[Roger Slater]

Good one, Jayne.

[Jayne Osborn]

Thanks, Roger.

It's in suitably bad taste, I trust?

[Roger Slater]

Bad taste? No. People die. It's not bad taste to point it out.

Is this an existing joke you versified, or one you made up from scratch?

[John Whitworth]

Nice one, Jayne. And just to show you the very small change that makes a poem funny or not, here's one of my favourites from Sophie Hannah.

Your Dad Did What?

Where they have been, if they have been away,
or what they've done at home, if they have not -
you make them write about the holiday.
One writes My Dad did. What? Your Dad did what?

That's not a sentence. Never mind the bell.
We stay behind until the work is done.
You count their words (you who can count and spell);
all the assignments are complete bar one

and though this boy seems bright, that one is his.
He says he's finished, doesn't want to add
anything, hands it in just as it is.
No change. My Dad did. What? What did his Dad?

You find the 'E' you gave him as you sort
through reams of what this girl did, what that lad did,
and read the line again, just one 'e' short:
This holiday was horrible. My Dad did.

[Douglas G. Brown]

If dismal Fate comes knocking on your door,
And murmurs, “You’ll succumb to heart disease”;
Just tell him you don’t live there anymore,
“Try three doors down the hallway, if you please.”

Should Angels come down from their firmament,
Converse with them, in your most gracious style.
If they predict a fatal accident,
Reply, “I’ll think about it for a while.”

And if you hear the Reaper whisper “Cancer”,
I trust that you will calmly use your head;
If I were you, I simply wouldn’t answer,
Since cancer patients mostly end up dead .

Perhaps this won’t postpone the day you die;
But what the hell, at least it’s worth a try.

[Scott Miller]

So much Depends up
on the green shelf at Wal*Mart:
employee discount.

*There's no D&A for syllabics, right? So mistreated :-P

[John Whitworth]

Good Lord, Douglas. I've written this one already. I will enter it.


Missed Appointment

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
He slid his glasses down his nose.
‘It’s Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smiled played on his lips
That chilled me to my fingertips,
So I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.'
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.

[Janice D. Soderling]

John, you are obviously a favorite of the muse. Her darling. She smiles at you so fondly.

I'm tipping this as the winner, despite the very, very keen competition exhibited in this thread.

[Ann Drysdale]

You entered that one in The Oldie, John - look in the yellow thingie called Missed Appointment. No reason not to enter it here, though, so long as it didn't win.

(yellow thingie).

[John Whitworth]

I cant remember, Ann. I don't THINK I did.