Archive for funny poetry

I Read It On The Internet

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 7, 2013 by dc

There are more
English kisses
In France
French kisses
In England.

It can never
Be tested,

But we all know
It’s true.

The reason
Can sink into
But mules
Rarely do,

Is that
The mule
Stays calm,

I don’t want
To test it,

But trust me
It’s true.

Try Something New, She Said

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on December 3, 2012 by dc

The highlights
Of this calypso soundtracked,
1960’s themed,
English country flower garden fete
Couldn’t fill up your voicemail,
Even after your grandmother
Has a left a message
She thought was a conversation
On the history of British millinery.

I’m all on my own
And I’m not used to change,

Let’s not try too hard
Ever again.

Election Result

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 7, 2010 by dc

And in the false prophet’s mouth
They found a huge black toad.

It talked to them too,

“I came here to find warts,
I came here for you”.

It spoke with a passion
Not heard round these parts,

It quivered when poked
And smelt of hot farts.

City Earwigs

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2008 by dc

Do they have the same money
In that there London?

Do you mean, ‘like a sport’?
No, I mean, ‘like a disease’.

They’re not paedophiles, they’re gym teachers.

She was drunk but she could still nod her head
And say stuff.

This started off as a dead nice story
But now it’s turned into date rape or something.

Confused Pet Gynastics

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 3, 2008 by dc

A dog tied to a shop sign
Shuffles forward for some sniffings,
Then hears the screaming screech
Of car brakes from behind,


And he’s catapulted across the street,

One… two… three…

He jumps hedgerows,
Hits windows
And spins around lamp-posts,
Somersault … back-twist…
Double-salsa… corkscrew…


The doors of the shop
Across the road open
And out flies the owner,
Whistles splitting the air,
Shoes squeaking with pace,
Shouting out for quiet,
Before a tackle goes in
And untying begins
With a range of soft words
To calm all the barking.

“Fancy tying it to a shop sign”,
An old man near me mutters.

“Wow! That was great!”
A young girl near me shouts,

And twelve yards ahead
I mark the routine,
Like an Olympic judge with a biro,
Writing scores on the back of my hand.

8.0 … for style,
8.5 … for technique, and a perfect
10…  for dog confusion.

Scorpion Hands

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 1, 2008 by dc

I knew once of a man with scorpion hands
Who would tickle the people he loved,
He was caring and sharing
And quite often daring
For sometimes he forgot to wear gloves.
On occasions, sensations
Would be felt and abrasions
Would sometimes be left on the skin,
But some people liked it
And a few would just try it
To check out the strength of the sting.
With his wife things were different
For one stab from his hands meant
She could keel over quickly and die,
And the thought of her dying
Would start him off crying
For he so loved the way she made pies.
But one day he was hasty
As she rolled out the pastry
And un-gloved as he crept up to tickle,
All he wanted were giggles
And to laugh as she wriggled
But he stung
And the sting left her pickled.
Not onion or gherkin,
Beetroot nor egg
Do I mean when I mention this word,
For when I say pickled
I mean that he tickled
His wife to a death undeserved.

Custard Butterflies

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 28, 2008 by dc

I haven’t got a net,
A box or a jar,
But into the dining room
I roam,
Hunting for custard butterflies
To call my own.
Very rarely they flap,
Unless blown on a spoon,
And very rarely they flutter
Unless captured too soon.
But the expedition my friends,
The expedition is on
And when I find the custard butterflies
They soon will be gone.
For the hunt,
Yes the hunt,
Oh the hunt!
Is never a chore
The only downside
Is that I’m left wanting more.
More of the butterflies,
The sweet, creamy butterflies,
The yummy on flutter pies,
The scrummy on mutter sighs,
Bring me a farm,
A plantation,
A zoo
Of custard butterflies,
Until my utter size
Becomes a gut
Of splutter cries.