DOGGEREL, MAN'S BEST FRIEND
THE CORNERED POET
To your poet's corner go and sit,
Give me no puns crap,
You with your hapless rhyme,
You, Wesley S. Kime,
Sit there until you get over it,
You in your dunce cap.
ODE TO OGDEN
Shakespeare of olden
Days would be OK,
But I’d rather be an Ogden Nash
Any old day.
SURE I DO
Sometimes I chuck the meter;
Sometimes I stow the rhyme;
Sometimes I don't remember either --
But I always think sublime!
This has been one of those doggerel days,
Rhymes ‘n puns a poppin’ all over the place.
Nothing profound, nothing really to say,
Just amblin' along with iambic throwaways.
On those not so brainy days
When my head's ensconced in haze,
I’m good for
Doodling dotty ditty doggerels,
Not much more.
This poet’s mind is a fumarole,
A sphinceterless open os,
Ejaculating meter rhythm rhyme.
I could sooner rein in my libido
Than all this dithyrambic floss.
That's easy to say in Octogenariancy,
In youth it was a toss.
NEVER GOING VIRAL
My lines may reek of hyperbola
But are sterile, no enterococci or ebola.
Of leaden style
They’ll never go viral.
PRETTY BUT DUMB
Senseless syntax maketh poetry poetic.
Double meanings or none whatsoever.
But simple sense it maketh hardly ever.
Me it maketh apoplectic and apologetic.
O The way you know it's posy and isn’t prose,
O my groaning soul, is by all those groaning “Os.”
KNOW YOUR O’S, OH’S, & OATS
Now then, O ye students,
A balloon is mainly air, that’s all that’s in it,
A poem is composed of mostly O’s and Oh’s,
A poem’s breath, those cheery circular mutants,
Oh, but what rules rule for O or Oh?
O Who knows! Oh, Just wing it.
O FOR THE OS AND OHS
O and Oh, O forsooth and Oh, alas,
Neither O nor Oh today get ohs and ahs,
With luck a yawn, not even laughs,
Nor groans, no snorts, just token guffaws.
Breathes there a poet
Who doesn’t blow it
By always rhyming “fungus”
With, here it comes, “Among us”?
O Maudlin Madelyn, O how long,
Must you drone, groan, bemoan,
Coming on O so strong
About your Chronic Fatigue Syndro-o-o-ome?
TIT AND NO TAT
Oh, you can have your pastry,
You can have your pesta pasta,
And keep your Pudding Hasty.
Just give me tit without the pasty.
THE SUNNY SONOGRAM
Oh let us compose a sunny sonnet
To the mammary sonogram,
Exonerating of malignancy the protuberance
Otherwise viewed with horny exuberance.
The devil made one serpent speak.
The Lord made Balaam’s ass sass.
But Disney makes all fur squeak.
Peace and quiet, it couldn’t last.
WORD NOT OF THE DAY
Even if ye knew the word from it ye’d shy away,
That’s OK for so did Hemingway.
Eons ago it had its day, and so has Hemingway.
But stick it in I would if I could -- Welladay!
SAME OLD MOLD
From the same old same old mold
Is cast every last channel of TV news
And all the gestures, voices, hair-dos
Of every last channel’s newshens,
Endless round of round table nuisance.
IN THE PRUNE OF LIFE
The vegan assumes
All health accrues from prunes.
when reality resumes,
It's runs to bathrooms.
IT’S A LAGUME
It’s easy to assume
The peanut’s a nut; it’s naught
But an indurated legume.
I'll bet you assume
The peanut is a nut,
But it’s not, you clot.
It’s legume, you Loony Tune.
WHAT'S THE USE OF COUSCOUS?
Cauliflower and elderflower
Are beaten and eaten,
Fettuccini plaited and plated,
Potatoes abraded and flayed,
A radish relished,
A turnip urped.
A beet you eat with meat.
Mushrooms may be
Exhumed and consumed.
But what is the use
A Google OF POODLES
Of all doggies Sonja knows a caboodle,
But nothing of a noble foreign dog,
By pedigree King Charles Cavalier,
This she learned from Google:
He's just a commoner spaniel over here.
AS PAINS GO
Sticks and stones may break my bones
And jibes and diatribes abrade my hide.
Painful to my body parts, all such trauma.
But worse, the agony of CareObama.
THERE'S MORE TO AL GORE
Al Gore, he is an algorism
Al Gore’s an allegory
Al Gore the Matador.
Al Gore I’m not especially for.
Wisdom for the pragmatist,
“Leave well enough alone,”
Is to the activist
Wisdom quite unknown.
A VIRTUAL POEM
Virtual all the way.
Oh what fun it is to ride
In a one-horse virtual sleigh!
Postmodernism is that slaphappy continent
Built on tectonic plates of colliding rubber.
All is relative, fifty iffy shades of gray.
Nothing is here to stay, feet of clay.
And nothing is true, fact is butter,
As leaky as a bladder gone incontinent.
Historic is gone, new is Queen for a Day.
POEMS • Pomes • Poy-YUMS
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