767 Humor poems

Be glad your nose is on your face, not pasted on some other place, for if it were where it is not, you might dislike your nose a lot. Imagine if your precious nose were sandwiched in between your toes, that clearly would not be a treat, for you’d be forced to smell your feet. Your nose would be a source of dread were it attached atop your head, it soon would drive you to despair, forever tickled by your hair. Within your ear, your nose would be an absolute catastrophe, for when you were obliged to sneeze, your brain would rattle from the breeze. Your nose, instead, through thick and thin, remains between your eyes and chin, not pasted on some other place— be glad your nose is on your face!

It's hard to be humble when you're 235 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal with a body women love and men fear. —Sputnik Monroe When my father died, he left me a trove of video tapes, a warped memorial for those men he watched with my mother before she left for parts unknown, for those fights he relived once he was laid off from the plane yards. We watched men like Sputnik Monroe bleed the hard way, shook our fists as he broke rules against guys who were easier to cheer. He was a bad Elvis, greased-back hair with a shock of white, Sputnik Monroe mixed it up everywhere, a rodeo fistfight, a henhouse tornado. My mother picked a fight in an Idaho truck stop once, stabbed a man’s chest with her middle finger, then stepped to one side so my father could fight him in the parking lot. Afterwards, my mother was silent all the way back to Seattle, her disgust with him—the way he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, guided her to the car, and sped back to the freeway—hanging between them from that point forward. Sputnik Monroe clobbered men wherever he went, sneered at those fists raised against him in Memphis. Some nights, as my wife sleeps upstairs, I watch my father’s video tapes and imagine what I would have done that day if I knew that my marriage depended on what I did with my hands.

To the Priest, on Observing how most Men mistake their own Talents When beasts could speak (the learned say, They still can do so ev'ry day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That ev'ry subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious wolf begins: "Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbour wrong; Or ever went to seek my food By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood." The ass, approaching next, confess'd That in his heart he lov'd a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet, the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin or shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he hath, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the King: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes. The swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In ev'ry turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne'er was found: His vigilance might some displease; 'Tis true he hated sloth like peas. The mimic ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter: Much of the cens'ring world complain'd, Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engag'd him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was griev'd to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear: Yet, such a lewd licentious age Might well excuse a Stoic's rage. The goat advanc'd with decent pace; And first excus'd his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('Twas nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclin'd To fondness for the female kind; Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect; Not by his frigid constitution, But through a pious resolution; For he had made a holy vow Of chastity as monks do now; Which he resolv'd to keep for ever hence, As strictly too, as doth his Reverence. Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own: but, can you guess? Why?—virtues carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us. The lawyer swears, you may rely on't, He never squeez'd a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool: His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term. While others of the learned robe Would break the patience of a Job; No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most. The cringing knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case: Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd because he could not flatter; He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it. The chaplain vows he cannot fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn: He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meagre looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get and spare his eyes: But own'd he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone in merit: Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; and God forgive him! Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He cannot help it for his heart Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance: And, when his med'cines do no good, Supports their minds with heav'nly food, At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a day to prayers. He shuns apothecaries' shops; And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's fav'rite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practis'd to their shame. The statesman tells you with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And, having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view; Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a hundred lies, 'Twas he defeated the Excise. 'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in ev'ry station, To serve the King, and please the nation. Though hard to find in ev'ry case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot: His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity: 'Tis true, the people understood, That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to Court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out ev'ry year: Must, at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: Oh! if his Majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him licence to retire, As it hath long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound. He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations To crowd the Court with their relations; His country was his dearest mother, And ev'ry virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he hath liberty to choose. The sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contriv'd a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. I own the moral not exact; Besides, the tale is false in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up From fields Elysian fabling Aesop; I would accuse him to his face For libelling the four-foot race. Creatures of ev'ry kind but ours Well comprehend their natural pow'rs; While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents ev'ry day. The ass was never known so stupid To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be strok'd, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes, whene'er his lady whistles; But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind: For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.

Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; Never did Covent Garden boast So bright a battered, strolling toast; No drunken rake to pick her up, No cellar where on tick to sup; Returning at the midnight hour; Four stories climbing to her bow’r; Then, seated on a three-legged chair, Takes off her artificial hair: Now, picking out a crystal eye, She wipes it clean, and lays it by. Her eye-brows from a mouse’s hide, Stuck on with art on either side, Pulls off with care, and first displays ’em, Then in a play-book smoothly lays ’em. Now dexterously her plumpers draws, That serve to fill her hollow jaws. Untwists a wire; and from her gums A set of teeth completely comes. Pulls out the rags contrived to prop Her flabby dugs and down they drop. Proceeding on, the lovely goddess Unlaces next her steel-ribbed bodice; Which by the operator’s skill, Press down the lumps, the hollows fill, Up goes her hand, and off she slips The bolsters that supply her hips. With gentlest touch, she next explores Her shankers, issues, running sores, Effects of many a sad disaster; And then to each applies a plaister. But must, before she goes to bed, Rub off the dawbs of white and red; And smooth the furrows in her front With greasy paper stuck upon’t. She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; And then between two blankets creeps. With pains of love tormented lies; Or if she chance to close her eyes, Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams, And feels the lash, and faintly screams; Or, by a faithless bully drawn, At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; Or to Jamaica seems transported, Alone, and by no planter courted; Or, near Fleet-Ditch’s oozy brinks, Surrounded with a hundred stinks, Belated, seems on watch to lie, And snap some cully passing by; Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs On watchmen, constables and duns, From whom she meets with frequent rubs; But, never from religious clubs; Whose favor she is sure to find, Because she pays ’em all in kind. Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight! Behold the ruins of the night! A wicked rat her plaster stole, Half eat, and dragged it to his hole. The crystal eye, alas, was missed; And puss had on her plumpers pissed. A pigeon picked her issue-peas; And Shock her tresses filled with fleas. The nymph, tho’ in this mangled plight, Must ev’ry morn her limbs unite. But how shall I describe her arts To recollect the scattered parts? Or shew the anguish, toil, and pain, Of gath’ring up herself again? The bashful muse will never bear In such a scene to interfere. Corinna in the morning dizened, Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison’d.

In bed I muse on Tenier’s boors, Embrowned and beery losels all: A wakeful brain Elaborates pain: Within low doors the slugs of boors Laze and yawn and doze again. In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors, Their hazy hovel warm and small: Thought’s ampler bound But chill is found: Within low doors the basking boors Snugly hug the ember-mound. Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall: Thought’s eager sight Aches—overbright! Within low doors the boozy boors Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.

Benny said To Ruby Lee, “M-A-R-R-Y M-E!” Ruby said, To Benny, “Ben, wouldn't That be F-U-N?” Benny said, “My Ruby Lee, We will W-E-D Only if you let me K- I-S-S you Every day!”

it’s clear the wind won’t let up and a swim’s out — what you planned is scotched. forget the calls, errands at the mall — yr resolve’s superfluous as a clitoris. how miraculous the gratuitous — spandrels, cathedrals. on a sea of necessity let’s float wholly unnecessary & call that free

The scruffy house cat aches to fly— she dreams all day of wings and sky! So tonight she climbs the ladder, mounts a platform, nothing matters except to catch a thin trapeze then hold on tight with grace and ease. She swings herself by both front paws then somesaults to wild applause of kitchen mice, who, though dizzy, encourage Cat, to keep her busy.

Sometimes I think about climbing a telephone pole but then what? Telephone poles now have almost nothing to do with telephones but I liked how a curly cord went into the receiver then a sturdier black wire went into the wall through the wall out to a pole then miles and miles of wire pole wire pole sometimes underground underwater to whomever you needed who’d dry her hands thinking Gosh now what or Thank heavens or Oh no then say Hello as a question or a lie then the intimate negotiations and sorry confessions and flat jokes would take word form from excited electrons moving through the wire and sometimes a cowboy would suddenly gallop to town through dust and cactus Yup a storm’s a-coming to call someone but the fates always intend so the cowboy must listen for the rest of his days to the phone make a funny insect-performing-Beckett sound until the operator comes on and says, Sorry but that calling area's been hit by the blast and the cowboy thinks, What blast? What blast? riding off into the moonlessly blue chaparral.

The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain) The Door-mat you see on his head Is not, as some learned professors maintain, The opulent growth of a genius’ brain; But is sewn on with needle and thread.