Having a Ball!
 

The Wet & Wild World Wide Web

After GMH

A darksome dude, curled-hair brown,
His rocks and dick jut up down
In tweets and Pinterest rising to roam,
Flute-like extending, frantic to foam.

His headstrong-hammer bulges cloth,
Rapidly twindles its own broth;
A pool that he holds back, while groaning,
Engorging himself, hot for boning.

Dabbed with dew, self-dappling spew,
Is the groin of this bro, yearning to screw;
Wiry pudhairs & bollocks now churn,
And his bounce-bonny pecker feels the burn.

What would the web be, once bereft
Of Weiner wet and wild? Let him be left,
O let him be left, all wildness & wet;
Long live this wiener’s world wide jet.

This one sucks dogs. While I credit myself as a pasticheur, I am rather proud of not being able to write like GMH.

I can't do it either. I just pretend I can. I think you need a Catholic faith and a yearning for young buglers. Oh, and you probably have to be Welsh. Bardic keening, don't you know.

O, dreary, dog-sucking, doggerel-loving pasticheurs, who has a
More downright, dogged view of the dread Hopkins than our Bazza?

Season of Constancy
 

Conserve, conserve, D. Cameron, those ways
Passed on before from those of wisdom-days!
Discerning rightly, thus divine, divide,
So we in turn in this truth may abide:
That if all Tories ever should unite
In policy, Great Britain would fall quite.
On Europe long dissension sets the tone,
And on continues, a persistent drone;
Loud Blare has passed, that called out men to War
But still not all are clear what they’re there for;
On lobbying, restrictions are half-hearted,
Allowing loopholes to those deviously-arted.
D. Cameron! Commandments new you raise-
Pronouncing marriage to extend to gays-
Thus, split your Party equally both ways;
The Tory status quota lives! We praise.

Oh, well done, Graham. I didn't think GMH could be made into anything appealing and didn't even dare to try.

Doesn't fit the bill, but it was fun. From the Poetry website.

Fried Beauty
By R. S. Gwynn b. 1948

Glory be to God for breaded things—
Catfish, steak finger, pork chop, chicken thigh,
Sliced green tomatoes, pots full to the brim
With french fries, fritters, life-float onion rings,
Hushpuppies, okra golden to the eye,
That in all oils, corn or canola, swim


Toward mastication’s maw (O molared mouth!);
Whatever browns, is dumped to drain and dry
On paper towels’ sleek translucent scrim,
These greasy bounties of my battered South:
Eat them.

I've always loved that poem, Sam.

And I've never seen it before but I love it now.

Ditto, John, but... 'hush puppies'?!!

Oh... cornballs, not footwear.
(The Wikipedia entry has charming etymology and fascinating anecdotes; Hush Puppies (footwear) may have saved Keith Richards' life.)

And thanks, Nigel! I wasn't sure I'd been 'GMH' enough. (I may enter that one for the 'light touch' comp, too.)

Meanwhile (maybe more like GMH?):

The Weather-Mood
This summer hovered hawk-like in the air,
Aloof-aloft, then swooping wild too near
Beat on our brows with wings rapt close about
Of heat till drawing off; long rainfalls, drought and doubt,
Whose rumour and report preyed on our minds-
Rapscallion of seasons, predator of peace!
Surpriser of our Expectations: pounce-upon
Of mice those are, those little fretful things
That scurry (our breasts as their fields) beneath a sun
Or rain they cannot order nor with wit foretell.
Yet Wimbledon seemed to go off quite well,
And England smiles that Murray (a Scot) won.