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

I eat pork with a fork.
The I tried to use a spork.
But the spork talked to me.
Asking me where is the sea.
So, I took the ferry to County Cork.
I took the spork wtih me.
So it could become free.
I took my WII.
On the ferry I said hello to a Stork.
Who was trying to talk to the Torque.
The stork thought that it was New York.

Should pygmies live in very tall trees?
Why do elephants have very large knees?
Are bees as busy as they make us believe?
Did Adam once state, he really rates Eve

Do ants fear heights, as this ever been seen
How old do you have to be to be a very good queen?
Can fat pigs state, their bacon is lean
Why is Santa not grumpy and mean?

Do slugs in gardens deliberately go slow?
Can hedgehogs race cars and nobody knows
When birds fly south, with whom do they go?
Do I ask too many questions, I really think so?

When life gets much too hectic,
Then I seek a dessert isle,
Where chocolate palm trees beckon,
And the devil's food cakes smile.

A smile makes me happy
It warms like the sun

A smile looks so funny
It’s like my mums bum

So if you’re not feeling happy
Come around for your tea

I’m sure you will smile
When you see, what I can see.

If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.
When you're feeling in the dumps,
Don't be silly chumps.
Just purse your lips and whistle.
That's the thing*. And sing:

I'm S.O.P.P.Y.
I'm S.O.P.P.Y.
I think I am
I know I am
I'm S.O.P.P.Y.


(*Python Life of Brian)

I like to blink when I see pink ink.
Other times I just wink at the sink.
Sometimes when I do this, I feel out of sync.
Especially after having too much too drink.
I have too be careful not to wear too much pink.
I must make sure that my clothes don't shrink.
I link to think alot and use my thoughts to link.
But not if I use too strong a perfume, which makes quite a stink.

Let's not forget the classics.

The painter's work was all in vain,
The sh*thouse poet has struck again.

The wages of sin are death and a curse,
The wages in this place are a freakin sight worse.

I write on this brick,
For a kick.
Trying to think of a rhyme,
In this short time.

I saw a toad in a hole.
It thought it was a pole.
The toad jumped out of the hole.
Then felt hungry and leapt into a bowl.
But the bowl was full of coal.
And on top of the coal was a mole.
The mole was on a roll.
As it had baked some swiss roll.
They both listened to some soul.
As they met up with a drunken troll.
Who was called Cole and was having a stroll.
He stole a pole from a Swedish Pole.
Then later on a computer console.
He definitely was not in control.
He was caught and sent to jail.
Where he learned how to wail.
Did not stay long, and was out a in a few months.
Now he has a statues of himself on several plinths.
As he is on parole, he talks to his neighbour, a foal.
The foal is called Nicole and lives in an extol where she patrols.

Weep, oh mine eyes, and see snot.
A tissue right now would hit the spot.
I cry for my lost youth and morals,
And all of the ill-advised quarrels.

"I'm only human," I try to explain,
And then I remember my mother, Jane,
Who spent lots of time with the chimpanzees.
Is that why I feel so attracted to trees?

Breath deep - breath free
smile with - spaggetti
nothing like a friendly bowl
of tangled fun it lights your soul
the way is clear from cups and saucers
life is simple with fork and spoon
messy childrens birthday party fun
each day a big - grin in the sun

For several days I've been working on a silly poem, and I might as well post what there is of it so far, though it's not finished yet. The second half will have to wait a few days more.

Here's the first half:

In Plithigor, a town which hugged the coast of Fribble Sea,
There lived a man named Figgis, known for mediocrity.
(All right, that's not quite fair. At averageness he quite excelled,
But quibbles will just bog us down. It's best that they be quelled.)

The fourth millennium was drawing to its glorious end,
And Figgis figured it was time to make at least one friend.
Or, better still, a lover. He was now past puberty,
And though he liked some girls a lot, well, no great catch was he.

But maybe girls from other times would think him Mr. Right,
For his contemporaries had a quite advanced birthright:
They all had marv'lous implants; some to ward off bad diseases,
Or else augment the memory, or help you choose your cheeses.

