767 Humor poems

Aiee! It is the ceremony of the first blades of winter. Horticulture, horticulture, the little steam train says puffing up the mountainside. As if he had never known a home of his own, only ditches. Three stomps with a stone stump and the colloquium started. Beggars under the drainpipe, another hand’s cast of the bone dice. Whatever name the event has, it can be understood as an invitation. Epilepsy, epilepsy, the little steam train said, descending at evening. They bowed so low that their wigs tangled and I had to laugh.

Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As ‘Slimy skin,’ or ‘Polly-wog,’ Or likewise ‘Ugly James,’ Or ‘Gape-a-grin,’ or ‘Toad-gone-wrong,’ Or ‘Billy Bandy-knees’: The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these. No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair; At least so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

Childhood You came into this world trailing clouds all right, they just happened to be big black ones. In the castle you drank from a poisoned goblet and were changed into something even bears cringe at. When you awake baling-wired in thorns, viceroys around you cobwebbed to their steins, moth-eaten ermines, a muttering king— what choice do you have? Rappel down the turret with your cap and bells. Adolescence Handed a baton in a bad-luck relay, you've overshot the cliff and are pinwheeling down, flailing in time to that whistling-wind keening that lets viewers know you will soon be compressed under a subsequent sequence of rocks. Squashed into pleats a centimeter wide? Stride till you're 3-D again. Adulthood You're staggering through a dark wood, soundtrack a fugue. Remember wrens risk a hand for a single seed, orchids can sprout from duff alone. Executive Summary How many can you feed from your sourdough lumps? Each morning, braid a loaf. Give them away.

Jennifer had a tendency to stop in the street and listen to the neighbors’ problems. She was consoling to them. Jennifer would look for people in trouble and offer help, even though her body was relatively weak, and she could not carry groceries for the old people, really. When the young mothers had issues they would come to Jennifer because they knew that Jennifer also had had issues as a young mother and would listen to them. Now Jennifer had middle mother issues. • Everything can be illuminated by water or most things. The two women in the black of mourning knelt by the river in exact tandem, and they spoke softly. The film, like life itself, had minimal plot and extraordinary beauty. The film, like life itself, was slow and maniacal. And when we walked the village afterwards in search of just the right martini I thought of the same steps I had taken years earlier in preparation for mourning, and I was not unhappy.

For old Billy Dugan, shot in the ass in the Civil War, my father said. The old wound in my ass has opened up again, but I am past the prodigies of youth’s campaigns, and weep where I used to laugh in war’s red humors, half in love with silly-assed pains and half not feeling them. I have to sit up with an indoor unsittable itch before I go down late and weeping to the storm- cellar on a dirty night and go to bed with the worms. So pull the dirt up over me and make a family joke for Old Billy Blue Balls, the oldest private in the world with two ass-holes and no place more to go to for a laugh except the last one. Say: The North won the Civil War without much help from me although I wear a proof of the war’s obscenity.

For old Billy Dugan, shot in the ass in the Civil war, my father said. The old wound in my ass has opened up again, but I am past the prodigies of youth’s campaigns, and weep where I used to laugh in war’s red humors, half in love with silly-assed pains and half not feeling them. I have to sit up with an indoor unsittable itch before I go down late and weeping to the storm- cellar on a dirty night and go to bed with the worms. So pull dirt up over me and make a family joke for Old Billy Blue Balls, the oldest private in the world with two ass-holes and no place more to go to for a laugh except the last one. Say: The North won the Civil War without much help from me although I wear a proof of the war’s obscenity.

