#humorous
A blockhead screaming all day long,
Restless, loud, and going strong.
Where did he find the nerve, the gall,
To eat the jam — yes, eat it all!
If your kid screams and won't be still,
With mouth wide open, loud and shrill,
Just know: it’s not for just a year,
It’s here to stay, let’s make that clear.
He screams at morning, noon, and night,
No help or rescue is in sight.
The neighbors think: "It’s plain to see,
A thunder-beast moved in next knee."
But there he sits, eyes glowing bright,
With jam on whiskers — what a sight...
I stand in silence, watch the show,
And simply whisper, soft and low:
— Well...
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 1:11 AM UTC
I used to have a stro,
(a stro?)
I called it ‘my stro’
(Hmm …)
By itself it felt so dull
(I’m sure)
Then one day during the lull
(Yes?)
I added a simple ditty
(La, La, La …)
Accompanied by my kitty
(Meow …)
People liked it so well
(Kudos! Bravo!)
Gave me a nickname that’s swell
(What?)
They called me ‘maestro’
(Ahh …)
That’s all I know!
(Finally!)
©️ 2026 Mark Toney
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 2:31 PM UTC
Watered, lit and grown.
Showered, ****** and moaned.
Chapstick, vape and maybe some money loaned.
This rust on my car is ******* me off.
Hot leather seats against my bootyshort ***
Bubblegum lipgloss a freckle or two on my tittied out chest.
Ash on the dash and a 20 in my ****
Get the **** off the road.
Lace pink strap, a tan line that shows.
A car door that creaks a ***** wearing flip flops.
Glitter gritty against my lips.
A receipt from Costco and 500 in tips.
Empty bottle of ***** deep throated and tossed.
Country alt hick chick who feels lost.
Long roads and pit stops.
Places where you’d meet chuck.
Sunglasses cracked hair frizzy but I still can ****
“Sprinkles on my ice cream please”, a homeless man with no luck.
Billboards, music and smoke shops.
Bridges, footwear, men that are too tall or short.
A glance from a woman that means more than I think.
******* wet, washing them in a ***** *** gas station sink.
Stray cats and dogs.
Piled up tires.
A tan so golden I can taste it, a fake beauty mark.
A cross around my neck, the biggest ball of yarn.
Laughing and coughing, smiling and joking.
Pieces of me left everywhere I went.
Old men checking me out, nights that felt lonely.
The great drought.
Belly ring pink studded, brows that can never be too thin.
Tweezers in my back pocket.
Scratchy throat, blood shot eyes.
Whispers of love from men, ******* lies.
Bracelets stacked, nails that clank.
Dressed in trinkets and jingles.
Pierced lip and lemonade on my tongue.
Salty and sweet, hoes that did me wrong.
Tatted on my *** u turn in traffic.
Listening to my favorite song.
Bouncy *** sat with my pink Lacey thong.
Yelling, screaming, things being thrown.
Backseat lover, feelings being shown.
Patchy grass, women without ***
Polly pocket ***** with a fake flashy lash.
Neon lights, buzzing bees.
Bulging men everywhere, whenever I please.
Camera flicking, lip smacking.
Bubbles blown and pure white snow.
Beer bellied men, low on rent.
Hiccups, burps, and hurls I think I drank too much.
Stiletto heel with my whorey clutch.
Motel cheap, pits waxed, spotty lighting.
Steamed up bathroom, mirror fogging.
******** velvet sheets, legs shaking.
Blinged out fingers perfect for *******
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 5:29 PM UTC
God spilled the glow of magic dust He'd got
it swirled round and round and got up his nose,
He, Achooed it all up Eve's Honeypot!
So fellas now you know on your last shot
when you wonder why your thingy don't grow
God spilled the glow of magic dust He'd got...
Although it kinda puts you on the spot
there's this secret not many of you know
He Achooed it all up Eve's Honeypot!
Yeah, yeah, it's tiresome when you get hot
and nothing's happening just down below
God spilled the glow of magic dust He'd got,
And you're gonna get nought but diddly squat
so I guess you've just gotta go with God's flow,
He Achooed it all up Eve's Honeypot!
So, where's Adam in this, him? I forgot,
Perhaps he's looking hard as he seeks Eve's glow
God spilled that glow of magic dust He'd got
And Achooed it all up Eve's Honeypot...
A villanelle.
Jun 6, 2025
Jun 6, 2025 at 3:33 PM UTC
Don't lose your head to gain a minute -
You need your head, your brains are in it!
Romances are wrecked before they begin,
By a hair on the coat
Or too few on the chin.
Many a forest used to stand
Where lit matches got out of hand.
Henry the eighth,
Prince of fiskers,
"Lost" five wives but kept his whiskers!
My neck was sore in front before,
And also sore behind once more.
The Cannibals took just one view,
And said,
"They look too nice to stew."
Holler! Half a pound
For half a dollar, isn't that a cheerful earful?
Hello, Druggist!
I don't mean maybe -
Yes, sir! That's the baby!
Listen. Knock on wood
When offered something "just as good."
Give the guy
The toe of your boot
Who tries to hand you a substitute!
A big improvement since the war
Is now on sale in your drug store.
