Oh dear!
I could have sworn
that I saw Clive
had posted double!

What will folks think?!
The shame!
The scorn!
I'm in a heap of trouble!

T'was not your double vision, Poo--
Clive's post was duplicated,
but Mother Techie with her broom
deftly eliminated
the scattered useless residue,
as other moms are wont to do,
when children leave a messy room;
in fact: administrated.

CT

Well, said, O Clive, but you neglect to mention:
Though techie hotlines seem of little use,
There's nothing hotter, if you like abuse--
So say the connoisseurs of condescension.

That's very true,
Chris W,
I've heard that if you're keen
on SM hell
phone AOL
for help with your machine.

and what's this - posting double - me?
how could such things such things things be
me - posting double? what's this? me
me posting double - such things be?

I think that someone should combine
a tech and suicide hotline.
That way folks who give support
and blithely say, "Abort! Abort!"
could quickly add before you do't,
"I meant to say, 'Reboot! Reboot!'"

"Reboot" you say?
Okay, I will.
Though I just took
the damn things off!

(...and I'll gather up my whips and chains
before he has a chance to scoff)

Pua, when I said "reboot,"
I did not mean galoshes.
Nor did I mean you to impute
I asked for chains or lashes.

I told you that I'm partial for
the gentle, nay, the lamb-like.
I don't like things that make me sore.
In truth, that's what I am like.


[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited January 20, 2002).]

<h4>“What comes first...?”</h4>
Oh, it is the chicken that comes first,
Before the egging (the laying on of worst

Impressions ill-rehearsed
And quickly versed

But highly stressed)—
When bowels burst,

It cackles, cackles, having forced
A motherload of wit—

Through clenching muscles,
Sprayed corpuscles

Of shit-
Heads will roll

Rather droll
Down textured shells

Once white,
Now sluiced

By ne'er-do-wells'
“Holy writ.”

BANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POST*

Oh, it is the egg—those golden eggs!—
That makes a chicken

Hawk the wares between its legs
Unawares: moonstricken

By the lump
Under its rump,

It crows around the clock—
Even though the hen-house begs

For peace, it crows around the clock—
Of stretching sphincters

And golden ventures—
But doesn't know that it's a cock.

BANNED POST


[This message has been edited by Curtis Gale Weeks (edited January 20, 2002).]

Which came first - the chicken or the egg?
The answer can be found in Darwin's theories.
Since fish preceded hens by several eons,
the egg came first. Now - any other queries?

There once was a passionate maid
whose morals had so far decayed
that she tickled a rooster
until he seduced her
and staggered away with an egg

(music)

Your limerick doth the question beg.
Which came first, the maid or the egg?

There once was a maiden from Worcester
Who farted each time I sedorcester,
So the problem I'd handle
By the use of a candle
For plugging her bung til I jorcester.

Mishy-riddle

Scratch your dome
and guess the pome:

While perching high in sky of blue,
the eagle clasps the crag with croo-
ked hands, his prey to better view.

Above the desert brightly sunned,
he spots a hare and like a thund-
erbolt attacks the rabbit stunned.

<u>Flogging a Dead Horse</u>

I like to flog a horse or two,
especially when they're dead,
but the trouble, still, you know,
is how to get them off the bed
without a team of masochists,
using ropes and hoists and pulleys
but now the animal protectionists
(who’re the dreadful beastly bullies)
have put me in a scrape or two
for my mistreating chained-up corpses
- yes, they've plunged me in the dolphin doo
for oral, tense in porpoises.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

— Alfred Tennyson

How could you do it, Nigel? please just tell me how?
when I'd already forgiven you for flogging that dead cow

(I apologize my friends, but have decided to delete the rest of the poem in an attempt of self-censorship!!)


Gabriëlle Joy Eleonora

(no offense)



[This message has been edited by joyeleonora (edited January 21, 2002).]

Good lord! Is heaven really such utter tedium,
that Tennyson's posting through a medium?

[This message has been edited by Nigel Holt (edited January 21, 2002).]

Nothing is sweller than Gabrielle,
no matter the number of times that I tell her.
Yet all my advances are swiftly rebuffed,
because of affaires with the recently stuffed.

I say Gabrielle that donkeys and asses
can't really compare with your valleys, crevasses,
your shapely defiles and mountainous passes
- 'tis a pity your tongue isn't faithful like Lassie's...

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/biggrin.gif

When posting puns so vile and vicious
One must endure retorts malicious.

How Gabrielle's disclosure makes me wonder
what she so rashly posted, then withdrew?
Did she regret an anapestic blunder. . .
or intimate confession? Wish I knew.

