767 Humor poems

When life seems gray And short of fizz It seems that way Because it is.

At Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add “Bless their hearts” after their names, you can say whatever you want about them and it’s OK. My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,

A flowery old-fashioned kind of speechlessness.

As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Each wife had seven sacks, Each sack had seven cats, Each cat had seven kits: Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were there going to St. Ives?

I don’t care how God-damn smart these guys are: I’m bored. It’s been raining like hell all day long and there’s nothing to do.

I can now confirm that I am not just fatter than everyone I work with, but I’m also fatter than all their spouses. Even the heavily bearded bear in accounting has a little otter-like boyfriend. When my co-workers brightly introduce me as “the funny one in the office,” their spouses give them a look which translates to, Well, duh, then they both wait for me to say something funny. A gaggle of models comes shrieking into the bar to further punctuate why I sometimes hate living in this city. They glitter, a shiny gang of scissors. I don’t know how to look like I’m not struggling. Sometimes on the subway back to Queens, I can tell who’s staying on past the Lexington stop because I have bought their shoes before at Payless. They are shoes that fool absolutely no one. Everyone wore their special holiday party outfits. It wasn’t until I arrived at the bar that I realized my special holiday party outfit was exactly the same as the outfits worn by the restaurant’s busboys. While I’m standing in line for the bathroom, another patron asks if I’m there to clean it.

As if  anyone has the desire    . . . Vickey trailed off, pouring another lager There'll be nothing left But fur and bone, as my lawyer once explained To my ex, she resumed, tapping a long cigarette On the bar. My, you're a bit snarky tonight Said Luther. Maybe you need a change of  venue, A beach with your breath on it Oh, she replied, nodding towards the far corner booth, These writers are so obnoxious I wish they'd find a new place to complain. Ha, said Hillary, they wouldn't know a good story If  it bit 'em in the butt. Plus, added Vickey There's always the lurking danger One may launch into a speech on human nature. I'll back that, said Rick (who, when animated Would lick his index finger and sweep it back and forth As if quickly turning pages of a catalog) They're just a bunch of spare parts clogging a garage. Hear, hear, exclaimed Hillary, let's give it to the boors And literary whores. How a bonfire magnifies everything. Or that early Skift of snow across brown meadows When you still haven't canned the peaches. Settle down Rick, said Luther, this isn't Chicago Indeed, Vickey countered, this town used to be known As Little  Jerusalem by certain parties in the old days All the churches. And hypocrite politicians, Added Luther. Well, it's all downhill from the north Where wanness began its mission, continued Rick, Waving his empty pint. Jesus, you can be a bore, said Vickey All heroes become bores eventually, instructed Hillary But did you know when Rick was born He looked like a little worm. His aunt told me — Luther, studying her profile, said I was a little worm too

And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance, I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance; I thout o’ the days when I was but fifteen, And skipp’d wi’ the best upon Forbes’s green. Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer, It brings that that’s by-past and sets it down here; I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace, When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace. The lasses aw wonder’d what Willy cud see In yen that was dark and hard featur’d leyke me; And they wonder’d ay mair when they talk’d o’ my wit, And slily telt Willy that cudn’t be it: But Willy he laugh’d, and he meade me his weyfe, And whea was mair happy thro’ aw his lang leyfe? It’s e’en my great comfort, now Willy is geane, The he offen said— nae place was leyke his awn heame! I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle Where Willy was deykin, the time to beguile, He wad fling me a daisy to put i’ my breast, And I hammer’d my noddle to mek out a jest. But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell There was nin o’ the leave that was leyke my awn sel; And he spak what he thout, for I’d hardly a plack When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back. When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame, And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane; Of aw hours it telt eight was dearest to me, But now when it streykes there’s a tear i’ my ee. O Willy! dear Willy! it never can be That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me! For that spot on earth that’s aye dearest to me, Is the turf that has cover’d my Willy frae me!

She turns the bedlamp on. The book falls open in her mottled hands, and while she reads her mouth begins to quiver, forming words like Breathless. Promises. Elope. As she turns the leaves, Eudora's cheek takes on a bit of bloom. Her frowzy hair thickens and turns gold, her dim eyes clear, the wattles vanish from her slender neck. Her waist, emerging from its ring of flesh, bends to the side. Breasts that used to hang like pockets rise and ripen; her long legs tremble. Her eyes close, she holds her breath— the steamy pages flutter by, unread, as lover after lover finds her bed.

“There’s never a dull moment in the human body.” —The Insight Lady Dear old equivocal and closest friend, Grand Vizier to a weak bewildered king, Now we approach The Ecclesiastean Age Where the heart is like to go off inside your chest Like a party favor, or the brain blow a fuse And the comic-book light-bulb of Idea black out Forever, the idiot balloon of speech Go blank, and we shall know, if it be knowing, The world as it was before language once again; Mighty Fortress, maybe already mined And readying to blow up grievances About the lifetime of your servitude, The body of this death one talkative saint Wanted to be delivered of (not yet!), Aggressively asserting your ancient right To our humiliation by the bowel Or the rough justice of the elderly lecher’s Retiring from this incontinence to that; Dark horse, it’s you we’ve put the money on Regardless, the parody and satire and The nevertheless forgiveness of the soul Or mind, self, spirit, will or whatever else The ever-unknowable unknown is calling itself This time around—shall we renew our vows? How should we know by now how we might do Divorced? Homely animal, in sickness and health, For the duration; buddy, you know the drill.