He saw the train
And tried to duck it,
Kicked first the gas & then the bucket!
In seventy years of brushin' soap on,
Gramps could've painted the pentagon.
The whale put Jonah
Down the hatch,
But coughed him up because he scratched!
5-star generals & privates first class
Show equal rank in the looking glass.
Clancy's whiskers
Tickle Nancy,
Nancy lowered the boom on Clancy!
Is he lonesome or just blind-
This guy who drives so close behind?
The safest rule,
No ifs or buts,
Just drive like everyone else is nuts!
For early morning pep & bounce,
A brand new product we announce!
Train approaching,
Whistle squealing, pause!
Avoid that rundown feeling, cause!
When the stork delivers a boy,
Our whole **** factory jumps for joy.
Although insured,
Remember kiddo,
They don't pay you - they pay your widow!
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC
Ah, Arwell sailed the seven seas,
With gusts of wind and salty breeze,
A sailor bold, or so he claimed,
But mishaps followed, unashamed.
With compass lost, he'd oft declare,
"Ah well," he'd laugh without a care,
For Arwell's tales of naval pride,
Had more of humour than of guide.
One day he tried to catch a whale,
But hooked himself upon the sail,
"Ah well," he mused, in tangled plight,
As crewmates chuckled at the sight.
In stormy nights and waters rough,
His skills were lacking, sure enough,
Yet Arwell's charm and hearty cheer,
Could make the toughest sailor veer.
A pirate crew once came to fight,
With swords and pistols gleaming bright,
But Arwell tripped and splashed their guns,
"Ah well," he grinned, "the battle's done!"
Though navigation wasn't strong,
His friends knew where they did belong,
For Arwell's heart was kind and true,
And laughs were plenty, troubles few.
So raise your glass to Arwell's might,
The sailor who turned wrong to right,
With "Ah well" as his motto bold,
A tale of mirth forever told.
Jan 18, 2025
Jan 18, 2025 at 1:56 AM UTC
Egbert the Octopus can be viewed here, in all his high-IQ’d-ness and adorability:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V32yeA9yUuk
Egbert the Octopus
is so **** cute
& smarter than u
(the point is moot)
’cause he doesn’t pollute
when he commutes,
only, perhaps,
when he (ahem) “poots”!
—michael r. burch
I have also seen the diminutive Einstein’s name rendered as Eggbert the Octopus.
Monarch
by Michael R. Burch
I had a little caterpillar,
it wove a cocoon for its villa.
When I blinked an eye
what did I espy?
It flew off, a regal butterfly!
Nonsense Ode to Chicken Soup
by Michael R. Burch
Chicken soup
is fragrant goop
in which swims
the noodle’s loop,
sometimes in the shape
of a hula hoop!
So when you’re sick,
don’t be a dupe:
get out your spoon,
extract a scoop.
Quick, down the chute
and you’ll recoup!
Preposterous Eros (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous Eros,
mischievous elf!
Please aim your missiles
at yourself!
Feel the tingle,
then (take it from me),
you’ll fall in love
with the next ***** you see!
She’ll spend your money,
she’ll take your car...
you’ll soon end up alone
in a sad little bar.
Preposterous Eros,
mischievous elf!
Please aim your missiles
at yourself!
I was so drunk my lips got lost requesting a kiss.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Inconstant Cosmologist
by Michael R. Burch
An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made whoopee much faster than light.
She orgasmed one day
in her relative way,
but came on the previous night!
Pale Ophelias
by Michael R. Burch
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
with a comical father crying, “Desist!”
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
“Children, be careful!” our mothers insist,
and yet we plow forward, in search of bliss,
ever in danger of a lethal tryst.
“Remember Eve’s apple,” some inner voice hissed,
which of course we ignored, the prudish miss!
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
Such a sweet temptation!, and who can resist
the enticements of such a delectable dish,
whatever the dangers of a lethal tryst?
“Stay away, Cupid!” With a balled-up fist,
we lecture the stars when things go amiss.
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
Lovers are criminals & need to be frisked!
We’re up to the task, like lobsters in bisque.
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
U.S. Travel Advisory
by Michael R. Burch
It’s okay
to be gay,
unless, let’s say,
you find your fey
way
outside the Bay.
They
will want you to pray
to their LORD, or else pay
for the “wrong decision.” Stay
in San Fran, or maybe LA.
Rhetorical Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
don’t tell me man’s lot’s poor:
i always wanted more.
don’t tell me Nature’s cruel
and red with visceral gore.
i always wanted more.
please, dial up ur Gaud and tell Him
i don’t like the crap He’s selling.
if He’s good, He’ll listen, i’m sure,
this Gaud u so adore.
Speak
by Faiz Ahmad Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Speak, while your lips are still free.
Speak, while your tongue remains yours.
Speak, while you’re still standing upright.
Speak, while your spirit has force.
See how, in the bright-sparking forge,
cunning flames set dull ingots aglow
as the padlocks release their clenched grip
on the severed chains hissing below.
Speak, in this last brief hour,
before the bold tongue lies dead.
Speak, while the truth can be spoken.
Say what must yet be said.
Ebb Tide
by Michael R. Burch
after Goethe
Ebb tide.
The sea is wide.
In the depths
dark things abide.
