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

The moss and lichen grow upon a rock.
Very little happens there.
I thought I'd write a poem about this,
But maybe no one else will care.

Hey Paul, thanks bud, that's ultra cool;
And here I am, in a daze all day
Walking and wondering
Whether I'm just somebody's fool.

But was that sarcasm? Just play?
I'm wondering again,
As if to rule.
Perhaps I shouldn't talk:
I'll go out for another walk
In the cold, cold English rain.


Jabs

I have to remember not to forged
That praise in a bad poetry thread
Comes across as a put-down,
And makes the recipient feel like a clown.

So, I will try not to feel like a cad,
And say that Jab's efforts are really bad!

Paul, I've screwed up big, as usual, taking my time:
2942 was my response to your 2939

And thanks for 2943 -
Many, many thanks, but
Why are you so good to me?

Jabs

If not that I were a tree
On top of hill Id grow and be
Not many thing would unfortunately hug me
I would stand alone for all to see

The City of Yrteopdab is built across an abyss.
No one ever visits, so few people know this.
The streets are paved not with gold but with gum,
To catch at a person's shoes and make him fall on his bum.

Fogedd
Foghead
In the morning i am Fogged
By afternoon:
-a bugg eyed baffoon
the twightlight zone of early evening
and i am feeling:
like lichen on a rock
curling yet again
against the heat of sun
then evening come
i am a stixxky bun
alive again - raw rum
no ice
though nice
straight
great!
i am stuck
to this bubblegum chair
who cares

We were gave a bum
So I was told by mum
To sit and listen
If I’m not mistaken

On doorstep armed with only beer
all is quite and still I fear
Yet cushioned in this calming balm
No house does sound its intruder alarm

All are beered and bbqed to excess
They wake to gardens in a mess
Yet I’m still to contemplate such thing
Another hot day tomorrow will opportunity bring

may not be good grammar but it has a true feel about it

i fear the beer aint beer
and the barbieque aint real real barbie too
you are waht you eat pete a bogeyed aside


two pints of bovril and a fist of, vegetarian, Bombay mix

Beef extract that’s a thing
Surely makes your taste buds sing
But wait ,that is not what it is for
Makes your breath smell like the great outdoors

Well, look at the bear, with lots of hair to spare,
sitting on the chair, filled with hot air.
With no care in the world, except for knitting squares.
His name is Piere and he dines on caramelised pears.

Well, he's plays so very fine at the music shrine.
Where he prays for the ability to shine,
as he drinks glasses of fine matured wine.

Piere drinks tea to live and pours his best tea down a sieve.
As he only uses tea leaves, as tea bags are a poor alternative,
and only uses them as a last resort, especially if they have been stolen by thieves.
So he rolls out his sleaves, looking for the culprits as he climbs the eaves.

For salad he goes into the garden and picks the best beet.
Cooks it and then pickles, making it a feast to eat.
Beetroot always completes a salad,
and to celebrate the meal goes and writes a folk ballad.
To be sung at all retreats, and outside on the streets,
whilst selling bales of wheat and bed sheets.

With his salad he has brie which he gets for free,
whenever he goes on a shopping spree.
Buying pots of ghee and bags of fresh garden peas,
bought at the general store run by the Cree.
Nearby the sea where he learns how to swim for a small fee.

Once he has learned to swim, he'll train to be life guard,
and to pay for his training, he'll work at the boat yard.
As it's his civic duty, to give out his homemade ice cream: tutti fruity.

Oh ho, goes the flow of the crow, who's on the go,
to go with Piere to go and knead a batch of dough.
Then goes in the garden to do some sowing,
throwing the seeds as they start glowing.
Then as they start hoeing, it starts snowing,
slowing them down, as the wind starts blowing.
So they stop and go inside, and have a drink of hot cocoa,
talking about their holiday they will have at Baracoa.

If you'd pursue greatness, it must be your fate
That terrible eminence will make you great.
The banners of poetry, see them unfurled
For him who from c'lamity saves all the world.

Voldemort's crimes were of great magnitude.
Imagine if he merely snored or was lewd!
World domination was Sauron's great plan.
He was hardly a pizza delivery man.

But greatness is tiring. Your mind it soon numbs.
Excuse me a moment--I'm flossing my gums,
And blowing my nose. There's no greatness in snot.
By now you'll have guessed a great poem this is not!

Its the warm up man Stan
Standing on a pedestal
The next act has
a wooden soap box
Which with a smile
he deftly hops
and we all listen
a rollacoaster ride maybe
our distination
laughs, tears, or pleas?

#2954

2053

I hope I make it to 2053.

I quit hoping. Typo error: 2953

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in your heart.
It's expert at survival,
But can't stand when you f*rt.