or, The Wary Physician A doctor, of great skill and fame, Paulo Purganti was his name, Had a good, comely, virtuous wife; No woman led a better life: She to intrigue was ev'n hard hearted: She chuckled when a bawd was carted; And thought the nation ne'er would thrive, Till all the whores were burnt alive. On married men, that dared be bad, She thought no mercy should be had; They should be hanged, or starved, or flayed, Or served like Romish priests in Swede. In short, all lewdness she defied; And stiff was her parochial pride. Yet, in an honest way, the dame Was a great lover of that same; And could from Scripture take her cue, That husbands should give wives their due. Her prudence did so justly steer Between the gay and the severe, That, if in some regards, she chose To curb poor Paulo in too close; In others, she relaxed again, And governed with a looser rein. Thus, though she strictly did confine The doctor from excess of wine; With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli, She let him almost burst his belly: Thus, drying coffee was denied; But chocolate that want supplied; And for tobacco—who could bear it? Filthy concomitant of claret!— (Blest resolution!) one might see Eringo roots, and Bohea tea. She often stroked the doctor's band, And stroked his beard, and kissed his hand, Kindly complained, that after noon He went to pore on books too soon: She held it wholesomer by much, To rest a little on the couch; About his waist in bed-a-nights She clung on close—for fear of sprites. The doctor understood the call, But had not always wherewithal. The Lion's skin too short, you know, (As Plutarch's Morals finely show) Was lengthened by the Fox's tail; And Art supplies, where Strength may fail. Unwilling then in arms to meet The enemy he could not beat, He strove to lengthen the campaign, And save his forces by chicane. Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus By fair retreat grew Maximus, Shows us, that all warrior can do, With force superior is cunctando. One day, then, as the foe drew near, With Love, and Joy, and Life, and Dear, Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle, Thought it extremely à propos, To ward against the coming blow: To ward: But how? ay, there's the question: Fierce the assault, unarmed the bastion. The doctor feigned a strange surprise; He felt her pulse; he viewed her eyes; That was too fast; these rolled too quick: She was, he said, or would be sick: He judged it absolutely good, That she should purge, and cleanse her blood. Spa-waters to that end were got: If they passed easily or not, What matters it? the lady's fever Continued as violent as ever. For a distemper of this kind (Blackmore and Hans are of my mind) If once it youthful blood infects, And chiefly of the female sex, Is scarce removed by pill or potion; Whate'er may be our doctor's notion. One luckless night then, as in bed The doctor and the dame were laid, Again this cruel fever came: High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame. What measures shall poor Paulo keep With Madam in this piteous taking? She, like Macbeth, has murdered sleep, And won't allow him rest, though waking. Sad state of matters! when we dare Nor ask for peace, nor offer war: Nor Livy nor Comines have shown, What in this juncture may be done. Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is Harder, than any which he places Amongst his Belli, and his Pacis. He strove, alas, but strove in vain, By dint of logic to maintain That all the sex was born to grieve, Down to her Ladyship from Eve. He ranged his tropes, and preached up patience; Backed his opinion with quotations, Divines and moralists; and run on Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan. As much in vain he bid her try To fold her arms, to close her eye; Telling her, rest would do her good, If any thing in Nature could: So held the Greeks quite down from Galen, Masters and princes of the calling: So all our modern friends maintain, (Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane. Reduce, my Muse, the wand'ring song: A tale should never be too long. The more he talked, the more she burned, And sighed, and tossed, and groaned, and turned: At last, I wish, said she, my dear— (And whispered something in his ear). You wish! wish on, the doctor cries: Lord! when will womankind be wise? What! in your waters; are you mad? Why, poison is not half so bad. I'll do—but I give you warning; You'll die before tomorrow morning.— 'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise, The lady with a sign replies: But life, you know, at best is pain: And death is what we should disdain. So do it therefore, and adieu: For I will die for love of you.— Let wanton wives by death be scared: But, to my comfort, I'm prepared.

The idiot goes round and around With his brother in a bumping car At the fair. The famous idiot Smile hangs over the car’s edge, Illuminating nothing. This is mankind Being taken for a ride by a rich Relation. The responses are fixed: Bump, smile; bump, smile. And the current Is generated by the smooth flow Of the shillings. This is an orchestra Of steel with the constant percussion Of laughter. But where he should be laughing Too, his features are split open, and look! Out of the cracks come warm, human tears.

“Faith” is a fine invention For Gentlemen who see! But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency!

Fake Hula for Alien Tiki, 2014