Hush, pale child.
Never fear.
None as dark
as men, my dear.
Ebb tide.
The sea is wide.
In the depths
dark creatures glide.
Hush, now father.
Never fear.
Men are nothing
where you are.
Moonflower
by Michael R. Burch
after Robert Hayden
Marveling,
we at last beheld the achieved flower—
both awed and repelled by its alienness,
its moonlit petals,
its cloying fragrance,
its transcendence,
its shimmering and wavering intimations of mortality ...
How could I understand?
by Michael R. Burch
for the victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb blasts
How could I understand
that light
might
be painful?
That sight
might
be crossed?
How could I understand
the cost
of my ignorance,
or the sun’s
inflorescence?
Who was there to tell me
that I, too,
might be one of the
Lost?
Sarjann
by Michael R. Burch
What did I ever do
to make you hate me so?
I was only nine years old,
lonely and afraid,
a small stranger in a large land.
Why did you abuse me
and taunt me?
Even now, so many years later,
the question still haunts me:
what did I ever do?
Why did you despise me and reject me,
pushing and shoving me around
when there was no one to protect me?
Why did you draw a line
in the bone-dry autumn dust,
daring me to cross it?
Did you want to see me cry?
Well, if you did, you did.
... oh, leave me alone,
for the sky opens wide
in a land of no rain,
and who are you
to bring me such pain? ...
This is one of the few "true poems" I've written, in the sense of being about the "real me." I had a bad experience with an older girl named Sarjann (or something like that), who used to taunt me and push me around at a bus stop in Roseville, California (the "large land" of "no rain" where I was a "small stranger" because I only lived there for a few months). I believe this poem was written around 1975 at age 16-17, but could have been written earlier.
Into the gloom
by Michael R. Burch
Into the gloom, beyond the point of caring,
past fascist rows that stare and blanch and cross
and watch us always, by the sunset’s flaring,
we watch our footprints vanish. Sponge-like moss
absorbs our heavy bootheels, till the whisper
of passing from the earth, our soft refrain,
sounds like the hoot owl’s eerie lonely vesper
from distances like hers: Remain. Remain.
We cannot stay, for all our fond returning,
although the earth sighs too: Remain. Remain.
This bridge aflame with sunset coldly burning?—
another cross, another cold domain.
I cannot think of why we came; now, leaving,
we do not go as quickly as we should.
The sun wants nothing of our pallid grieving.
The darkness we encounter, just a wood,
is neither good nor bad. Nor hell nor heaven
is found here in this small plot’s barren ground.
The owls that “weep” are not our solemn brethren,
not do they weep; their cry is just the sound
of something mournful to our ears, that dying
seems metaphor for death. Perhaps a mouse
would understand their ghastly ghostly crying
and think to flee, or hope they chase a grouse,
a-tremble with the sudden realization
that life is full of talons and small cries.
Out of her corpse there spills a squalid nation
of worms and lice: which proves that nothing dies
that does not spring to life as something lesser.
O, leave her to herself! Let others guess here
what death can “mean.” I do not hope to know!
I only hope to leave, while we can go …
PETRARCH TRANSLATIONS
Sonnet XIV
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lust, gluttony and idleness conspire
to banish every virtue from mankind,
replaced by evil in his treacherous mind,
thus robbing man of his Promethean fire,
till his nature, overcome by dark desire,
extinguishes the light pure heaven refined.
Thus the very light of heaven has lost its power
while man gropes through strange darkness, unable to find
relief for his troubled mind, always inclined
to lesser dreams than Helicon’s bright shower!
Who seeks the laurel? Who the myrtle? Bind
poor Philosophy in chains, to learn contrition
then join the servile crowd, so base conditioned?
Not so, true gentle soul! Keep your ambition!
Sonnet VI
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I once beheld such high, celestial graces
as otherwise on earth remain unknown,
whose presences might earthly grief atone,
but from their blinding light we turn our faces.
I saw how tears had left disconsolate traces
within bright eyes no noonday sun outshone.
I heard soft lips, with ululating moans,
mouth words to jar great mountains from their traces.
Love, wisdom, honor, courage, tenderness, truth
made every verse they voiced more high, more dear,
than ever fell before on mortal ear.
Even heaven seemed astonished, not aloof,
as the budding leaves on every bough approved,
so sweetly swelled the radiant atmosphere!
Overshadowed
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The brilliance of stars goes unnoticed
since the moon overshadows them every night.
So Be It
by Rahat Indori
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
If we’re opposed, so be it; there’s more to life.
There’s more to the skies than mere smoke.
When a fire breaks out, many wounds abound;
it’s not just my home in flames.
Yes, it’s true that many enemies also abound,
but they don’t control life with their fists.
What comes out of my mouth, are my words alone;
they don’t speak for me, do they?
Today’s rulers will not be tomorrow’s;
We’re all tenants here, not owners.
Everyone's blood irrigates Earth’s soil;
India is no one’s paternal possession.
Daredevilry
by Michael R. Burch
Trees
full of possibilities
whisper of ancient mysteries—
mysteries of birth, of life and death.
Each leaf—illuminated, light as breath—
gives up clinging to the old verities,
embraces its frailties,
skydives …
Kabir Das (1398-1518), also known as Sant Kabir Saheb, but often called simply Kabir, was an Indian mystic, saint and poet who wrote poems in Sadhukkadi, a vernacular dialect of the Hindi Belt of medieval North India. Sadhukkadi was a mix of Hindi languages (Hindustani, Haryanvi, Braj Bhasha, Awadhi, Marwari) along with Bhojpuri and Punjabi.
The world grows weary reading scripture’s tomes
but a leaf of love enlightens us.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Without looking into our hearts,
how can we find Paradise?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How long will you live by eating someone else’s leftovers?
Find your own way, don’t live on regurgitated words!
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keep the slanderer near you, build him a hut near your house.
For, when you lack soap and water, he will scour you clean.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A true wife desires only her husband;
a starving lion will not eat grass.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Certainly, saints, the world’s insane:
If I tell the truth they attack me,
if I lie they believe me.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When you were born, you wept while the world rejoiced.
Live your life so that when you die, the world weeps while you rejoice.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The one who enlightens the world remains unseen,
just as we cannot perceive our own eyes.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No medicine rivals Love:
one drop transforms you whole being to pure gold.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Either grant me death or reveal yourself:
this separation has become unbearable.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
They called the doctor to investigate Kabir’s illness;
the doctor checks my pulse to diagnose my disease.
But no doctor can understand what ails me.
It cuts too deep.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I neither have faith in my heart, nor do I know anything about Love.
And what do I know of Love’s etiquettes?
How will I ever live with my Beloved?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My Beloved calls me with such intense love,
but I am sinful and gone astray.
The Beloved is pure but the bride is soiled.
How dare she touch his feet?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Kabir kept searching and searching until he was completely lost.
The drop dissolves in the ocean; now nothing can be discovered.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Whatever you need to do tomorrow, do today,
for time evaporates and vanishes like a mist.
Thus work undone remains undone forever.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Autumn Lament
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14
Alas, the earth is green no more;
her colors fade and die,
and all her trampled marigolds
lament the graying sky.
And now the summer sheds her coat
of buttercups, and so is bared
to winter's palest furies
who laugh aloud and do not care
as they await their hour.
Where are the showers of April?
Where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?
Where are the lovely maidens
who browned 'neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?
Alas, the moss grows brown and stiff
and tumbles from the trees
that shiver in an icy mist,
limbs shivering in the breeze.
And now the frost has come and cast
itself upon the grass
as the surly snow grows bold
as it prepares at last
to pounce upon the land.
Where are the sheep and the cattle
that grazed beneath tall, stately trees?
And where are the fragile butterflies
that frolicked on the breeze?
And where are the rollicking robins
who once soared, so wild and free?
Oh, where can they all be?
Alas, the land has lost its warmth;
its rocky teeth chatter
and a thousand dying butterflies
soon'll dodge the snowflakes as they splatter
flush against the flowers.
Where are those warm, happy hours?
Where are the snappy jays?
And where are the brilliant blossoms
that once set the meadows ablaze?
Where are the fruitful orchards?
Where, now, the squirrels and the hares?
How has our summer wonderland
become so completely bare
in such a short time?
Alas, the earth is green no more;
the sun no longer shines;
and all the grapes ungathered
hang rotting on their vines.
And now the winter wind grows cold
and comes out of the North
to freeze the flowers as they stand
and bend toward the South.
And now the autumn becomes bald,
is shorn of all its life,
as the stiletto wind hones in
to slice the skin like a paring knife,
carving away all warmth.
Alas, the children laugh no more,
but shiver in their beds
or'll walk to school through blinding snow
with caps to keep their heads
safe from the cruel cold.
Oh, where are the showers of April
and where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?
Where are the lovely maidens
who browned 'neath the flaming sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?
“Autumn Lament” is one of the earliest poems that I can remember writing. The use of the archaism "'neath" is an indication of its antiquity. Unfortunately, I don't remember when I wrote the first version, but I will guess around 1972 at age 14. “Autumn Lament” has been published by The Lyric.
Trump’s Trumpet: ******* Up or *******
by Michael R. Burch
Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His “pieces of *** Braggadocios!
His tool though? Immense!
Or perhaps just pretense,
since Stormy declared “hocus-pocus!”
Why does Melania flee
Trump’s unthreatening ******
It looks like a cauliflower
and its taste is sour.
—Michael R. Burch
An Aging and Increasingly Senile Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch
I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!
Trump's Catches
by Michael R. Burch
Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
Cool waters flow over dangling toes,
as I lay on the bank of the creek.
Warm summer sun,
no work to be done,
just lying here half asleep.
Clouds passing by,
making trains in the sky.
I wonder what it's like to fly.
Birds chirping with Glee,
Are they laughing at me?
and the silly thoughts
that pass through my mind.
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 8:51 PM UTC
If only I didn’t care!
I could float through life unaware
I could spend my hours on practical things
Without wasting time, pursuing the truth.
If only I didn’t care!
I could ignore the annoyances, anger
Would be a far-off imagining.
The world would be gentler, muted
Peaceful, calm, and placid.
If only I didn’t care!
I could lose the bright contrasts and
Colors and flaws that make me
Who I am.
