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

Re-post eighteen, I'd say it's from,
Our 'Aberrant Pew Addict’s collection.

Across the creek, and up the road,
You'll find a place with lots of charm,
A clapboard house, colonial mode,
And, there in front, a milkweed farm.

From "Poems of impenetrable superficiality," by Paul H

Bad Spellers Untie
from the
Aberrant Pew Addict’s
collection of
"Meaninless Rhymes for Mindless Brats"

I had to ask my draftsman,
A Tamil, named Preshah,
The name for that strange ceiling thing,
That Indians’ call a punkah,
I asked him how to spell it,
“Please tell me if you can”,
His look said much as he replied;
You spell it F – A – N.

Beyond dull care!
Though that is not original
I can't do better
Because I am so beautiful.

by Norah P. Ashworth

Her name was Rosetta.
She lived alone,
And in her fine bakery,
Perfected the scone.

Some worship teapots,
Or God on his throne,
And then are fans of
the Rosetta Scone.

(My own)

I like my vodka,
The vanilla is best,
I like the 2 litres,
Coz it messes with my feet-ers

what is so rare as a day in June,
Except for another one?
I'm planning to go on "Name that tune"
And ask for Door Number One.

I watered the onions yesterday,
But not the garlic,
And during the night the beans passed away,
Which has bean tragic.

This is my garden of earthly delights
Where I like to linger,
Except for the woodchuck who 'casionally bites.
And the wasp with its stinger.

( from "Paul H.'s poetry-based insomnia cure")

I AM SO BEAUTIFUL

by Norah P. Ashworth

I am so beautiful
I could cry out for joy
So handsome
I might be a boy
Mine is the body of an athlete of love
Sent to me straight from Heaven Above
Which reminds me
Even God loves me

Even God loves me
I'm not lonely

I'm so beautiful
So truly beautiful
It really is unreal

I'm surrounded by beauty
Worth far more than my money
So they tell me -

And pretty girls whose eyes of blue make silver valleys ring
Surround me if they like that literary sort of thing.

Marrakech

The road to Marrakech
On the left of the Sahara,
I used to like it, quite a lot,
But now it has been rather,
Invaded by ex-spat-riates
Lokking for something cheaper,
That they used to get in Suvern Speyn,
Right next to Costa Brava.

from the
Abberant Pew Addict
collecion of rejected verse-or-wurse.

What do you mean you're beautiful?
You're not as nice as me.
What do you mean you're beautiful?
Why, you're not even pretty.
You look like a pregnant elephant
And smell like a flippin' donkey.

No-one would make love to you
If you gave it away for free
And nobody would bother you
Even if you paid them to.

Oh, you're such a silly woman!
You're thick as muck and twice as common

by Aileen Rosalie Pugh

You know...I write bad poetry
Without really trying.
But when I try
I wind up crying.
Sob!

There's nothing good or bad about my verse.
It just is.
I don't try to make it better or worse.
Just let it fizz.

Give it strawberries, creme, oreos,
It does its work.
Drop a ten-foot weight on its toes:
It goes berserk.



(By me, whoever that is)

Frome the
Abberant Pew Addict
summer collection

Bad verse,
Is made all the worse,
If it rhymes.
And all the lines are not of a different length.
And if it lacks meaningless, unconnected sentimentality,
Like the noise of Kahdeja screaming next door.
And – as nobody will take the blindest bit of notice.
You might as well not bother.
On the other had,
You'll understand,
Good verse is like the king’s new clothes,
Only understood by them wot knows.

Bad verse has clogged my toilet again.
It's now interfering with my use of Zen.
It gives me strange bulges all over my waist.
My ham tastes like peaches--now there's a strange taste .

If you think that through verse I am trying to show,
I’ve read, learned and forgotten more than you’ll ever know,
You’re wrong, they’re all of the top of my head,
I write them in busses or lying in bed,
They’re all written for fun – not some sort of art,
If nobody likes them, I don’t give a fart.

Most think I’m just crazy, they think I’ve become,
Nothing more than a moudmeen, a low-down bum.
They might be right – whoever ‘they’ are,
As I keep a small donkey and don’t own a car.
And I don’t have a tele – yup - I MUST be mad,
But some smile as they read, and that makes me glad.



From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Verst Verse

I put this here, because Jab said to



I read,
I think,
I ponder.
I look,
I feel,
I wander.



by lil xxx

Ach wär' ich doch ein Dichter wie Joachim Ringelnatz (http://www.beilharz.com/poetas/ringelnatz/)
Stattdessen lösch ich Lichter als Hausmeister bei der FAZ.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frankfurter_Allgemeine_Zeitung)

(I wish I were a poet like Joachim Ringelnatz
Instead I switch the lights off as the janitor of the Faz.

Oh, I forgot to name the poet.

It's by the Möchtegern Dichter (The Wannabe Poet)