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

I made a big raspberry cobbler.
I ate it all (I'm quite a gobbler).
The denouement was that
I grew very fat.
My feet hurt, and I was a hobbler.

We lived off the fat of the land
we butchered the lambs that ate from our hand
we thanked whoever kept us alive
but it did not last
we were forced to fast
'cause the bees all died in their hive

Let's talk of the birds and the bees,
And pollen that oft makes me sneeze.
I'm waiting for Spring,
When flowers are king,
And there is no chance of a freeze.

March comes in like a lion
with wind and rain that's quite a pain,
says the weather lore seer Bryan.
Bryan take readings from his weather vane
to know if it is going to be a windy day.
He looks at his barometer to gauge the air pressure
to see if it will be a perfect day for a game of lawn croquet;
that brings sunshine and a cool wind that makes the day feel fresher.

I wrote some verse
With lines increasing
In length, each over the last.
I don't know if my poem is any worse
Than any other, I just hope someone finds it pleasing,
Because each succeeding line can't be written nearly as fast.

If you are ready for romance
you better push the button and let me know.
If you want to take a chance
you must let your fears and worries go.

I came, I saw, I conquered all
using the corniest of jokes and puns.
It was at the Mayor's Ball held in Fall
in a Baroque hall by the cloister nuns.
The sisters are famous for their currant buns
and for their collection of Star Trek ray guns.

I came, I saw, I conquered all
using the corniest of jokes and puns.
It was at the Mayor's Ball held in the Fall
at a Baroque hall by the cloister nuns.
The sisters are famous for their currant buns
and for their collection of Star Trek ray guns.

I'm famous for not very much:
Bad puns and lame verse and such.
The memory lingers
Of not enough fingers
To plug holes in dikes like the Dutch.

VOGON LOVE CALL
(to be grunted a capella, molto maestoso)

In the depths of the deepest drawers
of dreams so far not dreamt
I went looking for beauty
a porkpie, a cutie
and discovered what left me with awes:

I had hoped for colourful pictures
of toad-like ladies and more
and found one so snuggly
The Princess Gruntbuggly
who I till my death will adore

Your poem's too good for a vogon.
I liked it, and so is my woe gone.
You really must rush.
All joy you must crush,
Or else charge a lot -- there's my dough gone!

- - -
You may become famous
for something outrageous
it may not sound pretty
though I found it witty:
comparing all dutchies with dikes

My ancestors might have been Dutch
--A few of them, that is, as such.
On oatmeal they dined,
While trying to find
A tulip that won't cost them much.

Summer makes me drowsy
Autumn makes me sing
Winter's pretty lousy
but I hate spring

[Dorothy Parker]

Climb the highest mountain.
Sail all the seven seas.
Search for the life-giving fountain
and you'll become a bit of tease.
Go and set your inner creativity free
and dream the wildest dreams.
Sit serenely underneath a weeping willow tree
waiting for inspiration for your plans and schemes.

I'm really creative, they say.
I could make the world in a day,
But choose not to do it.
I think you'd all rue it,
'Cause I'd do things any which way.

I don't know
I don't believe
And I'm fine

I don't believe that you're fine.
I only know water's not wine,
And coffee's not juice,
And petunia's not spruce,
But if I'm wrong I'll not whine.

I remember when in December I was gazing at the log fire
as I slowly drifted off into a deep sleep watching the dying embers.
I dreamt that every community had their own town crier
and there was seasonable weather with frost and snow in December.
That every village and town had their own eco-cottage industries
which were run as a co-op where they respected the environment.
There were cottage gardens and allotments with hives filled with bees
where their produce would be judged in the agriculture fair tent.

I have met a city gent in Brent
with an unusual British accent.
Told me he wanted to holiday in Kent
in a country home that he'll rent.
But in December he'll stay at a convent
in their garden in a tent through Advent.