Posts filed under “Poetry”
AN OLD NURSERY RHYME.
Tepid Teddy Tinker
Was a sloppy thinker;
When he guzzled too much wine,
Mixed up Kant and Wittgenstein.
Silly Sally Sturgeon
Took him for a surgeon,
Married him before she knew
He couldn’t tell K. from W.
Now she’s another heavy drinker,
And it’s thanks to Teddy Tinker.
Teddy Tinker, Teddy Tinker,
Wasn’t he an awful stinker?
A WINTER LAMENT.
Is you friz?
Are I froze?
Yes, we is,
I suppose.
ADVERTISING JINGLE,
Commissioned for Brenneman’s BacteriSafe Soap from the noted poet and singer-songwriter Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle.
Soap!
Soap!
Beautiful soap!
Friend of the grimy and emblem of hope!
If you feel slimy, there’s no need to mope:
Count on our soap—
Beautiful soap!
Soap!
Soap!
Excellent soap!
Don’t whimper “Why me?” and sigh like a dope.
Tell yourself, “Blimey! I’ll get me some soap!
Wonderful soap—
Brenneman’s soap!”
(Comes in greenish or taupe.)
SAFETY SCOREBOARD.
THE SPONGE.
There is a place where sponges grow;
Where corals sit and contemplate
The awful mysteries of fate;
Where, pickled in eternal brine,
The sea-cucumbers mope and pine,
Imagining a better life
Above the ocean’s daily strife;
Where sea-anemones despair
And curse the tangled hair they wear;
Where hermit crabs, dejected, roam
From shell to shell in search of home.
Not so, not so the gentle sponge.
Misfortune never makes him plunge
Into depression, nor does pain
Make much impression on his brain:
His brain in youth was very small,
But now he has no brain at all.
The key to bliss would seem to be
Inflexible stupidity.
We humans bear a brainy curse,
But we could do a whole lot worse
Than imitate this mindless sage
Who eats his brain when he comes of age.
HARK!
By Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle.
Hark!
In the dark,
In the park,
A most misguided lark
Will bark.
Now, mark
How the lark
Long past midnight will bark—
The lalalalalalalark
In the park
In the stark
Dreary dark.
If you ask, Why a lark?
Why a bark in the dark in the park?
No idea. Not a spark.
But the lark
Still will bark
In the dark.
Therefore, hark.
WARNING LABEL.
REINCARNATION,
By Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle.
As if a ten-year-old percussionist
With dreams of playing for the Rolling Stones
Were living in my ear and practicing
And hoping against hope that he would be
Discovered in his aural practice room
By agents from a record company
That went extinct in 1969
Suggests that next time someone says, “Drink up!
You only go round once!” I ought to say,
“I plan to go round several thousand times,
Metempsychosis willing, and I think
I should consider what my future lives
Will think of me, and in particular
The future life I plan to live tomorrow.”
DR. BOLI’S VERY BAD ADVICE FOR CHILDREN.
No. 4.—The Tyger.
The tyger isn’t burning bright!
Poor unenlightened cat!
Here—take this match. Set him alight
And see how he likes that.
THE SPEECH.
The rest of you… Looks like I’ve made a mess
Already. What I really mean to say
Is, Here we are, on this auspicious day—
I think the day’s auspicious. That’s the word,
I think. Well, anyway, you may have heard
That on this day in 1928
Our local chapter held its first—no, wait,
I think I mean in 1927.
4 minus 5, and carry the 11,
and—no, I think I had it right before.
Subtraction always makes my eyeballs sore.
At any rate, on this auspicious day,
We’re here. That’s what I really meant to say.
And so, auspiciously, we gather here,
For sacred duty, and because there’s beer,
And celebrate our chapter. —Well, that’s bad.
I’ve lost the special poem I thought I had.
I wrote it just for— well, of all the— Folks,
Does anybody here know any jokes?
Looks like my speech is done. —Thanks for the cheers.
They really are like music to my ears.