Ah, perfection always
Looks the same, no?
If only I didn’t care!
It would all be so easy.
It would all be so easy and
Dull.
Sep 27, 2024
Sep 27, 2024 at 12:30 PM UTC
Charles Darwin, whether thought direct or indirect means,
that humans, apes, and monkeys descend from common genes,
a concept that's both eerie and satirical in its themes,
as we return to our primal roots, donning monkey suits,
will our intellect dilute?
The skyscrapers that once made the city grand,
will be replaced by vines that spread across the land.
Our technology, planes, and cars,
replaced by monkey-like anatomy in bizarre memoirs.
All scientific progressions will be thrown to the wind,
as we forage for bananas and swing from tree to tree with a grin.
our sophisticated language will be reduced to gibberish,
and all our efforts to progress will be seen trivial and will perish.
But wait, am I speaking something too soon,
for in this world, we may find new opportunities to groom,
perhaps we'll learn to thrive in this new clime,
as a new breed with evolutionary bungle, we'll shine.
And so, my dear readers, this story concludes,
of humans becoming monkeys, as absurd as it may sound,
but let's not forget the wonders of evolution,
the way we are behaving today will lead us to the jungle.
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 3:50 AM UTC
****** Errata" is a collection of poems about the ****** and how erotica sometimes gets us in trouble!
****** Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en,
and should’ve remained hid-
den!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch
Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.
***
Negligibles
by Michael R. Burch
Show me your most intimate items of apparel;
begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip ...
***
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls,
her ******* gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
***
Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Cunning
at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found **** on the cover
of some patronizing lover.
In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.
***
Who Can Understand Her?
by Michael R. Burch
Who can understand her? Can the stars,
uncertain in their radiant argosy,
who never saw such love, nor such desire,
as when she bent to tower over me,
her hair a perfumed waterfall descending,
and then her ******* and then—ah!—Ecstasy!
***
First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch
I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.
***
Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Abbesses’
recesses
are not for excesses!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: *** Hex
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
Published by ***** of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online* and Poem Today
***
Retro
by Michael R. Burch
Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your ******* pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...
When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...
But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like *******
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.
Originally published by Erosha
***
Poppy
by Michael R. Burch
“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”
It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.
The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.
The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.
Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!
Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.
You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no ****** for the heart.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
***
Virginal
by Michael R. Burch
For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,
Elizabeth."
But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her ******* and hair
are mine alone.
Let the wildflowers moan.
***
If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch
If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.
If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.
If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.
***
Plastic Art or Night Stand
by Michael R. Burch
Disclaimer: This is a poem about artificial poetry, not love dolls! The victim is the Muse.
We never questioned why “love” seemed less real
the more we touched her, and forgot her face.
Absorbed in molestation’s sticky feel,
we failed to see her staring into space,
her doll-like features frozen in a smile.
She held us in her marionette’s embrace,
her plastic flesh grown wet and slick and vile.
We groaned to feel our urgent fingers trace
her undemanding body. All the while,
she lay and gaily bore her brief disgrace.
We loved her echoed passion’s squeaky air,
her tongueless kisses’ artificial taste,
the way she matched, then raised our reckless pace,
the heart that seemed to pound, but was not there.
***
She Was Very Pretty
by Michael R. Burch
She was very pretty, in the usual way
for perhaps a day;
and when the boys came out to play,
she winked and smiled, then ran away
till one unexpectedly caught her.
At sixteen, she had a daughter.
She was fairly pretty another day
in her squalid house, in her pallid way,
but the skies ahead loomed drably grey,
and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks.
She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks.
Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set.
With streaks of silver scattered in jet,
her hair became a solemn iron grey.
Her daughter winked, then ran away.
She was hardly pretty another day.
Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred
by liver spots; her heart was scarred;
her child was grown; her life was done;
she faded away with the setting sun.
She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun.
Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin;
but a light would sometimes steal within
to remind old, stoic gentlemen
of the rules, and how girls lose to win.
***
Cold Snap Coin Flip
by Michael R. Burch
Rise and shine,
The world is mine!
Let’s get ahead!
Or ...
Back to bed,
Old sleepyhead,
Dull and supine.
***
Song Cycle
by Michael R. Burch
Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!
Nay, the future is looking glummer.
Sing us a song of Summer!
Too late, there’s a pall over all;
sing us a song of Fall!
Desist, since the icicles splinter;
sing us a song of Winter!
Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!
***
The Unregal Beagle vs. The Voracious Eagle
by Michael R. Burch
I’d rather see an eagle
than a beagle
because they’re so **** regal.
But when it’s time to wiggle
and to giggle,
I’d rather embrace an angel
than an evil.
And when it’s time to share the same small space,
I’d much rather have a beagle lick my face!
***
Over(t) Simplification
by Michael R. Burch
“Keep it simple, stupid.”
A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.
It only matters that she taps her feet
or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused—a child—as images
of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then ...
they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen.
A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.
Mar 4, 2023
Mar 4, 2023 at 10:13 AM UTC
We snap a shameless selfie
And post at once online.
Me and wifey smiling sweet
Whilst we play or dine!
Now some say it quite conceited
To paste one's mugs so much.
But we know its really just
More modernly in touch.
