Wed 23 Mar, 2016 03:29 pm
I'm Popeye the Sailor Man
I live in a garbage can
I loves to to swimmin'
With bow-leggéd wimmin
I'm Popeye the Sailor Man!
High class poetry don't rhyme, don't have meter, and don't have meaning. It does have unequal line lengths.
You think your way, and i'll think mine. Apparently, you ain't poetic.
Jingle Bells, Batman smells
Robin laid an egg.
The Batmobile lost a wheel
and the Joker got away (Hey!)
I see others here are willing to maintain a high level of poetic discourse.
I once knew a girl
Or I might say, she once knew me
SHE showed me her room
then I got er good
with my Norwegian Wood.
I know a girl
She lives on the hill
She won't do it
But her sister will
Obviously, the poetry is trending toward the agoniste between men and the wimmins. A poem for girls . . .
Here's how i got that way
It was the boy next door
He laid me on the floor
My mother was surprised
To see my belly rise
And now my baby cries
A poem for the hungry masses.
Great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts,
Mutilated monkey meat.
Dirty little birdie feet.
And two pints of all purpose porpoise pus
And me without my spoon
welcome to CAMP UNALATCHTIGO 1962
A true classic, Chai . . .
A swimmer whose clothing got strewed
by breezes that left her quite nude
saw a man come along,
and unless we are wrong,
you expected this line to be lewd...
I can't share this often enough
Ode on the Mammoth Cheese
We have seen the Queen of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze --
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
All gaily dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial Show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.
Cows numerous as a swarm of bees --
Or as the leaves upon the trees --
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled Queen of Cheese.
May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great World's show at Paris.
Of the youth -- beware of these --
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek; then songs or glees
We could not sing o' Queen of Cheese.
We'rt thou suspended from baloon,
You'd cast a shade, even at noon;
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.
Well ehBeth, as long as you're being at semi high class, here's a real type poem I listened to Garrison Keillor read yesterday. Kinda choked me up, especially visualizing the dog and the waves....This is for you and Set.
A Dog by the Sea
by David Salner
Just after dawn, we get up,
without coffee, and let the dog lead us
through a grove of wind-stunted trees,
spiked succulents, red-berried holly,
and over the dune ridge out of the gray
of still sleeping minds. A line of pink
from the not yet risen sun
reminds me of the lilac shadows
caught in the radial grooves of shells.
I take up your hand and feel the blood
warming your fingers, as the dog bounds off
dragging her leash through wet sand.
She’s after gulls and a line of waves
that repeat themselves, she seems to think,
because they want to play.
A morning breeze
stirs the now turning tide, breathing over it,
sighing toward bayside. As the waves come in
whorls of light unfold on the sand. How I want
for us to repeat ourselves, on and on,
you holding the leash of a silly dog, me
feeling the beat, the blood in your hand.
Well, seeing as we have now gone all highbrow, I shall join in.
All served up with a dead dog's eye,
Dead man's giblets laid on thick,
All washed down with a cup of cold sick.
(Playground poem circa 1964)
The rhino is a homely beast,
For human eyes he's not a feast.
Farewell, farewell, you old rhinoceros,
I'll stare at something less prepoceros.
-- Ogden Nash
From Patrick O'Brian's novel The Fortune of War, a song by giddy midshipmen:
Our Captain was very good to us,
He dipped his prick in phosphorus;
It shed a light all through the night
And steered us through the Bosphorus.
As I was going to Leicester square
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
How I wish he'd go away.
The Elephant is a pretty bird
Its hair is long and wavy
It builds it's nest in a rhubarb tree
And lays its eggs in gravy
The Elephant is a pretty bird
It flits from bough to bough
It builds its nest in a rhubarb tree
And whistles like a cow.
Edward Lear, I believe.
Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?