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

I find that I'm putting on weight
It must have been something I ate
Were there too many beans on my plate?
Now I'm nowhere as thin as my mate
So how did I get in this state?
Supper time; and I can't wait
Must get there before It's too late
They stop serving at a quarter past eight
Then it's tablets and bed....that's my fate
I'm too fat now to squeeze through the gate
Will I die here? I will at this rate
And what of that lovely nurse Kate?
How I long so to go on a date
While there's still a feint glow in the grate
But this fire in my belly's too great
It must have been something I ate!

Young Rory is gunning for glory:
Will it be the same old story?
Will he go off the boil
On American soil
Or secure a major vic-tory?

(You probably think it doesn't matter,
But it looks like being the latter.)

I stare at my flowers and grieve.
Some creature is eating the leaves.
Grasshoppers perhaps?
Something inside me snaps.
There is no one can solve this but Jeeves.

Here I am stuck in a rut again,
with Dwayne who's saying the same refrain,
about making a very long daisy chain,
and it wrapping it around the sugar cane.

So I'll sit here a while and write a song,
before I say so-long at the time of evening song,
walking down a long field that measures three furlongs,
practising unusual diphthongs and eating stilton cheese that pongs.

Cause I don't wanna sing when you're not listening,
unless you are taking part in the x-men mutant powers awakening,
which will be very enlivening as we start quickening,
causing emotional and physical strenghtening.

I don't wanna go anywhere that you don't follow,
if you won't share with me your marshmallows,
or your bottles of vintage bordeaux and a basketful of sloes,
when you are pretending to be Apollo and talking to the fairy swallow.

I drift off to a dream and hold your hand again in the wind,
which makes us feel so very sophisticated and very refined.
As we have hair twined around our fingers when putting our nose to the grind,
as we become resigned to become chagrined when having to deal with cheese rind.

Cause no matter what I do it's better with you,
when put on a fresh pot of tea to brew,
as we shop online avoiding long supermarket queues.
Then serving cheese fondue to a couple of kangaroos,
who are learning to canoe and are going on holiday to Peru.

My velvet toilet seat
Creaks in the wind
As larged-fanged marsupials
Chase Robin Hood
Through downtown Manhattan.

It's half past three.
The commuters head home,
Sitting on their turtles
While the Katydid
Mourns her lost love,
Which she accidentally ate
On her coffee break
Half an hour ago.

Don't forget, WFAT, that you often get more sense from the walls than you get from other people -

Jabs

Ahem, Hi, I'm Tune, the man on the moon,
who eats a bowful of prunes with a silver spoon,
watch cartoons and plays my bassoon to the baboon,
who runs the only village hairdressing saloon.

I live on the beach, get the sand out ya shoes,
I go on luxury holiday cruises,
and I have lots of excuses for my mid-day snoozes,
and for the way I make my various fondues.

You've got me and I could not defend it,
when I am doing my bit by showing true grit,
by keeping the oil lamps lit when learning how to knit,
and never quitting when trying to keep fit.

It's too late to stay out late,
with your mate who's always doing a figure of eight,
when trying to ice skate on a hot date,
whilst wearing clothes and jewellery that's very ornate.

When I look into your eyes, it's over,
and we won't be holidaying in Dover.
I was going to quit my job as a cattle drover,
and become a basketweaver to pay for our makeover.

I'm falling for you baby, I need a parachute,
and a new dress suite and new ways to commute.
I promise to eat plenty of fresh fruit,
and learn how to play the lute on the bus route.

Every finish line is the beginning of a new race,
when trying to be a cool ace and wear clothes made of lace,
and always strive travel with a briefcase,
as I work out new ways of travelling in to outer space.

A euro or two, but that will not alter
The way that the Spaniards all view Gibraltar
An Irishman may have a Catholic taste
But a Guiness or two can soon lay him to waste
No matter the thoughts that the French have of us
We can't face a snail without causing a fuss
We mutter and moan at the Greeks who aint thrifty
But made off with their marbles a little bit nifty
And that special deal that we have with the Yanks
When they offer advice we say sorry, no thanks
We once had an Empire, we have it no more
We rely on our friends from another shore
To care for our sick and take care of the old
We don't have the stomach for such, I am told
Yet we still tell the rest of the world what to do
Send our rockets and bombs, send our gallant boys too
We tell them to follow the ways of The West
Becuse we are British; and British is best!

Going with Pete to the High Street,
where's there's one cool meet,
where people talking about their lives set in concrete,
and secret ways of making a marguerite.

They only drink whisky that's neat,
and for a treat have a chocolate sweet,
and sit on the garden waiting for the culinary elite,
who are trying to concentrate on new ways of cooking meat.

#5028: magnificent, Frank - I "sink beneath your wisdom like a stone". But that should be on the GOOD POETRY thread.

You are too kind Tickle.
I hope you are well and going from strenth to strength.

