#silliness
Pie for an ear
Pie for a whistle, to come
Pie for a craven side of a liberty's near
Pie for a wish in the watch, of home
Pulling the talk, no the what the ****
Of grace to step forward, no man has a better plan
Sour old willful, and seeking stink, the eye to pluck
A hardy share of truth from the side of your face, where sincerity can
Roles of the ****** with a care
Suggestion is ours, for a lank memory, alive in the known
Truer to **** the pie off, for we take the time to fare
The skill's of another mind, with the very thoughts of oblivion?
Wages we never collected, but gave freely
Since we were the coping half, of a clock in the mission of a lifetime
Can a meager sword of conscience, stand to wishes we found, in the ear
Speed to a special lip, and tongue of ecstasy that has your crime
Water, what ask's tomorrow eaches reason?
Pain and the train of thought that made us
Is a wholly different idea, is knowing all in season
When none is ours, for a colossal clash with the written word, thus
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 11:26 AM UTC
Boys tidy whites
Are like a
cheap hotel
Why pray tell?
They have
NO Ballroom
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 5:35 PM UTC
It’s morning. I woke up. It’s hatefully grey.
I’d close my eyes and go back to sleep.
Thoughts wander around me like chimeras
And weave their nets from all sides of me.
I think I’ll make one of them just a reality:
I’ll make some coffee, there’s no other way.
The day won’t work out without coffee.
And there’ll be a mess in my head anyway.
I’m up. What a nebulous nasty morning.
It shamelessly drives me crazy at all.
And why did I suddenly feel wholly
That I know all about myself?
What a fool?
What a phenomenal wacky silliness!
What a criminal irrational nonsense!
I thought that tomorrow is really fatal
As it was in the same way for years.
And what is in point of fact?
Where’s tomorrow?
All colors around me are totally dim.
I try to find my previous strong energy,
But only monotony is all-around me.
It was so simple yesterday, but now it’s ugly.
My coffee’s sneezing. It’s got a cold.
Well, I’ll go to live just like that, don’t look behind.
And I will live as long as I can, with no support.
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 5:46 PM UTC
Yes, this may be the crime of the century,
the solution Watson is elementary.
He did it! You see that's not so very hard,
so be a dear chap and inform Scotland Yard.
I am bored with this detective endeavour,
I am tired of being so ****** clever.
Sod it! And eternal damnation to all
I'll just wait for the House of Usher to fall.
Why? You ask my reference to Mr Poe.
It's this apathy that is starting to grow.
I cannot be bothered with all this tripe,
so Watson please fetch my violin and pipe.
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 7:05 AM UTC
My cat won't cuddle
Lost my car, too
Forgot where I parked
I'll just watch some
Jeapardy clues
I have no snacks
And my boots are broken down,
Mary Lou
hates the word slacks, and with mixed drinks, she goes to town!
I lost my dog
I lost my truck
I lost my girl
I wonder what's on Cozy TV right now?
Pretty sure it's Monk
Sorry, I got distracted, Mary Lou
Sad you're
Feeling melancholy and blue
I mean it's my only pair of shoes
Can you fix my boots, please ?
With some whiskey
Or some twine
She said
"Try some shoestring
Even try some wine"
Walking all over town
Pondering
Mary Lou
That's actually how my boots feel
Right now...
Very blue
And it's not
Not just my shoes
May 20, 2024
May 20, 2024 at 11:46 PM UTC
"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."
The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.
There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.
I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.
So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 5:24 AM UTC
not that this bothers me,
the shades of your silliness.
the presence, my dear.
because if it did then,
i would’ve ceased
at delivering these words.
admittedly then, the silly person,
i suppose, must be me.
Sep 28, 2023
Sep 28, 2023 at 3:13 AM UTC
the lumy screen
x-ray mission
counting ribs
but courting what's in-between
trying to salvage disease
from the pardonable cage
use corrective attractors
drag them on the screen
and mould a mange of the dark spots
humble in an alcove
zoom in on the spot
take out your little skin leafed
pocket book
clean the cough from your throat
and sprout 'the working words of God'
a congregation of cancer cells
put in their place
medicine
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 3:24 PM UTC
Doggerel
The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite 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.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller
I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:
Ass-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!
Woeful Waffles
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
I think it’s woeful
and should be unlawful
to eat those awful
tofu waffles!
These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
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!
Originally published by Light
Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Animal Limericks by Michael R. Burch
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."
Stage Craft-y
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!"
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 Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch
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!
Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse
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.
Other Animal Poems by Michael R. Burch
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch
A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”
I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.
Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.
The Blobfish
by Michael R. Burch
You can call me a "blob"
with your oversized gob,
but what's your excuse,
great gargantuan Zeus
whose once-chiseled abs
are now marbleized flab?
But what really alarms me
(how I wish you'd abstain)
is when you start using
that oversized "brain."
Consider the planet! Refrain!
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed ****** humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a ***** one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking 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
Pls refudiate
“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.
You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.
Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.
Nonsense Verse
There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick 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.
― 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!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
proves all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― 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!
― Michael R. Burch
A proper 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.
― Michael R. Burch
There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― 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!
― Michael R. Burch
Doggerel about Doggerel
The Board
by Michael R. Burch
Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.
The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.
Longer Doggerel
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! **********
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch
Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.
We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.
We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.
Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,
with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”
We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Fliss
An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!
Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch
Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.
The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch
A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”
Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch
We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!
They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!
And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!
Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college
or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, *** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”
And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .
which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”
Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch
At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;
cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;
the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;
pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.
But ...
Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?
Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch
Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!
Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch
after Keats
Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...
Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...
It’s time to make hay!
I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.
How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch
My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!
My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!
My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!
A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch
Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.
A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.
Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!
A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”
No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.
Exeunt stage left.
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
Doggerel about Dogs
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC
Doggerel
The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite 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.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller
I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:
Ass-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!
These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
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!
Originally published by Light
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
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.
Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7
NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch
Animal Limericks
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."
Stage Craft-y
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!"
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 Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch
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!
Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse
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.
Originally published by Grand Little Things
Other Animal Poems
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch
A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”
I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.
Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.
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
Pls refudiate
“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.
You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.
Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.
Nonsense Verse
There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick 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.
― 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!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― 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!
― Michael R. Burch
A proper 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.
― Michael R. Burch
There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― 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!
― Michael R. Burch
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Fliss
An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!
Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch
Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.
The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch
A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”
Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch
We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!
They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!
And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!
Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college
or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, *** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”
And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .
which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”
Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch
At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;
cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;
the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;
pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.
But ...
Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?
Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch
Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!
Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch
after Keats
Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...
Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...
It’s time to make hay!
I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.
How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch
My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!
My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!
My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!
A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch
Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.
A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.
Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!
A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”
No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.
Exeunt stage left.
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
Doggerel about Doggerel
The Board
by Michael R. Burch
Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.
The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.
Longer Doggerel
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! **********
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch
Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.
We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.
We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.
Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,
with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”
We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.
Doggerel about Dogs
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!
Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
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!
On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?
I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch
A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!
The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch
A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!
***
Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch
I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.
Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch
I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?
***
Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Ireland’s Ire has Landed
The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.
Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”
The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.
The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.
***
Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Zip It
by Michael R. Burch
Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.
***
Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten ***
by Michael R. Burch
There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest *** (et) wus his ****
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!
***
On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch
A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!
The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch
A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
but then lost it to poachers, sedated.
***
A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch
March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!
This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.
***
Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch
Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!
Love, but don’t fall.
Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!
Love, but don’t fall.
Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.
Love, but don’t fall.
***
Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch
I’m low on ****
lost my fizz,
out of biz.
Flabby and *****
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.
Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a ****** need a beard?
Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?
And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?
Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?
***
This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.
An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made love at speeds faster than light.
She had *** one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!
There was a young **** star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for ***
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch
Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!
There once was a camel who loved to ****
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch
I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch
I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!
My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!
I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"
But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!
***
Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch
History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.
I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.
***
The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch
It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.
***
WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch
When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?
Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?
Will the porpoises
lack purpose,
the marigolds
fold?
Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?
Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?
***
That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch
for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT
There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.
But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.
***
One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch
Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:
“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”
“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”
“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”
But Robert Horry’s not impressed.
Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.
Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.
Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.
Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.
Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!
***
Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
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.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!
5.
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!
6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.
***
Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch
Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.
Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your *** cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.
***
New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch
The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?
I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!
They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!
And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...
So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!
***
Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch
for Tallulah Bankhead
“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a ****
“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”
Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 6:20 AM UTC
I usually don't know if
I'm coming
or going
(but I still can't
make this
into
one!)
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
…Love of mine (sigh, sigh)
I must confess I simply haven’t the time,
To take your willing heart so ready for mine…
The truth is a story to tell!!!
I DON’T WANT A LIFE OF HELL!
