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

I don't want to conform.
I don't want to fill an other official looking form.
I don't want to sleep in the University dorm.
I want to be unique and veer away from the norm.
I want to transform the weather into a snow storm.
I want to have a very well insulated home and keep lovely and warm.
I want to be become a superstar with magic I'll perform.

What will you do if, while you sing,
Some incorrigible thief steals your bling?

Who should steal a wheel?
That in low life pub it should be such a deal
Yet small things please simple minds
My justice would not be proportionality kind

Meldrim was born in a cave.
He worked forty years in the wheel
Factory with his friend Dave.
(That was a bad job for real.]

Do it in the moment
when you're doing your yoga movements
listening to the beat in the noon day heat
of your inner music which correlates to your spiritual alignment
and makes you look real neat and is quite a feat.

So come on everybody
and dance to the music of Showaddywaddy.
Invoking a feeling that you want to go soaking
by having a bubble bath listening to the frogs outside start croaking.

Cause it's really breathtaking joining in communal cornhusking
or go to night school to learn dressmaking and cabinetmaking.
So live in the moment and cherish every memory
and you will be free to wail like a banshee underneath the oak tree.

If you live in England, or in The Land of Nod
You have to get used to having no God
The Devil he lurches in all of our churches
And the Heavenly Choir have just sunken in the mire.

Now I know a lass who used to go to Mass
She was no fool and she went to Sunday School
It's no good you praying there, down on your knees
God no longer listens 'cause you never said please.

God is much misunderstood,
Though his plight can't be changed.
Those who speak for the good
All too often are deranged.

I live my life in a Godless land
Those who don't can't understand
That the prayers that we were taught at our mother's knee
Are heard no more: in The Land Of The Free
Even Homer Simpson can be taken to The Lord
But I'm not sure whether he believes a word
Just as long as we are good and help one another
Does going to church give us extra cover?

Extra cover? Yes, but by and large,
You must beware of the cover charge.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.
Everyone is winking, and blinking
out of the tram eating their sandwiches filled with ham
on the way to Durham to see watch the bridge grand slam
thinking about the best venues for drinking
beer and wine and practise the art of plinking.

Taking their pets with them wherever they go
even to a West End Show or to take part in the village tableau
or join an art appreciation group to discuss the works of Van Gogh
whilst eating the finest steaks or freshly caught grilled turbot
and calling everyone their bro at the chateau on the plateau.

I seem to complain about all I meet
The cat in my garden, the kids in my street
The aweful people I tell to go away
The ones who never listen to a word I say
Then I reflect that as far as I can see
The trouble's not them........
......the trouble is me!

Down a lazy river
In rain-deprived July,
I sailed the good ship Chopped Liver,
And ate ham on rye.

Once I was a journalist
Then I tried PR
Then I was a Policeman
Learned to drive a car
Became a politician
Told a heap of lies
Took my country off to war
Right before their eyes
Put the Nation into debt
Spent it all on oil
Listened to a wiley girl
Watched a snake uncoil
Went to war and took the oath
Killed a lot of men
Then I told my story
I'm a journalist again.

I was walking my own eating a devonshire strawberry cream scone
which was making a mess of my clothes going to the Twilight Zone.
I got a call from mobile phone and it was a good chance for me to have a good old moan.
This was such great fun talking like this to Joan who swore
that she had a holiday by the river Rhone talking to a Sloane ranger clone.
Her name was Elbereth Aelwen Eurielle-Fachanan and is homegrown
and her family has Estates in Scotland and Wales with their own ceremonial throne.
She plays all the archaic and modern musical instruments including the trombone.

All tweet now, pretending that we're part of the cultural high society elite
Who go on many types of high brow meets and have our own country retreat
when we're feeling down beat and if that does not work go to our family country seat.
Never shop in the high street only go to specialist shops and always try to be discrete.
Wear the most expensive perfumes and even have them flown in from Cologne.
Life full of parties and other types of social events that make our life complete.
We never show any conceit when drinking a marguerite
and only eat organically produced and free range meat.

we were discussing er... confessing aliases in another thread and i remembered The Librarian, one i shared with some others and under that guise i wrote some orangutang poetry here is one from this page http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/brunel/A25065803 see if you can guess what kind of poem it is hint: read it out loud emphasizing the capitalized 'ook's hint hint: dont do it in public Ook Ookook Ook... Ook ookook ook... Ook ookook ook... Ook ook ook ook ook ook ook ook. Ook ookook ook... Ook ookook ook... Ook ook ook ook ook ook ook ook. Ook ookook ook... Ook ookook ook... Ook ook ook ook ook ook ook ook. Ook ook ook ook ook ook ook ook... Ook ookook ook... Ook ookook ook... Ook ook ook ook ook ook ook ook. and here is the review of those poems in the Alternative Writing Workshop http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/brunel/F74130?thread=4393531&skip=0&show=20 i think you will get a kick out of the review

Ted in the garden shed
lying on his hammock bed
eating a sandwich made with Rye bread
and listening to the radio which fills him with dread
when he hears about the story of Jed and his giant man eating bed spread.
So go on is his computer and joins the strange story thread
and talks about what he heard on the radio as he waxed his snow sled
which he hopefully will put to full use this winter as well as painting the town red.

What do you make of Bad Poetry?
You loss your “y” and you’ve probated your case
Misplace “t” and “r” and Miss Peabody will sing
Loose your “p” and “y” its aborted and about face


Forget “p” and “e” for body art is your thing
Go by “by” and an adopter you are
Always flexible you readopt to passing “by”
Being Welsh you “bore da”politely as “p” and “ty” go on their way

I'm surrounded by clever poets
In the Bad Poetry thread.
A wealth of talent, but my regret's
That so few this verse will have read.

Been this way since I was a lad
My poetry was always bad
Sent to bed without my tea
For writing aweful poetry

When milk turns sour the smelly curds
Remind me of my dreadful words
Floating on their noxious whey
Cheesy, in their pongy way.