Your favourite comic poem

Marriage - Gregory Corso - continuation

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

You may like this one...

The Raven: A Parody

I have often seen that raven with his crest all shorn and shaven
Ghastly grim and all so brave and sitting on the bust above my door
I have heard his horrid croak as the fire I softly stoked
While the Night’s enfolding cloak sheltered me from a day so sore—
While the enfolding cloak of night sheltered me from a day so sore—
When the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Just one thing, though, that I wonder, on one thing my soul doth ponder,
Each time I see him sitting yonder on the bust above my door.
One question that I ask, as I go about my daily tasks
Each time I hear the raven rasp “Nevermore” above my door—
Each time that ebon bird of ill-omen croaks “Nevermore” above my door—
And that is: “WHO THE HECK IS LENORE?!” http://www.websmileys.com/sm/aliens/bigcheek.gif

Jonathan Blade

I adore Poe's poems so this little twist is quite witty, Pendragon. You should mention who the heck Jonathan Blade is so you can take a bow! Take full credit! :)

Very well. Since Darlin has given me away...

Jonathan Blade is a pseudonym under which I write poetry, short fiction, etc. That doesn't mean that this poem isn't from a legitimate published source. I just own the copyrights to all my poetry and short stories, so I am free to do with them as I please.

This poem first was published in MOBIUS MAGAZINE Spring/Summer 1997. I am not certain if they are even still in circulation. Most of my poetry has been take by small poetry magazines that are published by and for poets. Payment is a copy of the magazine in which your poem appears. All copyrights revert to the author upon publication. With 130+ published poems and 18 short stories to date, I consider myself fortunate. And besides, it's fun! :)

Roger McGough - Let Me Die A Young Man's Death

Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death

The Purist
by Ogden Nash

I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist,
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."

The Vine by Robert Herreck made me smile:

I DREAM'D this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv'lits were embrac'd:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem'd to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.

There are some great ones by Sir John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester... but we can't post those here.:blush:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by byquist

Gwendolyn Brooks'

We Real Cool

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

---

Hmm...I never thought of this as a comic poem. Did I miss something about it? It seems incredibly sad.

Oh and my favorite has already made it on the board. I love Jabberwocky.

'The Germ'
by Ogden Nash


A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

Rebecca
Hilaire Belloc
Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably

A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy banker’s little daughter
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this furious sport.

She would deliberately go
And slam the door like billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild;
She was an aggravating child…

It happened that a marble bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the door this little lamb
Had carefully prepared to slam,
And down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that.

Her funeral sermon (which was long
And followed by a sacred song)
Mentioned her virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her vices too,
And showed the deadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun.

The children who were brought to hear
The awful tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the door,
— As often they had done before.
Online text © 1998-2007 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Cautionary Tales for Children | 1920