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

Thinking of poor little fly,
Yonder in yon soup doth lie,
Is it dead,or is it live?
Did it live in hopes to die?
Please answer me one question,
Why?



by N.T.Mologist

Flies like sh*t
Maybe the soup smelled like it!

If the fly, liked the smell of it,
I mean what you said, the smell of shit,
Then let us liken that, there fly,
To the moth, and Japanese hari kiri (However it's spelt)
suicide soldiers, who wish to die for sacrifice.


by N. T. Mologist

fly me to the moon
let me smell of old green cheese
bear me with a spoon
filled with gold and elbow grease
in other words: take my pen
in other words: teach me how to write good poetry

Post 361 sounds like a continuation of Ogden nash's:

God in his wisdom made the fly,
And then forgot to tell us why.

if it was god's intention
that people should smoke tobacco
would he not have fitted
us with holes in our necks
so that the smoke could get out?

God gave up explaining his intention
When Adam and Eve that apple ate.
So when men's boobs you might happen to mention,
God isn't there to set matters straight.

From the Internet. This one's a brilliant, but I guess that in the larger scheme of things we can adopt it as one of ours, as a BP:


The End of the Raven

(by Edgar Allen Poe's Cat)

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"


Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -
"Nevermore."


While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.


"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put and end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.


Author: EAP's Cat (unknown otherwise)

brilliant!

we should ask alan parson to put it in

Pickled poets, do unite!
Brazen birdies you must fight,
In the forests of the night.

Plastic pusscat,
shining bright,
In the plastic,
of the night,
No immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy sheer plasticity.


William Fake.

For such a large-in-size bird
The owl's a very wise bird
Believe me, I am certain this is true
He never goes a-courting when rain is in the air
He says, "It's simply just too wet to woo".

Dolores Catchpole

An owl who caught a large skunk
Cared not that the silly beast stunk.
The reason is, well,
An owl can't smell,
Not even when it is half-drunk.

Nota Xactly Amasterpiece

An owl can smell
If it's dead or not well
But what the hell

Everything stinks -
School stinks
The teachers stink
Home stinks
My parents really stink

Everything's foul
Not just some stupid owl.


Freddie Gumrot (age 15)

before we had bees
the were lonely
longingly leering at each other only
the same goes for peas

dr. ruth bane

See my odd pet menagerie:
It's sluggy and buggy and badgery.

I saw a see-saw
I bought a hacksaw
I saw a see-saw

I see a saw-saw
I saw a saw-saw
I can't help repeating myself
I can't help repeating myself

Is it my brain I wonder wonder
Is it my brain brain brain I wonder
Just ignore me me
Just ignore me me me
And I'll soon be better better
Until the next
Until the next next
Until the next next next time

James James Farquharson Farquharson

My poetry's sometimes frenetic,
And sometimes it is just pathetic.
Sometimes it's bad,
And sometimes it's sad,
But Mimi replied, "I've a ton of them."

Plastic pusscat,
shining bright,
In the neon,
of the night,
What synthetic mouse and ROM,
Can't frame thy slick plasticity.

Willoiam Fake (Songs of 21st century Experience)




Polished version of earlier one: