G'day to you, Mr. R. Swagman.
Parody's Nigel Holt's bag, man.
He's being our own Puckish wag, man.
(He teaches, you see - it's a drag, man)

I'd never censor you, nor would I trumpet
the cause of censorship. But who's the strumpet
who dragged us to the church each Sunday morn
and in the nineteen years since I've been born
(okay, well, thirty-five, but what's it matter?)
with harping, ceaseless years of moral chatter
has held her own example as a banner
for all with character of refined manner
who'd act in such a way that she's inspired?
I've come to see that woman is retired.
I never thought I'd live to see the time
when she would wallow in poetic slime.
It's not a mother I have, but a rapper.
Your moral teachings, Lady? In the crapper.

Love,
Sharon


(I'll add this disclaimer:
that I am no flamer.
...Some good-natured ribbing
at Mother's expense,

I find it quite odd, dear
to finally come here
and find her ad-libbing
in poetic tense.

At home, she's quite staunch. She
is not really raunchy!
All this "live and let living"
was unheard-of, hence.

It's not goose we're after
but well-deserved laughter;
as good as she's giving,
I mean no offense!)



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

This board is quite deceptive in its folly.
I've double-posted yet again, by golly!

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

I know not a 'bad' word,
Only uncouth ones.
Some ideas are bad,
As are most of my rhymes.
But some poets apparently think,
To be witty,
They have to use those words
All of the time.

If that's what I must do
For peer recognition,
Or for respect
from the powers that be,
Then all I can tell them is,
"Kiss my PATOOTIE!"
Or whatever else suits them
Down near my knees.

So use any word
That captures the feeling.
Use 'gob-shite' or 'ass-hole'
If you think that you ought to.
Masterbate freely
While scribing your curses,
But sometimes, methinks,
It's funnier - not to.

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

'Oops - forgive me,'
He added shyly,
'I forgot to
Add the http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif '

Though your verse is metrical,
and your repartee is true,
where are all the rhyme words, Robert?
In eight lines I count just two.

I was disappointed, Robert,
as I read beyond "patootie"
that there was no rhyme awaiting.
Wasn't it your solemn duty?

Still, your verse has charm, I'll grant you,
spritely wit that makes me smile.
There's just one thing: Robert, can't you
make it rhyme once in a while?

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here.
I do not want to pick a feud!
I just love rhyme. I hope it's clear.
I am not trying to be rude.

I was pretty skilled at impaling worms on hooks
as a child growing up in South Decatur,
and this (I swear it's true!) is why my friends
stuck me with the nickname "Master Baiter".

(music)

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

<font size=3>



Rhyming with Swagman is often off-course:
timing and consonance,
assonance, plosives, and--yes, of course:
miming the sounds of a http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif and
resonance peering through haze--


are occasionally required. It's a craze,
the occasional "being not right, but all wrong,
for a purpose." So smile, and begin your next song


backwards-to-front.
Lack words? So make them up.</pre>




[This message has been edited by Curtis Gale Weeks (edited January 31, 2002).]

Impaled worms and masturbation!
Now for nightmares of castration!

Are you sure, though, that your nickname
wasn't meant to be a sickname?

When your hands were full of "flounder"
were there always fish around ya?

Did you fish a lot in private?
A youth well spent, if you survive it.



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

Egads, Roger! You're not rude.
Perish the thought. I'd not construed
Your heart-felt words, so aptly mew'd
As anything less than concern.

So Rodger, put your mind at ease,
But hearken to a lesson, please -
Quality's better than quantities.
Well, we all have something to learn.

[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited February 01, 2002).]

What you say is very true.
Quality counts, not quantity.
But poets who combine the two
are what we all should want to be.

And so I'm glad to see that you've
produced eight lines with rhymes galore.
May I suggest it would behoove
you post another eight rhymes more?

Curtis, I must agree with you.
Much of what you said is true.
The language, though, is not construed,
An example of Aussie Strine.
(Australian slang)

Roger - I surrender!
I fear that you have won.
Outclassed I am, though I must admit
I haven't had such fun
In ages.

I just can't write that fast http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

It never occurred to me someone would think I was making up words in my reply to Nigel. He commented on my Aussie user-name by spoofing 'Waltzing Matilda', hence my reply. Here's the translation:

Stealing from Banjo (author of Waltzing Matilda)
What a terrific idea!
Now don't get all upset
But someone has to say it
Since he can't talk
He's dead....

Are you operating with half a deck?
Or are you drunk
Having drank a case of FourX (Aussie beer overshadowed by Fosters)
Perhaps you just have the desire (pash: passionate)
To bash an Australian (Oz)
Who's new to the forum

Not a con-man
Or a highwayman
Or a sundowner (who shows up at night after the days work is done to beg a meal and a place to sleep)
Just a poor wandering worker
honest and loyal
Who does good work for his pay.

So order me a beer
I'll drink it right here
Then give a loud 'Good-bye' and shove off.
But having sex
with a sheep (jumbuck didn't work)isn't my thing
(I figure you get the rest)...

Good-night all http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

Sorry, friend:
I didn't intend

to offend

nor even imply
your words were a lie!