It took a bit to email,
And then to switch to text -
Now it's all on Facebook.
Who knows what will be next?
So easy on our selfies
It's really not self toot
It's more about assuring
We still live and compute.
(C) 2011 All rights reserved
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
It’s unusual for strong expressions to transform contextually in common usage. “I’m ******* is one great example. “I’m ******* is, in origin and essence, a toned-down version of “I’m ****** Whichever form you choose, both are self-proclaimed damnation. Unlike “I’m ****** though, “I’m ******* has lost all coarseness and is seldom eschewed no matter how young or prim the lips that form the words. We hear it at work, on elementary school playgrounds, at church, on the news. It has become in the English language the universal acknowledgement of hapless circumstance, foregone conclusion and frustrated failure. And it translates easily from self to others to groups of any size and may be past, present or future tense. So next time you hear, “I/we/you/she/he/they are/we’re/will be ******* pause ever so slightly and exchange ****** for ******* and see if the transformation is as subtle but startling for you as it is for me.
In a similar vein, being a screwup is unfortunate but not nearly as bad as being a ****** Here again, two totally identical connotations of identical origin. One you hear everywhere, the other primarily in bars, the street, sporting events and among close friends and closer enemies talking or not talking politics.
George Carlin’s hilarious “Usage of the Word **** routine gave numerous examples of how versatile is the word **** Some, but not all, could use ***** but few of the interchangeable examples use the word ***** nearly as ******* effectively as the word **** And some are not interchangeable at all: we don’t talk about things being “nearly as ******** effective.... It just doesn’t work. Similarly, “I’d like to ******* ***** makes perfect sense but “I’d like to ******** **** makes no sense at all. So the words are not interchangeable.
But, for some reason, over time, the English language evolved, letting ******* mean ****** in a socially acceptable way while also letting ******* mean ****** in a ****** way or in a ******* way. And I have a theory how it happened.
Have you ever had to put a ***** in something directly over your head and maybe a bit out of reach? Of course you have. And like many a normal person you found the task embarrassingly difficult. After once or twice there’s yet again. You say, Ah **** I have to ***** up.” And you knew you were ****** And you’d inevitably **** it up even if ever so slightly dropping the ***** or worse, falling off the ******* ladder. Then you’d really be ****** But you didn’t say that. No, that wouldn’t be polite. So you’d say you were ******* because you had to ***** up and would likely ***** it up and die trying falling off the ladder. And with so many people over and over again not so proficient with a ***** driver the language simply evolved.
Now I know you find this whole discussion a bit screwy. That’s okay. Even George found no reason to say something was “a bit fucky.”
Thank you.
2020 All screwy rights reserved
Nov 19, 2021
Nov 19, 2021 at 10:23 PM UTC
My indicator light's stopped working
near side at the rear.
I do right turns only
guessing my way, oh dear.
I'll spiral towards my destination
that's the plan, you see.
But I end up where I've started.
How stupid can one be?
Put a new bulb in the other day,
now the brake light's broke.
Is this for real,
or is this a joke?
So I think, brakes are for losers.
Slowing down or circling like a goof,
I'd get there so much faster
if I fixed a blue light to the roof.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 3:29 AM UTC
This page contains several double limericks, a rare triple limerick, and a new version of the double dactyl that I invented, called the "dabble dactyl."
The Platypus: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******
The Better Man: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
Hell to Pay: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
A messiah named Jesus, returning
from heaven, found his home planet burning
& with children unfed,
so he ventured: “Instead
of war, why not consider cheek-turning?”
Indignant right-wingers retorted:
“Sir, your pacifist views are distorted!
Just pull the plug quickly
on someone who’s sickly!
Our pursuit of war can’t be aborted!”
These poems form a double limerick:
No Bull
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”
So this fast-thinking forward named Rodman
then said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a gold hoop off my **** man!”
I once provided the second stanza to a famous limerick, turning it into a double limerick …
A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m ****** if I know how the helican!
Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!
—second stanza by Michael R. Burch
The next two poems form a double limerick with separate titles:
Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch
Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
Time Back In!
by Michael R. Burch
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother's eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
This is another double limerick with separate titles:
Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?
Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch
Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!
Not all double limericks are light affairs:
Self Reflection: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
for anyone struggling with self-image
She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm . . .
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.
Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.
Triple Limerick: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch
What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!
Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?
Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!
Officious Notice: I have invented a ***** nonsense form: the "dabble dactyl." A dabble dactyl starts out like a double dactyl, but forgets the rules and changes horses midstream. Anyone who prefers order to chaos should give the dabble dactyl a wide berth and also not sow any wild oats. Otherwise, “A little dabble’ll do ya.” — Michael R. Burch
Double Dactyls
by Michael R. Burch
Sniggledy-Wriggledy
Jesus Christ’s enterprise
leaves me in awe of
the rich men he loathed!
But why should a Sadducee
settle for trifles?
His disciples now rip off
the Lord they betrothed.
Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch
Higgledy-Piggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump, his
least favorite clown:
"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!"
Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch
Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”
“Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!”
Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch
Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne
of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?
This famous limerick inspired my Einstein “relative” limericks:
There was a young lady named Bright
who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day
in a relative way,
and came back the previous night.
