h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The trains of your thoughts truly are
perplexing and also bizarre.
From sexual success
to the Emerald Isles west.
tell me where is this trains buffet car?

Well now, Ekki

If you think I intend in the least
To refrain from this Limerick feast
You have got the wrong train
And your search is in vain.
The buffet car's stranded back East!

P.S., Ekki, don't despair, it's an Indian train, of course...

If you can wait, by and by
The wallah will come with some chai.
He will bring you a pot
So steamy and hot,
So spicey-ly gorgeous, you'll cry!

From my days in sunny darjeeling
i can't help but have fondest feelings
for the chai wallahs brew
which after a few
leaves you feeling a need of relieving.

I cannot begin to commend
the saltier tibetan blend
sometimes it was fine
but for breaksfast a crime
that did the old tastebuds offend.

As regards Tibetan "Po-cha."

I've heard, if you want to survive
Drinking "Po-cha," and come out alive
Don't think "tea," think of "soup"
And you'll happily scoop
Up whole bowls-full, on which you will thrive!

Ne'er a truer word spoken in jest,
to consider po-cha soup is best.
My shock when one morning
twas served without warning
so I put in a sweet chai request.

I have to admit that the taste
does grow but not with much haste.
Manners in Tibet
state for etitquette
that you leave some behind just in case.

This means that for Inji's like me
I could drink half a cup of their tea,
leaving the rest
implied by the gest-
ure that I would return politely.

If Tibet as a race has a fault
It's in mixing their chai with rock salt
To which, dare I utter,
They add rancid butter,
And soda! I'm sick, pass the malt.

There once was a man from Atlanta
Who ate a Chinese deep-fried panda
After the meal,
His stomach he'd feel
And cry, "Please pass the Milanta!"

To return, briefly, to an earlier theme ( just pre-Hester )

In Ireland the word politician
Means a mixture of fraud and magician -
Good at hiding his tracks
While stabbing the backs
Of all those who oppose his ambition!

There once was a man from Salt Lake
Who spent his long days eating
He grew so round and wide
He could not fit inside
And when he moved, he caused an earthquake!

It seems from the pitch of your rhymes
that the US is having tough times
the constant ingestion
gives mass indigestion
And scuppers the youth in its prime.

The Last Word on Hester!

'Tis done. I have now squeezed the besta
These rhymes - we must all keep a breasta
The times - I'd go mad
If I hadn't just had
The last word on the topic of Hester.

Re. Limericks:

The Limerick's shorter and sweeter
Than most other verse - it's much neater.
You must write in rhyme
That is simply sublime,
But the critical factor's the metre.

Come, children, draw near
And I shall read the lim'ricks of Lear
In meter and verse
We shall all immerse
As a poet, he is without peer.

Commonsense seems to require us
to guard against all sorts of virus
attacks. But I am
suffocated with spam
selling things of which I'm not desirous.

I, too, seem to have an inbox
Full of ads that just cannot be blocked
For chatrooms for gays
And ways to raise
The size of the promotees' c**ks.

There's an answer to this, make 'em cry
just click on the switch marked reply
and send them all back
all their piles of old Kak
till it fills up their boxes piled high

Alas, if to spam you respond,
You create an insoluble bond
As your email address
Attracts more spam, not less
From the spamming-hell-regions beyond.

And, on a different topic, in which the implications for infinities of spam are truly horriffic....

About one thing science is clear -
Our multiverse can't be a sphere.
It seems, thanks to Hubble,
We live in a bubble
Albeit a flat one, I fear.

PS regarding multiverses etc........

Don't fret over this, have no fear,
However bizarre an idea,
Be the universe froth
Or a tissue-thin cloth
The same old crap comes from one's rear.

The universe is vast and grand
And we are as a grain of sand
Tossed onto a beach
Just out of reach
Of a child's greedy hand.

What difference if we are little
Or worthless as bumblebee spittle
Or if we exist
As a swirl in a mist;
Our bills aren't reduced by a tittle