Some say that all life is a stage
A man plays all roles by his age
He first plays a tot
Then adulthood he's got
To return to childhood on the last page
apologies to Shakes.
'Twas brilling, in Carroll's enchanted coves
and then something about slithy toves
Made up language, talk the talk
and hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Then hug me boy, in the borogoves
I was considering writing it as something like
Then hug me boy, but don't touch the borogoves
But it didn't scan.
Edgar Allan Poe:
Take this kiss, a master's tirade!
While in the back, touching the maid
She swoon away
With his sway
But soon was up, and getting laid.
Yet the master, feeling so strong
Decided to pursue, there's nothing wrong
Having a quickie
It's not picky
Having a good time, where I do belong.
When Grendel attacked Hrothgar's treasure
Beowulf spoiled his pleasure.
He quick as a rocket
Pulled G's arm from its socket,
Then messed up his mom for good measure.
Edgar Allan Poe, dream within a dream:
The master stand, sleep and snore
The maid went, to the kitchen explore
Searching on demand
Something bland
As the master had, his tongue so sore.
When she returned, he still asleep
She rubbed his lips, it was so creep
Oh God, what's it?
He started to spit
Feeling the taste of Merril Streep.
Quote:Though...I don't think a lady ever permits hugging in her borogroves.
The best ladies are frequently bussed in the borogroves.
Borogroves are creatures, though. (I think they're the birdy ones, and the slithy toves are the badgerish ones.)
The cruise is completed, my Captain.
But oh holy heck, what is happenin?
There's blood on the deck.
His head is a wreck.
(Dibs on the hammock he napped in!)
(...continuing the nautical theme)
It was an ancient mariner
Who seemed a bit the worse for beer.
He grabbed a guest,
And beat his breast,
Then fixed him with a glassy leer.
"Mayhap you know the Albatross,
Which haunts me worse than Visa loss ?"
"Don't know that pub.
Do they serve grub ?"
His captive squeaked, and clutched his cross.
The bearded loon did grab his throat,
"A BIRD it is on which I dote !"
"Well don't blame me.
Get back to sea.
Those barmaids aren't allowed afloat !"
"The Limerick of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Though I be meek as a mouse
All it takes is a peek at your blouse
For the orations of Ceaser
To gush forth from this geezer
Who's not ready to leave this whore house
sozobe wrote:Borogroves are creatures, though. (I think they're the birdy ones, and the slithy toves are the badgerish ones.)
There's such a thing as being TOO rational you know.
George wrote:The cruise is completed, my Captain.
But oh holy heck, what is happenin?
There's blood on the deck.
His head is a wreck.
(Dibs on the hammock he napped in!)
Great rhyme!
But what the heck poem is that?
This poem was composed as a homage to Abraham Lincoln
after his assassination.
O Captain My Captain
by Walt Whitman
O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
A pastoral scene, perhaps with bug
that maiden's got a lovely mug
O Attic shape! fair attitude!
Will you allow some lattitude?
C'mon, now, Keats; it's just a jug
George wrote:When Grendel attacked Hrothgar's treasure
Beowulf spoiled his pleasure.
He quick as a rocket
Pulled G's arm from its socket,
Then messed up his mom for good measure.
Best one so far . . .
I had always thought, though, that limericks were to be a bit dirty or bawdy . . .
Years ago in that kingdom by sea
I put the moves on ol' Annabelle Lee
Angels in an envious pout
Put young Annie's lights out
So now its necrophilia for me ! ! !