Oh, my!

I merely meant
to merrily vent

assent

for making rhymes
that might be crimes

against the Establishment.

BANNED POST

I'm just dense.
Rest assured
No offense
Was taken.

In little bits,
As time goes by,
My minor wit's
Forsaken.

You picture me as stiff and staid,
the quintessential mother?
A mother isn't born, but made.

At 35 you should have weighed
the facts of life. And fu'ther-
more, I wasn't stiff and staid

But something of a renegade
before your oldest brother.
A mother isn't born. I made

An orchard full of lemonade
although in fact I d'ruther
bananas. Who, me, stiff and staid?

This role is just a masquerade,
a job like any other.
A mother isn't born, but made

By children. Maiden plans are laid
aside to paint another
Whistler's Mother, stiff and staid.
A mother isn't born, but made.

This seemed appropriate for this day.

You Spread the Love Around (Poem for VD)

When we first met you swore to me,
"Love shares: there's no refusing."
We'll celebrate fidelity
--now the chancre's finished oozing.

Valentine's Day Card
====================

In hopes of a Valentine's shag
I'm sending this card without lag
To Cindy McTavish
Whose body I'd ravish
If her head wore a double-thick bag.

What fatherhood has made me do
in just a week (so what of ten?)
has quite surpassed my searching pen
What more to say than - Gardyloo!


------------------

Svein Olav

.. another life

Hey Carol!

How about a thread where we can honor / roast some of our favorite poets by imitating their style?


For Henry Gibson

{waddle}

The Turtle

{bow}

by Henry Gibson

{bow}

The turtle is a playful thing
who doesn't dance and doesn't sing
and doesn't write FV too well
but plays his games inside his shell.

One wonders what he does in there
au natural - sans underwear.
If you play with him he snaps and hisses -
maybe he just needs a Mrs.

{boyish grin}

{bow}

{exeunt}



[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited March 01, 2002).]

The Beautician

He gave her head
of hair a trim
before she said
she wanted him.

He made her wet
and propositioned
that she let
him as beautician

take her shoddy
flaccid hair
and give it body.
Would she dare?

"Yes!" she cried.
"Yes, I'm sure
it's time I tried
a new coiffure."

The Cowboy Urge

for Vessq

It happens, when the work's all done,
napping there below a tree,
the cowboy's mind, cooked by the sun
begins to think up poetry.

It starts out for a girl he knew
he met in town while out alone,
but ends up 'bout the sky so blue
or a mustang mare that he would own.

He never writes of dusty days
behind the herd, along the trail
or slipping in the cow pates
while prodding 'neath a heifer's tail.

So when you crit his little verse
and think it smells, like something died,
try not to make him feel much worse,
he only does it 'cause his brain's been fried.

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



[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited March 07, 2002).]

I was challenged on another board to write a "transvestite sonnet," so I did. I thought it might be fun to solicit humorous kinky sex doggerel from others. I would suggest that the only rule should be not to use explicitly "dirty words" or to venture into the realm of explicit pornography. (I'd have started this as a new thread, but I'm not authorized to start threads. If Carol or someone wants to move it over to a new thread, that would be fine with me).


TRANSVESTITE SONNET

The day I tried on your brassiere you laughed.
"How about some pantyhose? A tampon?"
But soon, applying all the hard-earned craft
Of womanhood, you put your girlish stamp on

My clothes, my hair, the color of my cheeks,
And proudly cried, "My God! You're beautiful!
Now let's rehearse the way a woman speaks:
Higher octaves, dear, and lower decibels."

Emasculating? Slightly. I don't mind.
You have exquisite taste in lingerie.
And silk is smooth, however it might bind.
Besides, you grow so passionate with play

That soon enough I'm naked and can tender,
Undisguised, the trademark of my gender.

Another kind of poem I'd invite people to write would be new takes on old jokes. I wrote two so far. Children are the intended audience.

THE CHICKEN TALKS BACK

Human beings must be mad!
They must be bored and lonely.
There's so much to discuss and yet
they seem to want to only

talk about the street I crossed
and wonder what possessed me.
I guess it's better that they talk
about me than digest me.


THE FIREMAN TALKS BACK

I'm sick of people asking me
about my red suspenders.
For me the question tops the list
of conversation enders.

But if you want to guarantee
a conversation stopped,
just say I stuck my feet in flames
to see my corns get popped.



[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited March 11, 2002).]

THE ELEPHANT TALKS BACK

How many of my kind could pack
inside a little car?
Three in the front, three in the back,
but the car would not go far.

Why don't I ride a bicycle?
It's simple. Please don't tell.
It's all because my thumb's too big
to operate the bell.

Can you tell time? Then tell me this:
What time is it when I
decide to rest upon the fence
and gaze up at the sky?

You think it's time to fix the fence?
No, my friend, you're wrong.
I gave up peanuts, lost some weight.
Besides, the fence is strong.

It can be any time at all.
There's no way you can tell.
I love to watch the sky at night,
but daylight works as well.

