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

There was hush that filled the house,
not even the sound of a proverbial church mouse,
when out came a cheery monkey,
with a plate of salad leaves, tomatoes and slices of brie.

Then everyone in the household awoke,
and went to their pc's and played superpet pokes,
whilst swapping the oldest known jokes,
as well as weather lore shared by country folk.

I thought before I go on my long enforced rest
I should apologise for 4857: it was far from the best
I have done. And normally I don't go for
Lavatory humour at all. I was deliberately testing the Mods -
They've proved on this occasion that they aren't all silly sods,
[Although I must admit the last line was quite funny, though I don't think I'll go far if that sort of thing becomes what I'm known for ]

If anyone was offended
I hope it's now mended


Ayethangyew


Jabs

The recent stress drove you to drink,
Dear Jabberwock. That's what I think.
I skipped right over the poem in question,
So was unaffected by indigestion.

While you are moving to some place spectac'lar,
Write down your thoughts, in your own vernac'lar.
Show us the way things should really be written.
Your neighbors have pit bulls? I hope you're not bitten.

I like to teach the world to sing,
and learn how to wear the most garish bling,
by learning how to live in perfect harmony,
through living by the sea with the Bree.
Go hand in hand with the marching jazz bands,
playing on many lands and on golden sands.
Peace to all who want play ball,
and those who love to bingo call.

I blame my upstairs neighbour,
she's driving everyone around the bend,
with her boast that she's made a real light sabre,
and the most bizzare songs that she has penned.

She's has four mega stereo speakers,
all connected to her telephone,
and wears the noisiest of all sneakers,
when talking to her clone friend called Joan.

It is connected to telephone is microphone,
and a megaphone which she got when visiting the Rhone valley,
along with a box of eau de cologne,
as well as the original manuscript for "Sally pride of our alley".

Come.
Join me.
We'll bask in the sun,
On a beach with peppermint sand
And palms with turquois leaves,
And your brother Freddy
Will bring barbecued spare ribs
Any time we want them.

I won't take no for an answer.
The sea is warm and inviting.
The dolphins beckon.
They have trays of strawberries
And papaya ice cream.
All we need do is swim out to them.

Or, you and I can sit here
As we watch the snowflakes
That having fallen steadily for a week.
The choice is yours.
Let me know what you decide.
I might go alone anyway

Or

I

Might

Not.

Wow I really like that one!!!!!

To steal a quote "I'll have what he is drinking"

But it was supposed to be bad!
I'm glad you liked it, yet sad
That it wasn't quite bad enough.
Wrting bad poetry is tough!

not for me !
hehe !
as you can see

i guess

The old saw is true, as one gets older,
Beauty resides in the eye of the beholder.

Although it may be truer, I don't wish to be rude,
That beauty exists in the eyes of a pseud.

[..or perhaps looking at 'creativity' another way...]

How often it's red when they've bet on the black.
The silver ball circles, the bets are all laid.
A bet on the red, and this time it's black.
The wheel still spins as the choices are made.

And Odo the hero they bore him back home,
all the way from the city of Rome,
to the place that he'd known as a lad,
where he fished for his favourite fish which was shad.

They laid him to rest with his best string vest,
with the grave positioned in the west,
where he would go out in the evenings for a rest,
and listen to the birds singing at their best.

They pulled his hat inside out,
and gave him a friendly clout,
when no-one was about as they started to pout,
shouting out "Nout taken out" on the road's roundabout.

I can remember days,
when there was a craze,
to sit down and pray,
for Ray and his search to be parfait.

Things wern't always this way,
we would always go to the cafe,
and laugh at Renee,
and his dancing toupee.

I used to make you smile,
for a while as we walked a mile,
to the church's ailse,
where we had lots of money in a tidy pile.

If only for a while,
we would go in the garden and look at the sundial,
or play reeses squares on the kitchen tiles,
wondering if we should repair the carpet's thick piles.

But now you can't get through,
if you're being chased by a kangaroo,
who's escaped from the zoo,
with the aid of canoe.