Like Gypsy Rose, her clothing tantalizes
more than any skin she lets us glimpse,
and when she's cold my temperature rises.
Silence and discretion are her pimps.

There's so much more I want to write, and did,
but followed her example and deleted.
In fact, I wrote an epic, which I hid
and plan to burn as soon as it's completed.

[It seems I've invented(?) a verse form for play
and all may indulge yourselves here without pay;
Be good and kind and gentle souls,
For no one wants sanctions or protocols.]


There's a wo in "woman,"
A wo in "workingman";
The wo in "woebegone" to ken,
I wish thee'd go, be gone again!

There's just one man in "Manhattan,"
A soul mon in "premonitory";
But two came running with "recommend,"
And all with memento mori.

Terese

I like to post fresh poems, although
what follows I wrote long ago
in a newfangled form invented by Coe.
Just a few ditties, and here they go:

There's an ex in "expressive,"
an ex in "expresso."
A third ex? Excessive.
Two exes? Less so.

There's a hip in "hippopotamus."
"Hip-hip hooray" has two hips.
Before I joined up with Anonymous,
I suppered on double mint juleps.

There's a jewel to be found in a "julep,"
a ewe to be found in a "jewel,"
a yo to be found in a "you" but
only a foo! in a "fool."

There's a lad inside Milady
as well as in Philadelphia.
The first part she takes gladly
but the second part is hell for her.

Aye, there's the rub—in "rubbery"!
Another found in "rubric"—
But the rub in rubifacient
Should never be seen as cherubic.

Some feel a pub is for pubis,
Some take it right out in public;
And though they are right-wing Republican,
They're often exquisitely pubic.

There's a tub in any blow-tube,
Another tub in tuberous;
But the tub with floating stubble
Transmits tuberculosis.

Terese

[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited January 22, 2002).]

Who put the 'hum' into hummus?
Who stuck 'tabu' on tabuleh?
Who stuffed the 'oft' in the kofta?
I can tell you, it wasn't yours truly.

Who sliced the 'ham' on Mohammed?
Who made him 'duller', Abdullah?
Who mentioned 'shway' to poor Shoaib?
You can bet that it wasn't a Mullah.

Who bought the 'buy' in Dubai?
Who made the 'queue' in Kuwait?
Who stole the 'dough' down in Doha?
It was the Saudi out buying a ‘date’.

'Tis a Mystery to Me

Erato's got a private room--
whatever could be hidden there?
An orgy or a pile of gold?
Wondrous treasures to behold?
A witch, perhaps, or alligator?
I bet Bluebeard's the moderator.

An empty room, sterile, bare,
concrete floor, a lumpy cot,
bare bulb, a table, chamber pot--
Bad poets, you may wind up there!
The single window has iron bars;
no mail from home, no visitors,
just a Big Chief tablet, anthology,
Roget's Thesaurus, and the OED.
The only way to be set free
is writing better poetry.

CT

I’ll tell you Tom, what’s in there
though you are rather young—
a life form that is sure to scare
still on the lowest rung.

It’s a lowly thing most men disdain
and wish they’d never seen,
for fear it will infect your brain
it’s kept in quarantine.

It breaks out sometimes (like a rash)
and gets onto a page
then all the critics have a bash
and all the poets rage.

Tom, get yourself an antidote,
but in the meantime praise.
Erato folk who say, I quote—
“We’ve locked up all cliches!”

Does writing better poetry
really set the poet free?

I fear it merely adds a lock
to chains that bind him round the clock

and make him more a slave to his
unwieldy bride who promises

to keep him well supplied with rhyme
so he can re-create the crime

that landed him in jail to start:
blood in the pen, but not the heart.

If you please
could you tell me
the name of the anthology?

If it is good
I think I would
like to take a leisured peeper.

The place sounds fine
and compared to mine,
I'm sure the rent is cheaper.


[This message has been edited by nyctom (edited January 22, 2002).]

The difference is, if you don't pay
your rent you're not allowed to stay.
The poets Carol talks about
must keep on paying to get out.

Don't talk to me of paying rent.
The direct debit has not gone out and my salary has all been spent.

By those bastards at Girobank with their inaccurate statements, I was so sorely deceived.
Please help to save me from eviction - all contributions will be gratefully received.

I think I am already there,
within that horrid place so bare
with iron bars and thesaurus:
Well Mr. Sullivan taught us
to tell a hare from a tortoise,
but the journals all ignore us-

We are our own sweet company,
the voices in my head, and me.

