sniffed in smug ballpoint OBVIOUSLY DONE BY SOMEONE WHO HAS NEVER SEEN THE REAL THING. Under that, in a later hand, the local pinstripe aesthete had dismissed the daydreamer’s crudity and its critic’s edgy literalism. His block letters had squared, not sloping shoulders: NO, BY SOMEONE WHO JUST CAN’T DRAW. Were the two opinions converging on the same moral point? That a good drawing is the real thing? Or that the real thing can be truly seen only through another’s eyes? But now that I trace it through other jokes and members, the bottom line leads to a higher inch of free space on the partition— a perch above the loose remarks, like the pimp’s doorway or the Zen master’s cliff-face ledge. THERE ARE NO REAL THINGS writes the philosopher. But he too has been misled by everything the mind makes of a body. When the torso is fleshed out and turns over in the artist’s bed, when the sensualist sobs over her, when the critic buttons his pants, when the philosopher’s scorn sinks back from a gratified ecstasy, then it will be clear to each in his own way. There is nothing we cannot possibly not know.

A fox jumped out one winter’s night, And begged the moon to give him light. For he’d many miles to trot that night Before he reached his den O! Den O! Den O! For he’d many miles to trot that night before he reached his den O! The first place he came to was a farmer’s yard, Where the ducks and the geese declared it hard That their nerves should be shaken and their rest so marred By a visit from Mr. Fox O! Fox O! Fox O! That their nerves should be shaken and their rest so marred By a visit from Mr. Fox O! He took the grey goose by the neck, And swung him right across his back; The grey goose cried out, Quack, quack, quack, With his legs hanging dangling down O! Down O! Down O! The grey goose cried out, Quack, quack, quack, With his legs hanging dangling down O! Old Mother Slipper Slopper jumped out of bed, And out of the window she popped her head: Oh, John, John, the grey goose is gone, And the fox is off to his den O! Den O! Den O! Oh, John, John, the grey goose is gone, And the fox is off to his den O! John ran up to the top of the hill. And blew his whistle loud and shrill; Said the fox, That is very pretty music still – I’d rather be in my den O! Den O! Den O! Said the fox, That is very pretty music still – I’d rather be in my den O! The fox went back to his hungry den, And his dear little foxes, eight, nine, ten; Quoth they, Good daddy, you must go there again, If you bring such god cheer from the farm O! Farm O! Farm O! Quoth they, Good daddy, you must go there again, If you bring such god cheer from the farm O! The fox and his wife, without any strife, Said they never ate a better goose in all their life: They did very well without fork or knife, And the little ones chewed on the bones O! Bones O! Bones O! They did very well without fork or knife, And the little ones chewed on the bones O!