There's no way I can lose,
my fear of drinking grapefruit juice,
or even walk around the shops as I peruse,
for the latest bargains in superglue.

I know some days are hard,
when you are trying to be the bard,
but ending up being called the cad,
for not being able to repair your rads.

But you won't put your mind to,
go to faraway Peru,
and get the most exotic tattoo,
as you recover from a bout of alien flu.

Cos I can't stand it when you come home,
dressed in a superhero costumes made of chrome,
and go into the garden to fight with the garden gnomes,
who love to roam and eat confectionary foam.

And we all including the gnomes, just fight for hours,
in both the ivory towers and in the showers,
trying to empower our mutant powers,
that we got from the water bowsers.

But I won't show it when I put on my mits,
and watch the car parking hermits,
issue permits in the Outer Limits,
of the Twilight Zone who are full of wit.

No I just hold my breath and keep things quite,
whilst you paint the whole house white,
using all your might and laughing at the cross dressing knight,
being chased by a gang of spirtes.

Every little earthquake,
every time I see a drake on the lake,
that's on the make by selling art that's fake,
and selling baked hake with covered in chocolate flakes.

Every little heartbreak,
every time I wake to see a talking snake,
in the kitchen cooking best sirloin steak,
who answers to the name of Jake.

Going unheard,
when dividing by a third,
with the help of a mouse covered in lemon curd,
who utters phrases that sound quite absurd.

Every little land slide,
every time I glide as I ride,
with the spider flying on the glider,
who works as despatch rider for the super haldron collider.

Catch it in my hand,
and we'll both join the jazz band,
that plays on the golden sands,
which sounds quite grand.

I won't say a word,
if you turn into a feathery bird,
or try to become a geek or a nerd,
full of technobable that sounds absurd.

Every time you hurt me,
by singing out of tune like a drunk banshee,
and think that you are now the marquis,
who's life is full of bliss.

I know that's it's working,
when you keep on winking,
and thinking when you start sinking,
when you think you are the carnival king.

Every drop of thunder,
goes asunder,
with the clash of the gazunder,
which fills me with wonder.

Only makes me stronger,
and look a lot longer,
as I linger to stop to eat chocolate fingers,
at the thought of becoming the new winger.

On the inside,
I feel a bit fried,
when you lied to me about how many times you've cried,
or gone to the hairstylists to have your hair dyed.

I try me best to hide,
the loaf of bread, "mother's pride",
but all you want to do is have a slice,
and eat it with a bowlful of rice.

Soon as you slam the door,
when you're feeling like a bore,
and then drop on the floor fast asleep and start to snore,
at the sound of orgres who have become gores.

My tears fall to the floor,
as my spirt soars,
chopping up onions wanting more,
to be added to the garlic,
that tastes like waxed candlewick.

I know that people change,
when they go out of range,
or when they move to the grange,
and become a fan of retro grunge.

Maybe your not to blame,
for attracting so much fame,
or becoming lame and so very tame,
when not learning the rules of the football game.

But must you burn a hole,
when you meet up with a mole,
who loves to dance around the maypole,
with all their heart and soul.

Creatiness is like a sort of you know good thing.
My poetisities come to me in the shower or anywhere.
Riding my bike with the gang I just start to sing
Any old meloditude, even, you know, "The Old Grey Mare."

Back at the trailer camp, I grill swordfishies in mesquite,
Then for dessert toast Twinkies on sticks. Yum yum!
The rest of the night is earmarked for heavy drinking,
But I won't share my bottles with just any old bum.

I remember all the things she did before,
when she sat on the floor and started to snore,
at the sight of an ogre who was asking for more,
putting her to sleep which has never happened before.

I remember all the times she cried,
when you said you would get her french fries,
and the times you lied that you the chips were well fried,
and that you worked with international spies.

I remember all the things you promised her,
the jewels and the flash car,
and that you would give the most expensive myrrh,
and that you would make her a big star.

I know it hurt, I remember all the times you lied,
and the times that you sighed,
whenever you heard her get tied,
up with doing your paperwork and keeping your drinks well plied.

