Category Archives: Funny poems
Some twelve months ago,
An hundred or so,
The Pope went to visit the devil;
And as, you will find,
Old Nick, to a friend,
Can behave himself wondrous civil.
Quoth the De’il to the Seer,
What the De’il brought you her
It was surely some whimsical maggot:
Come, draw to the fire;
Nay, prithee, sit nigher:
Heree, sirrah! lay on t’other faggot.
You’re welcome to Hell;
I hope friends are well,
At Pareis, Madrid, and at Rome;
And ,now you elope,
I suppose, my dear Pope,
The conclave will hang out the broom.
Then his Holiness cry’d,
All jesting aside,
“Give the Pope and the Devil their dues;”
For, believe me, Old Dad,
I’ll make thy heart glad,
For, by Jove, I do bring thee rare news.
There’s a plot to beguile
An obstinate isle;
Great Britain, that heretic nation,
Who so shyly behav’d,
In the hopes of being sav’d
By the help of a d . . d Reformation.
We’ll never have done,
If we burn one by one,
Tis’ such a d . . d numerous race!
For no sooner one’s dead,
Like the fam’d Hydra’s head,
Than a dozen spring up in his place.
But, believe me, Old Nick,
We’ll play them a trick,
The like was ne’er hatched in France;
For this day before dinner,
As sure’s I’m a sinner,
We’ll burn all the rascals at onece.
When the king with his son
To the parliament’s gone,
To consult about old musty papers,
We’ll give them a greeting,
Shall break up their meeting,
And try who can cut the best capers.
There’s powder enough,
And combustible stuff,
Inf fifty and odd trusty barrels,
Which will blow all together,
The Devil cares whither,
And decide at one blow all our quarrels.
But this was scarce said,
When in popp’d the head
Of an old Jesuitical Wight,
Who cry’d You’re mistaken,
They’ve all saav’d their bacon,
And Jemmy still stinks with the fright.
Then Satan was struck,
And said ’tis bad luck,
But you for your news shall be thanked:
So he call’d to the door
Seven devils or more,
And they toss’d the poor dog in a blanket.
Watts, Isaac, Horae lyricae. Poems, By I. London, 1706
Twenty poets went to rhyme all on a summer’s day,
But two fell down a rabbit hole whilst going out to play.
Eighteen poets went to rhyme one rainy afternoon.
But ten fell down a wishing well whilst trying to rhyme with a spoon.
Eight brave poets went to rhyme one sunny day in May,
But six were drafted off to war and couldn’t have their say.
Two fair poets went to rhyme that fateful eventide,
But one was eaten by a wolf and ended up inside.
One last poet went to rhyme as the evening sky grew dark,
But then he spied a bonny lass and snogged her in the park.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Rainer Maria Rilke was a Bohemian–Austrian poet and art critic. He is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language.. Bohemian-Austrian poetRilke was the only child of a German-speaking family in Prague, then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. His father was a retired officer in the Austrian army who worked as a railroad official; his mother, a socially ambitious and possessive woman. At age eleven Rilke began his formal schooling at a military boarding academy, and in 1891, less than a year after transferring to a secondary military school, he was discharged due to health problems, from which he would suffer throughout his life. He immediately returned to Prague, to find that his parents had divorced in his absence. Shortly thereafter he began receiving private instruction toward passing the entrance exams for Prague’s Charles-Ferdinand University. In 1894 his first book of verse,Leben und Lieder: Bilder und Tagebuchblatter, was published.
Before Summer Rain something-you don't know what-has disappeared; you feel it creeping closer to the window in total silence. From the nearby wood you hear the urgent whistling of a plover reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome: so much solitude and passion come from that one voice whose fierce request the downpour will grant. The walls with their ancient portraits glide away from us cautiously as though they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying. And reflected on the faded tapestries now: the chill uncertain sunlight of those long childhood hours when you were so afraid by: Rainer Maria Rilke YOUR FAVOURITE POEM sent in by you, what's yours ?
I’m a wizard, I’m a warlock,
I’m a wonder of the age.
I’m a sorcerer, magician,
I can change into a chicken,
or perhaps a purple pig.
I can wave my wand and, presto,
I’m a waffle with a wig.
With the power in my pinky
I can burst like a balloon
or transform into a tiger
with the head of a baboon.
If I wiggle on my earlobe
or I knock upon my knee
I become a dancing doughnut
or a turtle in a tree.
Just a simple incantation
and I deftly disappear,
which I never should have done
because I’ve been this way all year.
And despite my mighty magic
I’m impossible to see,
for I never learned the spells I need
to turn back into me.
but I liked an old nag called Fred,
he looked sort of eager and flighty,
as the bookmakers odds span around in my head,
and sweet Aphrodite went into the red,
and I wished that I was back home in my bed,
not here with these blokes rich and skitey.
“A hundred to one” said the fellow,
I decided to give it a go,
“Fifty dollars on Fred” was my bellow,
And all of the guys who were well in the know,
Sniggered and said I was doin’ my dough,
“Fred couldn’t outrun a three-legged crow,
On his back is a streak – and it’s yellow!”
And then all the horses flew past,
There was only two furlongs to go,
I stood there watching, aghast!
Fred was the leader, but starting to slow,
Five thousand dollars was there on the go,
And then it was over, and what do you know?
Fred came in motherless last.
My world turned from silver to black,
Aphrodite had killed them, of course,
My money would never come back,
And I slowly drove home from that devilish course,
full of repentance and full of remorse,
And the next time I put all my dough on a horse,
It won’t be a useless old hack!