Humorous
A Gardeners Last Wish
Don’t carry me off in
A brass handle coffin
With a wreath on my chest –
I won’t be at “at rest”.
There’s nothing much worse
Than a ride in a hearse
To a hole in the ground
With just strangers around.
No – bury me deep
In the compost heap
Or pop me right under
A nice floribunda.
It’s really much wiser
To become fertiliser.
Then I can grow roses
As I decomposes!
The Nose
“Tis very odd that poets should suppose,
there is no poetry about the nose,
when plain as is the nose upon your face
a noseless face would lack poetic grace,
Noses have sympathy; a lover knows
Noses are always touched, when lips are kissing
and who would care to kiss where nose was missing?
Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose,
and where would be our moral means of telling
whether a vile or wholesome odour flows,
if we owned no sense of smelling?
I know a nose, a nose no other knows -
neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows,
beauty is in it’s form, and music in it’s blows.
The ABC
T’was midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut,
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud ‘Tut-tut!’
Said A to B, ‘I don’t like C;
His manners are lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!’
‘I disagree,’ said D to B
‘I’ve never found C so.
From where I stand, he seems to be
And uncompleted O.’
C was vexed, ‘I’m much perplexed,
You criticize my shape.
I’m made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape.’
He’s right,’ said E; said F, ‘Whoopee!’
Said G, ‘Ip ‘Ip, ‘ooray!’
‘You’re dropping me,’ roared H to G.
‘Don’t do it please I pray!’
Out of my way,’ LL said to K.
I’ll make poor I look Ill.’
To stop this stunt, J stood in front,
And presto! Ill was Jill.
‘U know,’ said V, ‘that W
Is twice the age of me,
For as a Roman V is five
I’m half as young as he.
X and Y yawned sleepily,
‘Look at the time!’ they said.
They all jumped in to bed
And the last one in was Z
Spike Milligan
At the Sign of the Prancing Pony
There is an inn, an old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill.
The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he runs his bow,
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
Now sawing in the middle.
The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there’s good cheer among the guests,
he cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.
They also keep a horned cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
and makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.
And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there’s a special pair,
and these they polish up with care
on Saturday afternoons.
The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
the cow in the garden madly pranced,
and the little dog chased his tail.
The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
till in the sky the stars were pale,
and the dawn was in the air.
The olster said to his tipsy cat:
‘The white horses of the Moon,
they neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master’s been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun’ll be rising soon!’
So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead.
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
while the landlord shook the Man in the Moon;
‘Its after three!’ he said.
They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the Moon,
while his horses galloped up in rear,
and the cow came capering like a deer,
and the dish ran up with the spoon.
Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
The dog began to roar,
the cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.
With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!
The cow jumped over the moon,
and the little dog laughed to see such fun,
and the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.
The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
as the Sun raised up her head.
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise
they all went back to bed!
J. R. R. Tolkien
On the Ning Nang Nong
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There’s a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can’t catch ‘em when they do!
So it’s Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
Spike Milligan
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy, O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’
Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! Let us be married; too long we have tarried
But what shall we do for a ring?’
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear
Mr Thing-um-me-Bob
Old Mr Thing-um-me-Bob,
Works at You-know-where,
Drops his What-you-may-call-it down,
In front of something… to stare.
‘Oh, My Gracious me!’ said Thing-um-me-Bob,
‘This don’t look to bright,
I’ll ask ol’ Mr What’s-is-Name’
To try and put it right’.
Along came Mr What’s-is-Name,
He said, ‘You’ve broke the lot!
I’ll have to see what I can do,
With some of the you-know-what!.
So he gave the What-you-may-call-it a pit,
And he gave it a pat as well,
When all of a sudden come a flash of light,
Then some noise to tell.
‘It’s as good as new! Cried Mr-What’s-is-Name,
‘But please remember, here;
In the future, Mr Thing-um-me-Bob,
To turn it on, at the thing-um-me-jig, just over there!’
Silly Old Baboon
There was a Baboon
Who, one afternoon,
Said, ‘I think I will fly to the sun.’
So, with two great palms
Strapped to his arms, He started his take-off run.
Mile after mile
He galloped in style
But never once left the ground.
‘You’re running too slow.’
Said a passing crow,
‘Try reaching the speed of sound.’
So he put on a spurt –
By God how it hurt!
The soles of his feet caught fire.
There were great clouds of steam
But he still didn’t get any higher.
Racing on through the night,
Both his knees caught alight
And smoke billowed out from his rear.
Quick to his aid
Came the fire brigade
Who chased him for over a year.
Many moons passed by.
Did Baboon ever fly?
Did he ever get to the sun?
I’ve just heard today
That he’s well on his way!
He’ll be passing through Acton at one.
P.S. Well, what do you expect from a Baboon?
Spike Milligan
The Tickle Rhyme
“Who’s that tickling my back?” said the wall.
“Me” said a small caterpillar . ” I’m learning to crawl!”
Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face
Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.
Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat.
for you’d be forced to smell your feet.
Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.
Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.
Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place –
be glad your nose is on your face!
Llamas in Pyjamas
‘Why don’t llamas
Wear pyjamas?’
Bobby said to me.
‘Kangaroos in trews
Or gnus in shoes
Would be quite a sight to see!
Consider the size of a fruit fly’s ties,
Or pants on a ant,’ said he,
‘Or a gnat in a hat,
Or a centipede’s tweeds,
How would they be?’ said he.
It would make me laugh,
A giraffe in a scarf,
Or a wig on a pig,’ said he.
‘Why don’t mosquitoes
Wear tuxedoes
When they go to tea?
Whales in tails,
Or newts in suits,
What a funny sight for me!
But when it’s cold,
It’s nice to be told
To put on a coat,’ said he.
‘And when I’m snug,
As a bug in a rug,
I’m glad I’m me,’
Said Bobby to me,
I’m glad I’m me said he.
The Centipede’s Song
‘I ‘ve eaten many strange and Scrumptious dishes in my time,
Like Jellied gnats and dandyprats and earwigs cooked in slime,
And mice with rice – they’re really nice when roasted in their prime.
(But don’t forget to sprinkle them with just a pinch of grime.)
‘I’ve eaten fresh mudburgers by the greatest cooks there are,
And scrambled dregs and stinkbugs’ eggs and hornets stewed in tar,
And pails of snails and lizards’ tails, and beetles by the jar.
(A beetle is improved by just a splash of vinegar.)
‘I often eat boiled slobbages. They’re grand when served beside
Minced doodlebug and curried slugs. And have you ever tried
Mosquitoes’ toes and wampfish roes
Most delicately fried?
(The only trouble is they disagree with my inside.)
‘I’m mad for crispy wasp-stings on a piece of buttered toast,
And pickled spines of porcupines. And then a gorgeous roast
Of dragons’s flesh, well hung, not fresh – it costs a pound at most,
(And comes to you in barrels if you order it by post.)
‘I crave the tasty tentacles of octopi for tea
I like hot-dogs, I LOVE hot-frogs, and surely you’ll agree
A plate of soil with engine oil’s
A super recipe.
(I hardly need to mention that it’s practically free.)
‘For dinner on my birthday shall I tell you what I chose
Hot noodles made from poodles on a slice of garden hose –
And a rather smelly jelly made of armadillo’s toes.
(the jelly is delicious, but you have to hold your nose.)
‘Now comes,’ the Centipede declared, ’the burden of my speech:
These foods are rare beond compare – some are right out of reach;
But there’s no doubt I’d go without
A million plates of each
For one small mite,
One tiny bite
Of this FANTASTIC PEACH!
Roald Dahl