Heaven knows
My India Rose
Is seven today
And in a nice way
I wish her the best
To hell with the rest.

Sky rockets in flight in the middle of the night,
when there has been a fight with a knight,
eating boxes of Turkish delight with a dancing sprite,
that increases the sprites height.

Now the sprite is taller than the knight
and now only wears clothes coloured white,
when feeling very hungry and wanting a bite,
of burgers and hotdogs that are both their favourites.

Why wait until the middle of a floor made of concrete,
when taking part in the knight's rite,
to put on a pair of tights when flying a kite,
to increase both their eyesights when eating food that's very lite.

When everything's a little clearer in the light of day,
when practising ballet for the performance at the cafe.
But both the knight and the sprite have to present their dossier,
about the holiday chalet survey where they have a breakfast buffet.

Thinkin' of food works up my appetite,
making me more forthright when telling others of my plight,
of not be able to find the ancient archaelogical site,
where there are remains of work done by cart and wain wrights.

And the thought of writing a play with the knight and the sprite is so exciting,
as we realise dream of becoming famous playwrights and write about romance reigniting.
With adventures and many wonders that are so inviting,
as we go tourist sightseeking and many hours waiting.

Started out this morning feeling so polite,
looking at different types of crystallite,
and vintage examples of bakerlite,
which was donated to a museum by a carmelite.

Feeling hungry so I try a bit of nibbling,
of tasty morsels when I go bookselling,
of listening to to cats caterwauling at the ceiling,
whenever they see people abseiling which they find very appealing.

Pleased for that my fans are waiting for us when we come around.
Looking for the day when the sprite, knight and I will be both crowned,
for our creative works that astound people who find common ground,
with what we write as they become totally engrossed and spellbound.

I've always been an admirer of your poetry, Frank - just let me know when the anthology is published.

If what doesn't kill me makes me stronger,
I guess I'm going from strength to strength;
And yet, like young Jo-Wilfried Tsonga,
Too often I seem to measure my length.

That isn't so bad when the grass is lush
And I live to fight another day,
But I fear there will be a dismal hush
When I finally measure my length in clay.

My lazy body once was known
For running: cyling; but It's grown
Into a thing of measured pace
No longer looking for a race

My bus pass is my faithful friend
Fare free, leaving me cash to spend
On Costa Coffee and a cake
You know, the squishy ones they make

I bring home bags of yeast and flour
Can bake a loaf in half an hour
And I cook buns, I make a batch
That not many shop buns can match

Thus in my dotage I indulge
In stuff that make my belly bulge
Only for my health, I think
I have given up the drink

I used to like a glass of sherry
With my mates on beer get merry
With my family I'd drink wine
When they took me out to dine

But I gave it up for Lent
Now I'm quite a boring gent
Can't say that I'm a social hub
No longer visiting the pub

On the scales you'll hear me moan
When I am more than fourteen stone
Beer makes one put on weight, it's said
But in my case it's home made bread.

Frank, once known for his cheer,
Has chosen to go off the beer.
But despite this loss it may be said
That Frank remains (figuratively) well bred.

I get white lips after eating a bag of chips,
when reading newspapers comic strips.
Makes feel hip when I let rip,
all my clothes with broken zips.

I get a pale face,
when I'm playing the bass.
As I embrace,
life's crazy wild race.

Breathing in snowflakes,
when I'm eating chocolate cakes.
Starting an earthquake,
when I'm ever having a coffee break.

I get a sour taste,
from eating liver pate paste.
As my thoughts get misplaced,
and my dreams got to waste.

Light's gone, day's end,
as I feel I'm going round the bend.
Trying to blend in a make new friends,
and to follow the latest fashion trends.

Go holidaying in a gigantic tent,
which has lent to my by an Ent,
called Quickbeam who lives in Kent,
and talks with a funny accent.

"It's high time you and I had a talk,"
I said to reality, who seemed inclined to balk
And then run away, but couldn't leave
Because I was holding onto her sleeve.

"Life stinks for too many people, I say.
It shouldn't have to be that way,
And you can certainly fix it, I'm sure."
Next thing I knew, I was sitting in a sewer.

Were I a Greek you'd hear me speak of all the work I do
I tell you tales of hammer and nails of screwdriver rivot and screw
I would relate how me and my mate work hard, how we never stop
And how our wives have miserable lives since we give them no money to shop
We blame it all on the Germans, well, the bit that we don't blame on the French
And the English too, that motley crew, took our marbles, what a terrible wrench
That was for us, but we never made a fuss, for we Greeks are loving and true
And while everybody else is going on leave we're still looking for something else to do
We would pay what we owe, but it's hard you know, when the boss doesn't give us any pay
Because he's broke too; what would you do? no don't join the Common Market, I'd say.

Paul, I thought you knew reality was a BAD THING. Or were you just checking - for the thousandth time?

Jabs