I recently learned this poem was originally penned, in a slightly different version, by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller; his limerick appeared in Punch (Dec. 19, 1923). I find it intriguing that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick. I was inspired to pen multiple rejoinders:
The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
said E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!
Ass-tronomical
by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)ass grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
Relative Theory I
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein’s theory, incredibly silly,
says a relative grows, willy-nilly,
at speeds close to light.
Well, his relatives might,
but mine grow their (m)asses more stilly!
Relative Theory II
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein’s peculiar theory
excludes all my relatives, clearly,
since my relatives’ *****
increase their prone masses
while approaching light speed—not nearly!
Relative Theory III
by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, we’re led to believe,
proves masses increase with great speed.
But it seems my huge family
must be an anomaly;
since their (m)asses increase, gone to seed!
The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M.
The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind *******
But almost no one took note.
These are limericks of the singular variety …
Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch
It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.
This is another of my scientific limericks …
Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch
The universe is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?
Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch
I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***
and my love life depends on a gel!
ANIMAL LIMERICKS
A much-needed screed against licentious insects
by Michael R. Burch
after and apologies to Robert Schechter
Army ants? ARMY ants?
Yet so undisciplined to not wear pants?
How incredibly rude
to wage war in the ****
We moralists call them SMARMY ants!
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot!"
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
The Dromedary and the Very Work-Wary Canary
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch
An elephant never forgets
and thus they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you,
no matter how sincere your regrets!
The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!
Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!
Here's a limerick about one of the universe's greatest ironies: the lack of rhyme words for "poetry" and "limerick." I almost solved the latter, but fell a bit short:
Shelved Elves
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to rhyme with “limerick”
and settled on “good old Saint Slimmer Nick”
about a dieting Claus,
but drawing no “ahs!”
I glumly rescinded the trimmer trick.
To show the flexibility of the limerick form, it has often been used for political purposes, and to expose, satirize and savage charlatans. Here are are two such limericks of mine:
Baked Alaskan
There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"—
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
Going Rogue in Rouge
It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
I have even written limericks about religion, mostly heretical limericks:
Pell-Mell for Hell Mel
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
Why I Left the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch
He's got Jesus's name on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of his shirt
and he upholds the Law,
for grace has a flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
Ribbing Adam
by Michael R. Burch
“Dear Lord,” fretted Adam, depressed,
“did that **** really rupture my chest?”
“Yes she did,” piped his Maker,
“but of course you can’t take her,
or I’d fry you in hell, for ******
There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch
There once was a poet from Nashville
which hockey fans rechristened Smashville,
but his odd limericks
pulled so many weird tricks
his pale peers now prefer Ogden Gnashville.
—Michael R. Burch
There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch
Here's one for the poets:
The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
Here's one for the Flintstones:
Early Warning System
by Michael R. Burch
A hairy thick troglodyte, Mary,
squinched dingles excessively airy.
To her family’s deep shame,
their condo became
the first cave to employ a canary!
Donald Trump Limericks aka Slimericks
Viral Donald
by Michael R. Burch
Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.
Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"
Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch
Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.
White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch
Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”
15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch
Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!
Trump’s Golden Rule
by Michael R. Burch
Donald Trump is the victim of leaks!
Golden showers are NOT things he seeks!
Though he dearly loves soaking
the women he’s groping,
get real, 'cause he pees ON the meek!
Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!
Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!
Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.
Eerie Dearie
by Michael R. Burch
A trembling young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a **** disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
Fortune named Enron "America's Most Innovative Company" for six consecutive years, but the company went bankrupt and vanished after its accounting practices were determined to be fraudulent.
The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch
O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!
The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory swimming up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.
***** LIMERICKS
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves *** but in forms reckoned shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she's no lady!)
—Michael R. Burch
There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled johns fled, crying: **** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch
Here are three "linked" Nantucket limericks of mine, forming a triple limerick:
There was a coarse ***** of Nantucket
whose bush needed someone to pluck it
’cause it looked like a chimp’s
and her johns were limp gimps
who were too scared to **** it or **** it.
So that coarse, canny ***** of Nantucket,
once muff-shaved, decided to shuck it
—that thick, wiry pelt
that smelled like wet felt—
and made it a toupee for Luckett.
Now Luckett, once bald as an eagle,
like Samson, stands handsome and regal
with hair to his ***
that smells like his lass,
but still comes when she calls, like a beagle.
—a triple limerick by Michael R. Burch
Shotgun Bedding
A pedestrian pediatrician
set out on a dangerous mission;
though his child bride, ******
was a sweet senorita,
her pa's shotgun cut off his emissions.
—Michael R. Burch
Untitled Limericks
There was a young lady from France
Who’d let cute boys poke in her pants:
They'd give her the finger
Where she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch
There once was a girl with small *****
who would only go out with young rubes,
but their ***** were too small
so she sentenced them all
to kissing her fallopian tubes.
—Michael R. Burch
A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch
A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
Michael R. Burch
Four Limericks plus one Lead-In Poem
Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch
At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.
The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more whore-y!
Mating Calls
by Michael R. Burch
1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.
2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!
3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?
4.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!
Teeter Tots
by Michael R. Burch
For your spuds to become Tater Tots,
First, artfully cut out the knots,
Then dice them into tiny cubes,
Deep fry them, and serve them to rubes
(but not if they’re acting like snots).
Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch
I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.
Trump Limericks aka Slimericks
The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch
Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch
Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch
I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!
the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch
ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!
where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.
Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch
The world’s first antinatalist limerick?
Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?
Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch
Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!
Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch
Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.
Nipples' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch
Men are scared of *******
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.
Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch
A billion men saw your pink ******
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.
A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch
She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!
MVP!
by Michael R. Burch
Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?
Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?
Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?
Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, ***** ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 8:49 AM UTC
Nasty little bugs I really hate 'em
did all I could to eliminate 'em
Tried to flush 'em
Tried to crush 'em
I just gave up and finally ate 'em
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 1:27 PM UTC
When people annoy me with their
constant complaining or their
non stop arguing, or even worse,
their illogical demands:
"For the last time, you can't buy
***** with food stamps." Or,
"There is no way a crow took the
rent money out of your hands and
flew off with it."
What I do is close my eyes and
pretend they're squirrels chattering
in squirrel language.
Then they don't bother me so much.
I just want to reach out and pet them,
or give them a handful of nuts.
It's not hard; half of them look
like squirrels anyway.
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 6:21 PM UTC
Wrong Way Andrew and Wrong Way Mike,
will misunderstand you but that's alright.
You have a great big chasm you wanna get across.
They'll get you over it, but they'll also get you lost.
Got you on a boat, but that's okay.
This time they said they know a faster way.
Guess these two are finally on the ball-
Whoops! They led you down a waterfall!
Splish Splish Splashin! You fight with all your might!
An alligator's comin as you stare at it in fright!
But Wrong Way Andrew and Wrong Way Mike,
split before the gator even got its first bite.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 11:49 PM UTC
**** stupid raccoons!"
An angry man, ****** at everything in the moment
fiercely kicked his dumped-over trash can into the street, as he stared enraged at the mess of thrown out crap that laid open
for all to see.
A neighbor seeing his crazy fit of rage jested,
"You know, trash cans have feelings too."
To which the angry man replied,
"Yeah! And they should feel like garbage!"
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 3:20 AM UTC
Down in the grassy meadow
in the stump of an ancient tree,
surrounded by clandestine hedgerows,
lived the indolent Ms. Molly McGee.
She was a prickly sort of gal,
with a long, cold, pointy snout.
She rocked all day in her chair,
and sniffed everyone out.
So beady, small, and blackened
her wily eyes fool most anyone,
but only she knew her secret news:
Her eyesight was all gone!
Covered in sharp quills from her head to her ****
she displayed such a thorny demeanor
Under the solitary crescent moon, she sighed,
"I guess I could always be meaner."
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 3:41 AM UTC
The Knock-Knock Man.
I'm the Knock-Knock Man.
When you're upset I can lend a hand,
cause the Knock-Knock Man is who I am.
When your luck's gone down,
and got you feelin' blue,
I'll say "Knock-Knock."
and you say, "Who?"
You'll get the joke once you understand,
no one ever laugh's with the
Knock-Knock Man.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 2:38 PM UTC
nothing embarrassing have I ever done
nothing stupid or silly under the sun
never my own horn did I toot
my perfection you can't dispute
I've out lived everybody who could tell anyone
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 1:25 PM UTC
O' what a joyous day
to be of the living
and take the bounty of existence!
For who can deny such serenity?
The blossoms are in bloom.
Animals frolic in the wilderness.
The air is sweet and rich;
proof that life is wonderful.
There is no rush!
So savor this occasion.
There is nothing to be ruined
on a day such as this.
That is, unless
A 20ft ghillie monster
eats your face off
Who wouldn't be hungry at this hour?
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 6:09 AM UTC
Sumer, Winter
shine, or rain,
Doesn't matter
its all the same.
Miles are miles.
They have nothing to say.
Littered with sweat;
Haunted by pain
Our backs are broken
Knees begin to give out
Blister upon blister;
yet none fall out
We are to tired to gripe,
so onward we roam
into the night.
For all of our troubles;
all of our plight
Its just another day
that burdens no ones mind.
Thankless tasks
that consume our lives
If only we knew
When we signed those lines.
Birthdays,
Christmas,
Turkey dinner,
Weddings,
and funerals
replaced by miles,
burnt out bodies,
and restless hearts
For What?
We stare at other soldiers
and wonder why,
we alone
are bastardized.
After all,
does god not love the Infantry?
Nay...
****** fools are we
It will never change.
It is
as it always will be.
A few good men
herded
straight to the butcher.
Paraded
like cattle.
Its funny though.
Given a second chance
I'd still wear my blue chord
Standing again an Infantryman.
For all of the ****
For all of the take
I'd rather be a broken *******
than a *****
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
So
hot
cute
smart
cuddly
Dances
attentive
seductive
accessible
Sympatico
intoxicating
mesmerizing
college bound
straightforward
smart as a whip
eager to please
always on time
100% truthful
pleasurable
enthralling
incredible
********
funniest
gentle
sweet
****
soft
fun
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 11:51 AM UTC