BROCCOFLOWER


Was mankind meant to have the power
to make one vegetable from two?
Last night they served me broccoflower,
not a stove-top managed stew

but cauliflower rendered green
by being forced somehow to breed
with broccoli into a gene
to yield a brave new hybrid seed.

How shocking, mankind playing God!
How arrogant, presumptuous!
But stopping progress will be hard.
The flavor was quite scrumptious.

Looking at that final post
I think, dear Roger, you may boast
about your fine ability to rhyme;
but if I may point out, my friend,
occasionally you're round the bend,
or, at least, upon your hands you've too much time!

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

[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited March 18, 2002).]

Here's an oddity of a challenge. Does the following have an analogy for boys?


Lessons in Conventional (and Boring) Behavior for Girls

A woman should be modest,
a woman should be kind,
a woman should be second-best
and always well-inclined.

The more she's feeble-minded,
the more she'll please her man—
and better yet, half-blinded,
when he's the Ku Klux Klan.

Terese

The broccoli post has brought to mind
a problem, similar in kind.
When's the last time that you went
to a florist and found a scent?
It's the hybrids, that's my theory;
pretty flowers that all smell dreary.

Eostre's here!

<FONT >'Onward Roman soldiers
marching as before
- someone nail that prophet
to the temple door'</FONT f>


by Clavus Pangere Senex Altum II

From 'Kick them in the Temple' - a collection of Roman marching songs' (trad. arr.)


A little ditty
- now ain't that a pity...


<FONT ><u>Crucifiction</u>

Jesus wobbled on the rood
as Peter bade adieu:
‘I’m getting food, I’ll see you dude
and Judas says ‘Hi’ too.

Oh Peter pray, come close to me
Said Jesus in his passion
I have some words… for little turds
…yes, you prat, go ashen.

Peter came as he was called
face pale as any Klansman
‘I’m sorry boss, I know you’re cross
…er… wowie – what a hand span!’

‘Oh! Peter you’ve forsaken me,
as I said was certain;
just leave your cock, my little rock,
for I see the final curtain.

Vinegar Schnapps is not much fun
nor nails through hands and legs
now be a chum, go speak to mum
and get my Easter eggs.’</FONT f>

Angst

"To like or to be--
that is the question:
should metaphor
or simile
fill the white
and, so, highlight
poetic esprit
in prosaic congestion?"
he mused; then, swore.

UNPUBLISHED POEM BY HAMLET

It turns out my uncle
murdered my Dad
and married my mother.
That's why I'm sad,

somewhat distrustful
and yes, sanctimonious.
Why, only yesterday
I killed Polonius,

my uncle's conspirator,
my girlfriend's father.
But now I'm left wondering
why I should bother

pushing Act Five
to its tragic conclusion
when my Dad's angry ghost
may have been an illusion?

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif
Wily.

OMG!! LMAO you are just good!

The real reason the spider drowned

Insy weensy spider went up the water spout,
was sick of listening to Miss Tuffet shout.
All he wanted was a little bite of whey
but Miss Tuffet was hysterical and so he couldn't stay.




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited April 26, 2002).]

I spot planes,
And now I'm doing time,
My behaviour is unreasonable,
In Greece considered treasonable,
Is it a lesser crime if,
I spot trains?

It seems the cross-word puzzle,
Can get you in deep trouble,
Are those clues you are deciphering,
instructions from your gran's spy-ring?

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

I'm sorry to say Renate, dear
the previous post is a bit unclear.
Would you perhaps be so kind
To explain, for the non-Aussie mind?

Was a joke intended,
Please don't be offended
That I don't understand,
Will you lend me a hand?

They came on vaction to the ancient nation,
to ogle the flying machines.
A hobby that started back in the old dart
but in Greece it had never been seen.
You write in your jotter, it is all quite proper,
the name and the number of planes.
Gran came along too, to admire the view,
and knock back a crossword or two.
Greece thought it quite shocking, this aeroplane spotting,
and promptly arrested the few,
Who fronted the judge, but he wouldn't budge,
the verdict was "guilty", gran too.
They're guilty of spying on aeroplanes flying,
in a public display.
Even their gran, who sat in the van and
did crossword puzzles all day.
I hope this explaining brings no more complaining,
I'm all out of rhyming, and now I'm caught whining,
I thought it amusing and not that confusing,
Now I'm not excusing so don't start abusing,
If you're a plane spotter, you may come-acropa-
lis, but that is your choice not mine.

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

Renate,
Why thanks, but I must tell you
by painting the picture all too clear
you've given more than a clue,
and bruised my ego along with my ear.

I hope you won't get red in the face
a very merry joke it was, true
I was merely stating my case
and would like to see more writing from you..


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



[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited April 28, 2002).]

THE NEGLECTED POET


Sometimes I feel I have something to say,
but nothing that earthshaking to bore you with.
So I dress it up in a clever way
of being said, apply some pith
or padding, and try passing off
mundane conclusions as bouncy songs.
But no one's fooled, and people scoff,
telling me verse like mine belongs
in the silent regions of some drawer
so readers won't be victimized
by mousy rhymes that try to roar
but are pathetically under-lionized.