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

A pretty thing was in my bed
I turned right over and politely said
You pretty nose can half not snore
I then politely showed her the bedroom door

She showed me the door.
I said, this needs work.
I painted it green,
And she called me a jerk.

Green doors just look like snot
Conclusion made as I wiped my bot
It time I change the bathroom door
As I pull my pants off the lino floor

poet


he’s a rhapsode
a true poet
because you see
he’s
staring mad
in his caravan
by the road
to the sea

he’s the only poet
We’ve ever had
He thinks the whole
Universe
his mum and his dad
he’s near to death
alone. He’s mad.

we keep the kids away, because he
is mad, you can’t predict you see
in spite of his poetry, yet
instead of having stopped and stared
I sometimes think when I see him on the green,
Shy, stumbling and coughing on the green,
it would have been nice if someone
had stopped and cared

"The Parent at the Post Box: The Reply" (based on Found Poem, poème trouvé)


The parent posting, to which this is a reply
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The parent posting an older reply
The parent posting the first reply
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The parent posting a reply
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The parent posting the first reply
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Sorry, folks, not trying to show off how bad my poetry is, nor trying to hog the thread, but I wrote the first one then noticed the second.

Jab

Talking of parents, here's a song about my mum. (Song = bad poetry, )

Karolina, with a K
I thought of you again today
The same old question came to mind
How could they treat you so unkind?
They may not have intended to
But in effect they murdered you
They stitched you up - not very well
And so the tragedy befell
And I can still recall the day
With a smile you slipped away
Oh! Karolina, with a K

Karolina, with a K
You were born a waif and stray
Rejected by your family
And shipped away across the sea
While you were still a babe in arms
Was that to keep you safe from harm?
Well, no-one now can really know
What happened all those years ago
When you were sent so far away
Or if they do, no-one will say
Oh! Karolina, with a K

Karolina, with a K
That was your name the papers say
It’s not the one we knew you by
As the months and years flew by
While you raised a family
With your creed of 'Let It Be'
You took good care of each of us
And taught us not to make a fuss
But live our life from day to day
As you went on your own sweet way
Oh! Karolina, with a K

Karolina, with a K
Those games of cribbage we would play
You were always streets ahead
But when all is done and said
There’s nothing left to say or do
But deal another hand or two
It’s always sweeter to have won
But when all is said and done
There’s nothing left to do or say
We all run out of cards to play
Oh! Karolina, with a K

Karolina, with a K
You found a better place to stay
My father took you for his wife
Together you carved out a life
Raised a family of five
Thankfully all still alive
And grateful for the life we knew
The life that we all owe to you
You made us what we are today
With so much love along the way
And you live on in memory dear
As it all becomes more clear
The love you left along the way
Will last forever and a day
Oh! Karolina, it’s OK.

Clive felt very deprived of driving his C5.
For the weekly test drive.
Which was part of his job,
and now it was now given to Bob.
Who was also the companies heartthrob.
So he left and invented a new car,
that brought him fame and made him a star.

Mary marry me
Oh please surely not
Your called bob
This experience I’ve already forgot

My Dad was a character in a poem, you see.
He begged to be made real; his wish was granted.
My Mom was abandoned in an apple tree.
The woman who found her thought her enchanted.

The previous verse I made up, I admit.
I've nothing to say that you'd want to read.
Such rubbish I write because I'm a twit,
And attention is all that I really need.

Attention you’ve got
Now stand up straight
I will hear no more of it
As there’s nothing to debate
Just do as you do
And all will be fine
Tomorrow you will be
A new friend of mine

Did I say friend
Oh where will it send
Paul of poetry
Hope what was said
Does not drive Paul
To a UK town call Coventry

The poet Sylvia Plath
Was exceptionally gifted
At art and maths-
She really was.

If you asked me why
She was so depressed as well
Although so widely gifted
I'd shy away
And say
Just because

And yet we know
We surely know:
So many of the gifted
Are also cursed with sensitivity and sorrow,
Like Tennyson, Max Weber, Blake, Virginia Woolf ,Keats,
So many.
- T.S. Eliot was said to be so sensitive
He could hear the grass grow.

I'm reading a book called "Escape from Hell,"
By Larry Nivcn and Jerry Ournelle.
It's something a Sylvia Plath fan should read.
She's cast as a tree, but to talk she must bleed.

You could say, "But three authors? That's upping the ante,
Because they're updating the work of old Dante."

Paul -

With respect I'm afraid
That I cannot agree
With digging up a corpse
To make it dance for me

Well, I woke up this morning
With a ringing in my head
It was a telephone alarm call
So I leapt out of my bed
And crashed into the wardrobe
Put a gash in my forehead
And I can't quite remember
The exact words that I said.

It might have been "Oh! bother"
Or maybe even "Damn!"
It could have been "Oh! mother,
What a silly boy I am!"
I may even have uttered
This (old English, anagram)
And the blood stains on the carpet
Looked just like strawberry jam.

In that case, there's no cause for any objection,
For Plath is a tree. Dancing's not her direction.
She's rooted in Hell, where the suicides go.
The authors suggest some escape from there, though.

Emmet emits permits for Dermit,
so that he can give them to Kermit the Hermit.
Who dances and prances in a hermitage in France.
After he has learned to enhances his finances.
By falling into a tance as he glances at his chances.
Psychic he is; and when he is a trance,
he visualises the wining numbers of the lottery.
In any country that he can pick, and puts them in his pottery.
Then emits psychic messages to Emmet and Dermit,
the wining numbers that he will transmit.
Which will make them all very rich,
improving their sales pitch as they corner their niche.

Paul -
Again, with respect
You seem to have taken what I said
Far too literally -
To make a real person who's dead
But whose children are still alive
Into a puppet tree, (in puppetry),
Is an example of what I mean:
To act for me, to speak for me,
To be a a character in a schlock-horror
Book for me
Is metaphorically
To dance for me.
Dante did the same
(At a higher level, you'll agree)
But for me the whole thing's distasteful
And he gets away with it only
Because of his distance in time from me
And his quality.

After the first verse you will see
That the poem isn't about being a fan of anybody
But the wider question of art and sensitivity
A metaphor yet again
For art and mortality.