So, even average Figgis would appear to be divine
To people not quite so advanced; he'd need no valentine.
Besides, he'd quite annoyed the local gangs of pretzel farmers,
And had three-headed wolves pursing him--they were not charmers!

He took most of his savings and went to the implants store.
Which talents would impress the girls, and which would be a bore?
He bought a wide selection, got a painful vaccination,
And then selected tickets at the temporal train station.

He browsed the daily specials, and the best of those he found
Was Cleopatra's Egypt. Oh, how glorious that did sound!
The station, it was quite strange. There were wires overhead,
On which were beavers bicycling, in tutus green and red.

Above them were large turtles, dressed in tweed suits, held aloft
By bunches of bright red balloons, and eating muffins soft.
The train he took was furnished well, with nice red velvet seating.
It took him to a palace, just before a public meeting.

And there, upon her throne, was Cleopatra, looking splendid,
Receiving emissaries, answ'ring questions. When it ended,
Our Figgis boldly stated that Mark Antony, his master,
Had sent him here to ask for aid to ward off sure disaster.

Figgis is in a hospital in a sitcom.
Where he talks through an intercom.
Along with his fellow patients, they are very feeble
Their illnesses since they first came, have trebled.
Diagnosed and treated by the very one and only Dr. Preble.
Twice daily visited by the very Rev. Keble.
Nurses paint them every few minutes, with purple dye which can be deleble.
Every night they jump on their beds as they grumble, leaving them feeling very troubled.
Rising every morning to dine on Don's fry up that makes them hobble.
When they hobble, the nurses give them hobnobs and this makes them wobble.
What a very funny hospital, where they only have three patients.
Where people cobble when they get the colleywobbles and eat 100% chocolate for their nutrients.

I like the idea of feeding chocolate to patients so they will get well.

where is the warm captain?
sitting on his knee
ships die like pirates
what only must, must be.
desolation is a stormy bird
on a storm shorn sea.
why does the moon travel
sideways? Because it must do, easily.


the captain waves like a warm hand.
the wavy sea, indeed.
why did the sails unravel?
let it flow, blow, show its need
endurance, love, and love
make grow the seed.
masts sail like clearing whales
oh let it bleed, just let it bleed.


whales die! cold captains too!
sea winds must follow over waves
all suns fight old, cold ships anew
dull pirate dereliction saves
why does the sea so bubble and brew?
water on the boil with knaves
who wrote the books
they came to see the sea has graves
not needing second looks


the captain’s making time
a sailor heard
the river runs to watch the moon
become old, gold, absurd
who walked the water?
seven ships the seventh bird?
who drove the sea from Babylon
with one prophetic word?

Can anyone remember the rest of this nonsense verse?

One fine day, in the middle of the night,
Two dead men got up to fight.
Back to back, they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot their brother.
...or something like that.

I could probably rewrite it to make it sillier.

Go Go -i must go
Go out
go on
go away
go gone>>>>>
go forth
go west
go Kan
Go Jest
Go Go - in a mo

One fine day, in the middle of the night,
Two dead men got up to fight.
The first one shot a moose in flight.
The second dined on diet delight.
Their wives didn't mind; it was Bingo night.

I am h.a.p.p.y, I am h.a.p.p.y.
I do not why, but I sure will try.
To be h.a.p.p.y, and s.a.p.p.y.
It will make me a very happy chappy.
Even when I am ill, I will still spill.
Spilling my fill and putting it back into the till.
Bill will come and demand his fill along with Will.
We will eat our chocolate and it will make us late.
Eating our after dinner eights, that we all rate.
Paul.H, Loftskywalker and Jabberwock will come and watch the fun.
Writing their great and funny poems whilst eating sticky buns.
Sitting out in the sun and lifting half a tonne, which makes them run.
They run out to see buns in the sun drinking rum and looking glum.
Then I listen to their poems whilst making jam made out of plums.
What a strange day it is, and it is not even 7pm and my Mum is playing her drums.