767 Humor poems

’Twas in the month of December, and in the year 1883, That a monster whale came to Dundee, Resolved for a few days to sport and play, And devour the small fishes in the silvery Tay. So the monster whale did sport and play Among the innocent little fishes in the beautiful Tay, Until he was seen by some men one day, And they resolved to catch him without delay. When it came to be known a whale was seen in the Tay, Some men began to talk and to say, We must try and catch this monster of a whale, So come on, brave boys, and never say fail. Then the people together in crowds did run, Resolved to capture the whale and to have some fun! So small boats were launched on the silvery Tay, While the monster of the deep did sport and play. Oh! it was a most fearful and beautiful sight, To see it lashing the water with its tail all its might, And making the water ascend like a shower of hail, With one lash of its ugly and mighty tail. Then the water did descend on the men in the boats, Which wet their trousers and also their coats; But it only made them the more determined to catch the whale, But the whale shook at them his tail. Then the whale began to puff and to blow, While the men and the boats after him did go, Armed well with harpoons for the fray, Which they fired at him without dismay. And they laughed and grinned just like wild baboons, While they fired at him their sharp harpoons: But when struck with the harpoons he dived below, Which filled his pursuers’ hearts with woe: Because they guessed they had lost a prize, Which caused the tears to well up in their eyes; And in that their anticipations were only right, Because he sped on to Stonehaven with all his might: And was first seen by the crew of a Gourdon fishing boat, Which they thought was a big coble upturned afloat; But when they drew near they saw it was a whale, So they resolved to tow it ashore without fail. So they got a rope from each boat tied round his tail, And landed their burden at Stonehaven without fail; And when the people saw it their voices they did raise, Declaring that the brave fishermen deserved great praise. And my opinion is that God sent the whale in time of need, No matter what other people may think or what is their creed; I know fishermen in general are often very poor, And God in His goodness sent it to drive poverty from their door. So Mr John Wood has bought it for two hundred and twenty-six pound, And has brought it to Dundee all safe and all sound; Which measures 40 feet in length from the snout to the tail, So I advise the people far and near to see it without fail. Then hurrah! for the mighty monster whale, Which has got 17 feet 4 inches from tip to tip of a tail! Which can be seen for a sixpence or a shilling, That is to say, if the people all are willing.

May the Babylonish curse, Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, thro' thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost shew us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex can'st shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reigns and nobler heart Can'st nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant - only thou His true Indian conquest art And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Fram'd again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent. Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite — Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee; None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe, — Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not. Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave the. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits in thunder, Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment, From livid curtain’s hue, a tangram emerges: a country.” Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: “How pleasant To spend one’s vacation en la casa de Popeye,” she scratched Her cleft chin’s solitary hair. She remembered spinach And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach. “M’love,” he intercepted, “the plains are decked out in thunder Today, and it shall be as you wish.” He scratched The part of his head under his hat. The apartment Seemed to grow smaller. “But what if no pleasant Inspiration plunge us now to the stars?For this is my country.” Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country. Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach When the door opened and Swee’pea crept in. “How pleasant!” But Swee’pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. “Thunder And tears are unavailing,” it read. “Henceforth shall Popeye’s apartment Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched.” Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched Her long thigh. “I have news!” she gasped. “Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment And all that it contains, myself and spinach In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder.” She grabbed Swee’pea. “I’m taking the brat to the country.” “But you can’t do that—he hasn’t even finished his spinach,” Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment. But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment Succumbed to a strange new hush. “Actually it’s quite pleasant Here,” thought the Sea Hag. “If this is all we need fear from spinach Then I don’t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over”—she scratched One dug pensively—“but Wimpy is such a country Bumpkin, always burping like that.” Minute at first, the thunder Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder, The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.

The drum says that the night we die will be a long night. It says the children have time to play. Tell the grownups They can pull the curtains around the bed tonight. The old man wants to know how the war ended. The young girl wants her breasts to cause the sun to rise. The thinker wants to keep misunderstanding alive. It’s all right if the earthly monk is buried near the altar. It’s all right if the singer fails to turn up for her concert. It’s good if the fat old couple keeps whirling around. Let the parents sing over the cradle every night. Let the pelicans go on living in their stickly nests. Let the duck go on loving the mud around her feet. It’s all right if the ant always remembers his way home. It’s all right if Bach keeps reaching for the same note. It’s all right if we knock the ladder away from the house. Even if you are a puritan it would be all right If you join the lovers in their ruined house tonight. It’s good if you become a soul and then disappear.

Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead. If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am He’ll think of something. He settles on my chest, breathing his breath of burped-up meat and musty sofas, purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory, which are what will finish us off in the long run. Some cat owners around here should snip a few testicles. If we wise hominids were sensible, we’d do that too, or eat our young, like sharks. But it’s love that does us in. Over and over again,He shoots, he scores! and famine crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits thirty below, and pollution pours out of our chimneys to keep us warm. February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre. I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar. Cat, enough of your greedy whining and your small pink bumhole. Off my face! You’re the life principle, more or less, so get going on a little optimism around here. Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

The speckled pigeon standing on the ledge Outside the window is Jack Kennedy— Standing on one leg and looking jerkily around And staring straight into the room at me. Ask not what your country can do for you— Ask what you can do for your country. Here’s how. That wouldn’t be the way I’d do it. I’m afraid you leave me no choice now. The sequence begins with the grooves Of the carving board Filling with roast beef blood. Everything keeps changing and we want it to, But don’t want anything to change. The pigeons fly back and forth And look like they’re looking for something. I went to sleep in Havana, Turned over on my back in Saigon, And woke up in Kabul, With Baghdad as both air conditioner and down comforter. The speckled pigeon standing on the ledge Outside the window looks really a bit like me, Me standing on one leg and looking jerkily around And looking right into the room at me. Unshaved men run Iran. In consequence, Nixon with his five o’clock shadow Rises from the grave to campaign. His ghost can’t stop—even in broad daylight. In certain neighborhoods, you hear a victim singing, Corazón, you’re chewing on my heart! Don’t forget to spit the seeds out! Rat-a-tat. Shot dead in the street. The pigeon outside on the ledge Came back from Iraq with PTSD. It stands there, standing on one leg in speckled camouflage, Staring in through the window at the VA therapist. Everything keeps changing and we want it to, But don’t want anything to change. Stet. Everything keeps changing and we want it to, But don’t want anything to change. Every day I don’t die is February 30th, And more sex is possible. Flocks of pigeons are whirling around and flash white In the sunlight like they know something. Here’s what. Here’s who needs to be made up. Here’s who I would do. The makeup artist is hard at work in the Oval Office. The fireplace fire is lit with the air-conditioning on full blast.

Crow school is basic and short as a rule— just the rudiments of quid pro crow for most students. Then each lives out his unenlightened span, adding his bit of blight to the collected history of pushing out the sweeter species; briefly swaggering the swagger of his aggravating ancestors down my street. And every time I like him when we meet.

Fat, face the color of blanc on blanc, smelling of cheap tobacco and many unwashed garments, from the other end of the car, the unmistakable melody of La vi en rose scratched against tender ears of Parisian commuters. "Not La vi en rose again", said the young Frenchman facing me. I understood every word he said. The old woman singing was no tiny sparrow, no waif. Her corpulent canine companion was equally uncouth. She sang Piaf's signature song with a hostile gusto, each syllable enunciated loudly. We sniggered as the singing voice came closer. So close we began to sing along, conspirators, smiling. And we welcomed the doleful silence at the song's inevitable end. I gave her a centime or was it two? She deserved it. Was she blind? Did it matter? As for me, I am weary of speaking shattered Spanish with Argentinean intellectuals and outmoded American slang with the Moroccan grocer and his cousins on the Boulevard Saint-Michel near rue du Val-de-Grâce And I cannot seem to count past the number, sept! Gloved hands push apart the Metro's doors. It is journey's end. I try singing Piaf's mysterious refrain, grateful for my own soulful silly version on the walk towards the rue Henri-Barbusse, a short slice of street named for a revolutionary or was he a pirate philosopher? Tired and cheered outside my American language, I am puzzled with the battered glamour of this city built for electric illuminations, swift flirtations, as I follow the paths to dead poets shaped in solemn statuary harboring the austere lawns of the Jardin du Luxembourg.

At the festival of almost getting there Zeno pokes his head out halfway, asks directions, half-heartedly, to the train, admits he’s been riding on the tortoise, been running after arrows to watch them stand still. He understands course, path, way, even relative position (dichotomize, divide) but motion’s still a figment: distance halved and halved (split infinity, twin trajectory) the long, long way, and all that longing (two-fold, doubled) (moments, instants, continuous or discrete) for some unfamiliar end—such unforgiving progress, portioned, yes, bisected. A half-assed effort? No, he’s as good as got it. So much struggle and amends. Sure, we’re goddamned tired of this much waiting, but look! He’s halfway there.

Babies must not eat the coal And they must not make grimaces, Nor in party dresses roll And must never black their faces. They must learn that pointing’s rude, They must sit quite still at table, And must always eat the food Put before them—if they’re able. If they fall, they must not cry, Though it’s known how painful this is; No—there’s always Mother by Who will comfort them with kisses.