Relationships…(sniff, sniff)
Have a tendency to break and slip,
As little bothersomes saw and chip,
At emotions once dressed up as love
And I have HAD ENOUGH!
Twenty years…(oh dear)
It’s all it takes to make a belly of beer,
As my FIFTEEN children scream in my ears!
I can practi-cally he-ear the sound!
of YOUR Spawn running around.
Unequally yoked…(cough, choke)
Words describing how I married some bloke,
Now we’re living in a trailer quite broke,
My Gray hairs tied up in a bun!
Ain’t the future fun?!
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
I can be very empty-headed
Yes, I'm pretty dull
but I should like to think there's bubbles in my skull
Constantly blowing, floating
little ***** of light and color
Oh, these bubbles, I hope we're not
separated from one another
And perhaps I absentmindedly chase
silly, pointless bits of air
but wandering out my head, I'm pretty happy there
They're bouncing and bouncing
from bone wall to bone wall
Joyous bits of air- I wish to capture them all!
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
Some people say I’m crazy,
They call me a total nut.
They say I’ve lost my mind
That I don’t know what’s what.
That I am beyond cuckoo.
They say I’ve gone insane,
That I am in a very bad way,
That I’ve got you on the brain.
I’m just in love
It’s a kind of lovely madness.
It is insanity
In a very lovely kind of dress.
It affects everything
Makes me lose my train of thought.
And I do it gladly
Whether or not I really ought.
Other people don’t see
That I hear you in every sound.
Those people have their rules
On the feeling I have found.
They are understanding
If it’s a round of golf or a car,
But this is how I really feel
No matter what their feelings are.
Some love their money,
The massive expensive houses
And some like to cheat on
Their unsuspecting loving spouses.
Some like to belong to
The most exclusive memberships.
I must prefer to listen
To the sound from your lips.
I’m just in love
It’s a kind of lovely madness.
It is insanity
In a very lovely kind of dress.
I affects everything
Makes me lose my train of thought.
And I do it gladly
Whether or not I really ought.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
I’m as happy as a billionaire
Counting money in his vault.
I’m as silly as a circus clown
And it's surely all love's fault.
I’m as ***** as a diplomat
Who doesn’t know his facts
And still runs his mouth off.
But that’s just how I act.
Being in love is making me
Act like I have lost my mind.
I’m not crazy, I’m in love
So, please everyone be kind.
I keep on giggling and I know
People think I’ve gone goofy.
There’s a huge smile on my face
And I”m quite sure I look loopy.
I babble like a fool on drugs.
And skip and dance instead of walk.
I’m sure I sound like a big dope
And make no sense when I talk.
Being in love is making me
Act like a bull goose loon.
It’s a pleasant kind of madness
I hope it's not over soon.
Everything looks good to me
When seen through eyes of love.
I like rain and sunshine and all
The gifts from high above
As well as the joys one finds
Just walking through the day.
It’s not my fault, I do insist.
Love has made me this way.
Being in love is making me
Act like I have lost my mind.
I’m not crazy, I’m in love
So, please everyone be kind.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
Cars so close together
You can count their middle fingers,
Horns honking everywhere
Traffic is like an urban bomb scare.
People just don't know how to drive.
It's a wonder how they can survive.
Tooting and beeping,
The human brain is sleeping,
It looks like, by and large
Lizard brains are in charge.
There are no cops around;
They’re in another part of town
Policing those who feel they need
To smoke that evil devil ****
Meanwhile traffic does it's thing,
Increasing daily suffering.
It's part of what it means to be
Alive in today's society,
Driving hell bent like it matters
Leaving peace of mind in tatters.
Rush hour traffic is what is wrought
Like a bad cold the earth has caught.
You can’t avoid it altogether.
It’s like Twain said of weather.
You can talk about it every day
And do nothing about it either way.
So maybe not have everyone at once
Hitting the road like a silly dunce.
Couldn’t the employers take a clue;
Change their schedule an hour or two?
Maybe some would think it great
To start their journey hours late?
Some could go now and some then
And wait hours, then begin again,
The next batch could be on their way
And start out having a good mood day.
Or maybe we could all stay home
And leave the rest of the world alone
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 11:30 PM UTC
A/The/My Way (redone)
I never knew I had a ‘way’.
And still it shows up day by day
Laws but felt, themes unmeant;
Through sudden fountains of content;
Through many offshoots but one road,
No signposts to direct or goad.
Still it is:
A kiss of fate though non-insistent,
Usually
An accident and serendipitous.