While surfing the net one's browser was sent
To an amusing metrical forum.
The poets, well versed, were substantially cursed
With a certain lack of decorum.

Poems of vows made to scared sheep and cows
During intense copulation,
Beating dead horses, abusing their corpses
And all forms of gross flagellation.

Gastronomical verse followed by terse
Bevies of hyphens - misplaced!
Descriptive facets of Gabrielle's assets
With a debate on heavenly grace.

One's mind was fraught with Freudian thoughts,
But epiphany bloomed from what's written here.
After all that I've roamed, this place feels like home...
I certainly hope I'll fit in here http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif.

<u>Humping A Friesian</u>

Oh, there once was a Swagman who came across Eratosphere,
Under the steam of his Netscape Three,
And he laughed as he saw the verse of bovine sex appear,
Who'll come a-humping a Friesian with me?

Chorus

Who'll come a-humping a Friesian my darlings,
Who'll come a-humping a Friesian with me?
Humping a Friesian and pleading insanity,
Who'll come a-humping a Friesian with me?

Down came Bob Clawson to post some utter wickedness,
Up jumped our Swagman and promised him glee,
And he laughed and he smiled as he told him of his bovine quirks,
You'll come a-humping a Friesian with me.

Up came the owner, attacking all his clientelle,
Up came moderators – first one then two
Whose is that mottled cow dressed in the panty-hose,
We'll come a-humping a Friesian with you.

The Swagman all jealous, jumped in Alan’s Deep-End,
Killing himself by posting all Free,
And his ghost may be heard as it sings on Eratosphere,
Who'll come a-humping a Friesian with me?


Welcome Robert
(Man or Hobbit}

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/biggrin.gif

Good Lord, I was so scandalized
I accidently went and posted twice.

Sharon, who regrets the verbal maulings
my slanted rhymes would garner from our Stallings




[This message has been edited by Sharon (edited January 31, 2002).]

I can't express my most profound dismay
at reading what my mother does at play.
If I had dared indulge in some small banter
of this unseemly and pre-verted manner
I would have greeted all with my clean smile
provided by a mouthwash known as---Dial!
I wish I'd had a modicom of warning
when I logged on for poetry this morning:
the woman seated at the breakfast table
in secret, rhymes of smut inside the stable!

A moral's in here, somewhere, so I bet!
It's keep your children off the Internet.


Sharon

You've found me out! I never should have bought
your first computer, read you poems, taught
you everything I know about the sonnet,
or took you to a reading, introduced
you to my vices. Looking back upon it,
I see the little monster I've unloosed
to censor me can read and write and think.
If I had known that one day I'd be caught,
I prob'bly would have drowned you in the sink.

Love, Mom

A Poem For Sharon's Mother

When I was young my mother read
us fairy tales and stories,
poems whose rhymes still fill my head,
Suess's allegories,

Lewis Carroll's Alice stuff,
the little train that could.
You'd think it would have been enough
and yet my mother would

read us poems not on the shelf,
"poems of smut," she called them,
dirty lines she wrote herself.
How fondly I recall them!

"Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall
beating the egg of his phallus."
Lewis Carroll didn't know all
the dirt contained in Alice.

To Nigel, in jest http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

Fang it from Banjo,
What a ripper idea!
Now don't get your knickers all knotted,
But someone must say it
He can't have a yack.
He's dead, boxed, buried and rotted.

Has one not the full quid?
Or maybe one's quist?
Having guzzled a slab of XXXX.
Perhap's one just pash
To wallop an Oz
Fresh to the station, I guess.

No illywhacker nor
Ocker bushwhacker
Not a sundowner showing up after the job,
Just a poor swagman,
Honest and blue,
Who makes a good fist for his bob.

So shout me a beer,
I'll quaff it right here,
Then give a loud hooroo and rack off.
But having a naughty
With sheep's not my thing,
So I'll just head home and ... after a long soothing bath, take a well deserved rest.



Isn't Strine a poetic language? http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited January 31, 2002).]

What was the word that Bob Swagman omitted,
the one that seemed destined to rhyme with "rack off"?
It seemed that Bob Swagman had fully committed
to rhyming this phrase, so why did he back off?

Maybe he left us that big rhyming chasm
fearing the powers-that-be would eject him
were he to mention a self-made orgasm?
The powers, however, would mostly respect him.

That's what a censor can do to our freedom:
make us reluctant to ply our vocation.
Come, let's use "bad" words whenever we need ‘em.
You can't master verse without masturbation.




[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited January 31, 2002).]