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

A doggy can be a good friend,
Who'll stick by you, true to the end.
Some dogs can be strong,
But won't live too long.
Beware of the ones whose tails bend.

There was a young lady from Perth,
Who was happy and so full of mirth;
She filled up her pants
With some maggots and ants,
And then laughed for all she was worth.

I'm sure I shall end up quite mad
If I take advice that's that bad.
What, ants in my drawers?
I'd soon have great sores
And wander mean streets feeling sad.

Back after a fortnight and Gosh!
This thread has gotten so posh
Combatting the "burrs"
With such fancy furs
What's next? Some new Kashmir galosh?

Helloooo, is there anyone there?
The silence here gives me a scare
Am I all that's left
On a thread so bereft
That none has a poem to spare?

Oh Yoga, the world is too immense
To fit into five lines, however dense
There's so much to say
That's why I've stayed away.
Of course, the others may have just been to the gents.

My friends pass remarks because I'm
Preconditioned to see things in rhyme.
I can only make sense
Of the passing events
When they're sorted five lines at a time.

My absence? Not hard to explain:
My computer went down the drain.
My new one's all set,
But the Internet
Connection has been quite a strain.

I start every day eating prunes,
And then I decipher some runes.
The March Hare stops by
For some sassafras pie,
And then we start acting like loons

Your day sounds exactly like mine
Should we take this as some kind of sign?
What some think is scary
We find ordinary,
Pleasant, routine and benign

My life is quite far from unique,
Especially when I'm up a creek.
I've lost every oar.
I'm becoming a bore.
My joints have all started to squeak.

The best part of my day is the screaming
First thing in the morn, after dreaming
I go on, of course
Until I am hoarse
And my poor little tonsils start steaming

We all need a good primal scream.
It ought to come out in a stream,
With nothing deleted.
Your angst should be bleated.
It's good for you to be extreme.

I've sorted my meds out by size
And the effect each one has on my eyes
By texture and color
From cheap to high dollar
And the disease to which each one applies

My goodness! A mountain of pills,
Poor chap, you must have many ills.
Purple hearts for the sporties,
And black - rigor mortis?
And blue, for all manner of chills?

The best medicine must be laughter.
It's what most of us should go after.
A comic's routine,
A great goofy scene,
Guffaws ringing up to the rafter.

There was a young lady from Rheims
Who had multiple sexual dreams.
She'd have orgasms galore,
(well, at least three or four),
Keeping neighbours awake with her screams.

That young lady's dreams about sex
Were likely to torture and vex.
She talked to a shrink,
And then dreamed of pink
Flamingoes with wreaths 'round their necks.

An immigrant fellow from Cairo,
Owned nothing at all 'cept a Biro.
He didn't like work,
He's a bit of a jerk,
But he knows how to sign for a Giro.

For non U.K. readers, a Giro is a cashable cheque issued to successful claimants by the Benefits Agency.