140921
1 or 2 have been good
What have you done
500 times?
Was it as fun
As my dumb rhymes?
Tag: Numbers
Poems and/or Drawings about Numbers.
140505
140505
I think your body is heavenly
A billion stars up in the sky
They leave bright trails as they go by
Like ripples forming on a pond
To infinity and beyond
140423
140423
Jury’s still out
I am serving jury duty
Hope I don’t get jury cootie
First guy seated on the jury
Smells like last night he ate curry
Second juror can’t stop coughin’
She coughs loud, and she coughs often
The third to sit is a fat dude
The fourth girl has some attitude
Number five seems like he’s crazy
Juror six is young and lazy
I am worried about seven
Says she talks to God in heaven
The guy in eight does not look fine
But not as bad as juror nine
Number ten is an old lady
Eleven looks slim and shady
And he’s wearing something furry
Hope I don’t get on this jury
1217
1217
Smaug’s jealous of my wealth
By the time you read this
I’ll have won the jackpot
There’s no way I can miss
This isn’t a longshot
There’s no way I can lose
I’m counting my riches
I’m the next Howard Hughes
Half a billion bitches!
1207
1207
Pearl Harbor haiku
They attacked at dawn
Three hundred zeroes flying
Thousands of lives lost
1112
1112
11/12/13 @ 14:15:16
Eleven twelve thirteen
Fourteen fifteen sixteen
What did you think to do
At a quarter past two?
0923
0923
Being green costs a lot of green
Tesla was once known for a coil
Now it’s a car that needs no oil
I saw one in Los Alamos
For that town, it was grandiose
No place for an electric car
Owned by an aging movie star
Getting drunk in a wine-fueled haze
Kind of like that movie Sideways
Is the car about being green
Or do you get it to be seen?
Electric cars are close at hand
But this one is a hundred grand!
0807
0602
0602
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Vogon Poetry
By Douglas Adams
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturitions are to me,
As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath bitled out,
Its earted jurtles,
Into a rancid festering confectious inner-sphincter. [drowned out by moaning and screaming]
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and slipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turling dromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don’t.
0512
0512
Happy Mother’s Day
M-O-T-H-E-R
By Howard Johnson
I’ve been around the world, you bet, but never went to school
Hard knocks are all I seem to get, perhaps I’ve been a fool;
But still, some educated folks, supposed to be so swell,
Would fail if they were called upon a simple word to spell.
Now if you’d like to put me to the test,
There’s one dear name that I can spell the best!
“M” is for the million things she gave me
“O” means only that she’s growing old
“T” is for the tears she shed to save me
“H” is for her heart of purest gold
“E” is for her eyes with love-light shining
“R” means right and right she’ll always be
Put them all together they spell MOTHER,
a word that means the world to me.
When I was but a baby, long before I learned to walk,
While lying in my cradle, I would try my best to talk;
It wasn’t long before I spoke and all the neighbors heard,
My folks were very proud of me for “Mother” was the word.
Although I’ll never lay a claim to fame,
I’m satisfied that I can spell the name:
“M” is for the mercy she possesses
“O” means that I owe her all I own
“T” is for her tender, sweet caresses
“H” is for her hands that made a home
“E” means ev’rything she’s done to help me
“R” means real and regular, you see
Put them all together they spell MOTHER,
a word that means the world to me.
0507
0507
God shave the king
I don’t really give a fuck
But we’ll soon have a King Chuck
Queen Liz is 87
And on her way to heaven
She’s number one by and large
But, she’s putting Charles in charge
He will travel in her place
And be “King” as a test case
Most Britons love QE2
And don’t want to bid adieu
Yet time catches up to all
While Charles waits for his call
0421
0421
It’s 4:20 somewhere
The Smoke Off
By Shel Silverstein
In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly knew her well.
She’d been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
That she could smoke ’em faster than anyone could roll.
Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk up flat
Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
With long browned lightnin’ fingers he takes a cultured toke
And says, “Hell, I can roll em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!”
So a note gets sent to San Rafael, “For the Championship of the World
The Kid demands a smoke off!” “Well, bring him on!” says Pearl,
“I’ll grind his fingers off his hands, he’ll roll until he drops!”
Says Calistog, “I’ll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops!”
So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
“Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price Just two lids a head
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
The world’s greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed
Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.
See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin’ all together
From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who’ve done some time
To the old man who smoked “reefer” back before it was a crime
And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin’ war
At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.
Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok’s Bloomin’ Best.
And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there’s bubblin’ ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
And there’s Hershey’s bars, and Oreos, case anybody gets the munchies.
And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearly, she just grins.
And the drums roll low and the crowd yells “GO!” and the world’s first Smoke Off begins.
Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint’s rolled.
Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that’d paralyze a moose.
And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb’ defused.
Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes ’em up in nine,
And everybody sits back and says, “This just might take some time.”
See the blur of flyin’ fingers, see the red coal burnin’ bright
As the night turns into mornin’ and the mornin’ fades to night
And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
But the two still sit on that roach filled stage, smokin’ and rollin’ on
With tremblin’ hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
The Kid he gasps, “Goddamn it, bitch, there’s nothin’ left to roll!”
“Nothin’ left to roll?”, screams Pearl, “Is this some twisted joke?”
“I didn’t come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!”
And she reaches ‘cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
Flickin’ out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.
In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly know her well.
She’s been stoned twenty one of her twenty four years, and the story’s widely told.
How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
There’s the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
And underneath his fingers there’s a little golden scroll
That says, Beware of Bein’ the Roller When There’s Nothin’ Left to Roll.
0414
0414
Who is Casey today?
Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888
By Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning left to play;
And then, when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which “springs eternal in the human breast;”
They thought, If only Casey could but get a whack at that,
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn procede Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a no-good and the latter was a fake;
So, upon that stricken multitude grim meloncholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball,
And when the dust had lifted and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin’ third.
Then from five thousand throats and more threr rose a lusty yell,
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face,
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the croud could doubt `twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tounges applauded as he wiped them on his shirt.
Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there,
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him; kill the umpire!” shouted someone from the stand;–
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“Fraud,” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered “Fraud,”
But one scornful look from Casey, and the multitude was awed.
The saw his face grow stern and cold; they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip; his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has Struck Out.
0410
0319
0319
Presto! Face slap!
There once was a man from Modesto
Who wrote a dating manifesto
To get to third base
Go to a nice place
And buy her linguini with pesto
0310
0310
Oh to be in Mayo
Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949
By Paul Durcan
Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ I cried, ‘Pass out the moon,’
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghaderreen, Ballavarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father’s mother’s house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and cock-crows:
Life’s seemingly seamless garment gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings. And in the evenings
I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him – an unheard-of thing in the city.
But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic-lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called ‘new’ tenements –
Thousands of crosses of loneliness planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy’s childhood.
0207
0203
0203
I luve Jean
A Red, Red Rose
By Robert Burns
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it ware ten thousand mile.