Here are a few nonsense poems written for my own amusement.
The scat in the hat
I done a poo in a hat
You can’t say fairer than that
I done a poo in a lake
A girl fished it out with a rake
I done a poo on a lathe
It started out slight but turned into a swathe
I done a poo on a cat with no legs
They washed it all off, now she sits up and begs
I done a poo on a runcible spoon
But the dish ran away at the sight of my moon
I done a poo on a jellicle cat
I wonder what old Thomas Stearns thought of that
I done a poo on a fisherman’s wig
The volume was large as the meal had been big.
It took him three years to get rid of the smell
With the strict application of strong-scented gel
I done a poo in a radial arc
You’d do the same being chased by a shark
I done a poo on my doctor’s white glove
The aim had been mainly to show her my love
I done a poo thrice a day for a year
To break a world record I’ve always held dear
I done a poo in a patented style
The judge fined me dear for infringement of bile
I done a poo on a rare Jackson Pollock
By way of critiquing that mad alcoholic
I done a poo on some Japanese prints
My Hokusai’s hues have been subtler since
I done a poo on some Japanese prince
He endured it with grace though the smell made him wince
I done a poo on my surgeon’s cream bun,
Now a colectomy’s put an end to my fun.
A lewd ichthyosaurus loved language so blue.
Dictionaries of slang he consumed till he knew
All the words queer and common alluding to loo.
Dick, ‘the sore arse’, a lewd English prof, to his zoo
Took a ludic thesaurus, fed that to him too.
Now with ludic thesaurus the lewd ichthyosaurus
Writes sonnets of love to a blue kangaroo
Foe’s Amour Met I
The belle of the ball
She cracks me a smile
I smile at her back
I smile at her crack
She smacks at my bell and my balls
Smack the small of her back
A Double Bed
My love, my coquette, once in innocence wallowed
She doth no longer seem an innocent swallow.
My love my cock ette once, in innocence swallowed
She doth no longer semen innocent swallow
Perhaps, my love, only in jest did my ode err –
Perhaps my love only ingested my odour?
The origami master, in folding never ceased
But lacking fresher spirit, his later works de-creased
The fading of old master in the art of folding paper?
The farting of old paper – the fate of olding parper?
The faster molding of old master folding paper ape a
sharper shape a paper raper apercuberotixoticktock tick tock…
The artist’s ‘I’ dissolving, inner symmetry corrupt
The barmy origami magi airily…
Erupts! A past origami magi rots… a past pure.
Paper upset at, orimagi magi rotates pure pap.
Though in time fame, talent, breath depart us
As long as you inspire us, we live on in our flatus
You’re never alone with a mirror
You’ll always be big to an ant
A nomad would go mad confined to a home
Add a leg to a leg for a pant
You’ll never get eggs from an otter
A dwarf on a stilt remains short
A random mélange of beef, bird and blancmange
Never tasted like anything ought
If my shoes are caked in dandruff,
My jeans streaked with
Gobbets of earwax
If I seem high, and with every
Loping step, I appear on the edge of falling
If my voice is faint, far-away, and
My eyes peer at the distance through
A jungle of hair
If I keep my
Turds in a bag
Or you see a back
Spattered with shit
It is because I stand
On the shoulders of giants