Don't meddle with her heart, meddle with her mind,
or make her put her nose to the grind,
or remark that her skin is well lined,
and that there are socks that you can't find.

Meddle with the things that are inside,
which are very large and very wide,
as you collide with the flood tide,
after you've been to get your hair dyed.

She still remembers like it's yesterday,
when she saw you wear only colours coloured grey,
which made you feel okay when playing croquet,
or riding on a dray going to the ski chalet.

She still remembers you so well,
when she hears the church bells,
or unusual exotic smells when ever she's eating raspberry jell,
or visiting the Cambridge Fells.

She still remembers all the things you saw forever more,
even when you sound like a bore,
when trying to sound like a lion that roars,
as she looks at the floor holding the curtains that you tore.

She still remembers but won't tell,
nor answer the door when she hears the door bell,
or give you favourite raspberry jell,
or talk about you to her best friend Nell.

'Cause she's a mixed up girl in a mixed up world,
where no-one has straight hair but only have it curled,
with compliments and insults being regularly hurled,
drinking coffee with cream that's being swirld.
And you know she don't mean any harm

So please understand if you take her hand,
and join the jazz band at the grandstand,
or go to Scotland where live is grand,
where live be never be bland even though you'll never get well tanned.
You'll get much more than you bargained for

[...words, words, words, said Hamlet...]

I need to take more exercise
Should I walk, or ride a bike.
I asked my friend what I should do,
My friend said "Take a hike".

I took up fishing recently
And I read a fishing book.
Should I use a rod, or use a net,
My friend said "Sling your hook".

Should I plan to be cremated?
You can't prepare soon enough.
Perhaps I ought to be interred,
My friend just said "Get stuffed".

I don't know if I'd like Heaven,
All those Saints won't suit me well.
I ask my friend what does he think,
My friend said "Go to Hell".

I've hung around for far too long
Through sloth or else through fear.
I ask if I should stay or go,
Friends say "Get outta here".

I thought I'd buy myself a book
To divert me from this strife.
But fiction or biography?
My friend says "Get a life".

I'm collecting for a charity
For people in a jam.
They have no source of water, see,
But my friends won't give a damn.

Should I have put that word in there?
Unsure, there's so much doubt.
I ask my friend what he would do,
My friend says "Leave it out".

My friend was the bus driver
When I got on. The road was rough.
"Should I get off now or later?"
My friedn told me where to get off.

i had fried n for breakfast
then poached it for lunch
dinner it was roasted
and now i'm having it cold on rye with mustard and greens

for valentines day i couldnt hide my ardor
wore my heart right there on my sleeve
but my faux paramour
shoved me clear out the door
telling me to make like a tree and leave

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream,
of a dessert full of whipped cream,
that I can eat when I'm on the quidditch team,
which is one big scream.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a flan,
fill it with berries and bring it to me in a van,
and promises of bottles of fake tan,
as well as frying pan to cook my favourite scran.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a man,
who has ran to Bhutan,
dressed up as desperate Dan,
who is trying to balance his yin and yan.

Make him the cutest that I've ever seen,
and that he brings me precious stones all coloured green,
and that he is a lean mean dancing machine,
working the way up to become the university dean.

Give him the word that I'm not a rover,
and I love to live with him in Dover,
where I work as a drover,
full of fields of red clover.

Sandman, I'm so alone,
and my heart is not made of stone,
nor I am a clone of Joan,
who has come in with the cyclone.

Please turn on your magic beam,
and that he will have caught the freshest bream,
which will taste supreme,
making perfection his main theme.

Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci,
and all his clothes will look fleecy,
who's a collector of artwork by Bertolucci,
and is a champion at playing bocci.

That he'll have lots of wavy hair like Liberace,
has his own kitchen hibachi,
and every night he plays with the mariachi,
and has even holidayed to the city of Karachi.

Mr Sandman, someone to hold,
and the he would be very bold,
and that we will never be cold,
but have a holiday home in the Cotswolds.

Mr Sandman, bring us, please, please, please,
let him come with the most exquisite tasting cheese,
and that he'll be the bees knees,
and that he would have sailed the seven seas.