And because, and just because it is a whisper
I’ve no choice
But to
Tune into
And obey,
Swaying to its hinted push,
The glint of pressure
Nothing but a pure, faint sureness
And a pleasure.
Minutes past I ate three plastic plates of pasta.
Forgive this frilly, dilly of a joke.
I can be such a silly yokel
With punch/pun-ny lines that hit my funny bone(s).
Now I sit with pen in hand
On my verandah, in the wind,
Thankful for not understanding
Karma’s muted law un-grand,
Inscrutable but suitable
To me alone - one on her own
Within the actions and concerns.
A/The/My Way 8.6.2017
Pure Nakedness; Revelations Big & Small; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC
There is a monster in my toy box and he’s covered in purple fur.
His eyes are like slot machines and they whizz around and whir.
He makes me say silly things and he plays with our cat.
He hides the TV remote under the bathroom mat.
He comes out every night to read through all my books.
He tears the corners, he writes in them in crayon and just look...
When I try to catch him, he scurries far away.
Mummy and Daddy, I’m not naughty, I just have to say:
“It was the monster in my toy box, he’s naughty all the time.
You just never see him ‘cos he’s so clever with all his crimes!”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
With a one TRACK
mind, vast determination and a CRESCENT
smile, she set out to DRIVE
a ROUTE
that she hoped would BYPASS
the pitfalls of the low ROAD,
and carry her to a HIGHWAY
that would lead to AVENUES
of success in her search for Primrose LANE,
the BOULEVARD
of dreams and easy STREET.
She paused to MEWS
on her plans and decided that she’d WALK
the CIRCLE
forest PATH
around the public GARDENS
at the bottom of the CUL DE SAC,
but the TRAIL
through the GROVE
was muddy and the gate was about to CLOSE,
so she thought it best to hit the ROAD
and be on her WAY
before she ended up in COURT
asking the judge to OVERLOOK
her trespass in the PARK
ljm
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
What does Santa have to do with Jesus
Or an egg-laying rabbit for that matter.
People who think this crap up must be
As mad as Lewis Caroll’s Mad Hatter.
I mean, these same store owners
Got those stories from somewhere.
Then put them out generously for
Gullible parents so freely to share
With kids grown greedy by the lack
Of parental care and nurturing
Not to mention pablum, for real
As the family thing was rupturing.
Where did that rabbit come from?
It never made sense at all to me.
How did those ******* up genetics
Get dragged into the nursery?
It defies belief that anyone over eight
Ever bought in to the silly tale.
It was always so obvious to me
That it was all to make a sale.
So, first there was fat man and sleigh
Flying at blinding electronic speed.
With ungainly flying reindeer as
What passes for valiant steeds.
Next we have a bunny who hides
Millions of gaudy hard boiled eggs
Then apparently hops right off
On some very confused short legs.
Did I leave out the Tooth Fairy?
Now, that is a real piece of work.
I really believed that pillow thing.
My god was I ever a young ****
There might be someone else besides
Fecund rabbit, fat men and a fairy.
If they hadn’t brainwashed us so early
This whole mishagas would be scary.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
....For thinking that you could call me any name
You want,
.....Won't be the slave of love anymore to adore you,
Silly you ,
You had it all , you had my love , you were my everything,
Silly you ,
You had it all , you had my love , you were my everything,
Sitting here crying to myself about my mistake of finding you
So inconveniently in love with everything that you said
Putting me in some sort of trace in ****** Embrace where
Ones mind will link up to another,
You found you another,
Under pillows I smother myself in these walls , these walls,
Im reaching but I've reached long enough,
Can I bare...it all,
When you honestly left love it was tough,
Use to fall,
How could I put a decent price on a cuff if you regret it all,
Silly you ,
You had it all , you had my love , you were my everything,
Silly you ,
You had it all , you had my love , you were my everything,
I could stand the rain but in advance I can not stand the pain,
Silly you ,
You had it all , you had my love , you were my everything.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
The sensistive topic of religion
Occasionally causes some division
Amongst those who don't agree
Which is plain for all to see.
So let us broach that well known religion
That loves to claim logic when causing division.
The faith that I speak of is, of course, atheism,
(My view that it's a faith can cause much derision)
Now from a purely agnostic point of view,
It seems such beliefs must rely on faith too,
How else could you justify all that you knew,
Is infallible, and therefore must be true?
I know many people will want to attest
That religion doesn't apply to the atheist,
Which is why it's surely the silliest
To declare itself better than all the rest.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC