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

I know what you mean,
My little string bean,
Who acts like a queen
On a dark Halloween.

I take off my hat
For you right off the bat.
You live off the fat
Of the land. I like that!

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled Frog
His hair is as dark as a raven.
Every day I watch him go by when he's having a jog,
on his way to Hagrid's hut which is his special haven
where I would go and build him a shrine.
He is so refined and I wish that he was mine,
My hero who conquered the Dark Lord,
and has fought the basilisk with the Gryffindor sword.

"Only I can live," Voldemort said.
"My soul is protected, but others are dead."
But bits of his soul at that moment were hunted,
Destroyed one by one, immortality stunted.

He just didn't get it, but it was too late.
Voldemort has an appointment with Fate.
And as for poor Harry, a horcrux himself,
His life grew more normal, much more off-the-shelf.

Oh look, here comes Mary from the dairy,
dressed up as the Tooth Fairy,
and has become very merry,
from drinking too much sherry
which she found in the eagle's eyrie
out on the lonely prairie.

I thought it was time for an update
On Algernon Spavitz's bunnions.
The doctor says he would feel great
If he wasn't peeling those onions.

You've got me stuck on repeat

You've got me stuck on repeat
And I just can't seem to shout out whoopee
when I'm visiting you at your country seat
and hearing your news that you've just been made the marquis.

And I don't remember how it started
And I don't know how to make my own fizzy pop
which has left me so very fainthearted.
But every time I do the belly flop
when I dive into your luxury swimming pool
feeling like a fool as I try to make myself look so very cool.

Every time I try, every time I try.
Every time I try to learn how to use my games Wii
which all it does it makes me sigh
on trying to play snooker wearing a bow tie.
Then something comes along, something comes along
that makes me want to go and hit the dinner gong.
Something comes along to intervene
and make me feel like I'm the dancing queen
at all the top discos even though I'm only seventeen.

My heart's skipping, skipping
And I don't know why, I know every part
as I eat out, I'm always tipping
which makes me feel so good, that I have another slice of raspberry tart.
But every time I try, every time I try
Something comes and pulls me back to my shopping cart.

You've got me stuck on repeat.
And I just can't seem to get enough brie
or have enough time to bathe in the noon day heat
and daydream about the Cairngorms where I first learned how to ski.
You've got me stuck on repeat
whenever I'm attending Pete's musical meet.

And I don't remember how it started.
And I remember how I used to shop until I dropped
but I always though you were bighearted
when you gave me so much money.
But every time I heard you play on the tom tom
which I found so very funny especially when you were dressed up as a bunny.
Something pulls me right back to the top whenever I make the perfect vichyssoise.

Every time I try, every time I cry.
Every time I try to be artsy
in the way I chop my home grown shallots
and cause hue and cry when I'm playing my hi-fi
and my excitement in conversing with my friends who are polyglots
when I'm out with them on my weekly shopping spree.

Then something comes along, dressed up as King Kong.
Something comes along that makes me feel so very serene.
And nothing can go wrong if we all sing the same song
and to remain calm and not cause a scene.

My heart's racing, as I go and start my cream whipping.
Making me want to scream as I beat the cream.
But every time I try, not to fall for the fall guy.
Something makes me want to practise karate which is my favourite martial art.
And it makes me wonder what it will be like if I can score 180 with one dart.
But it only makes me feel life is not real but one long bizarre dream.
And it makes me feel so exhausted that I spend most of the time kipping.

And it's you who makes me move to the beat
is when I look outside and I see sleet
falling which quickly turns into snow
which makes a wonderful wintery show.
And it's you that's got me stuck on repeat
that it makes me want to go on twitter and tweet
about the best ways of growing organically produced wheat.

Every time I try, every time I try.
Every time I try to prepare a scrumptious high tea
which I serve with my home made eau de vie.
Then someone comes along, someone comes along
wearing their silken brightly coloured sarong
which looks so very neat and very clean
as they come to share their Indonesian cuisine.

Every morning I go skinny dipping
which gives me a kick start
to the day, with my hair wet and dripping
And I don't know why, I know every part
But every time I try to remember the times when I lived in Shanghai
I go and get out my oriental pieces of fine art.


(Inspired by Little Boots)

This is a Little Boots-free zone.
She cannot be admitted here
I don't care if she ascends to some throne,
Or gets her own line of beer.

She belongs three thousand miles away.
I'll avoid her 'til she's old and gray.

You wanna see bad?


Oh yea verily 'twas the night before
When bravery became something more
Like heroism
And helpfulness - not narcissism
'Twas very much more
When rather than leaving us all in the lurch
The Hero (Lord Lord) entered the Church
And drove out the Devil with sword and with spell
Until he retired from earth back to Hell

Him and The Devil as well.
As well?
Him and the devil as well.

That was an unashamed bad poem
When the majority are good
I put it here, for good or for ill,
Though I didn't quite think I should

My poems would be bad if I could make them so.
Alas, 'tis not in my power that way to go.

Seems like everybodys got a price,
for their latest electronic device
and indulging in their chocolate vice
which they eat when giving advice
about how to get rid of head lice.

I wonder how they sleep at night,
with their windows wide open
and the sound of a drunken fight
as they fight with a bren
gun which they bought from the shipwright
who's usually very calm and full of zen.

When the sale comes first,
don't forget to ask for a special deal on the bratwurst.
And the truth comes second,
when trying to convince brunettes in becoming blond,
by saying it's away of becoming accepted as a member of the beau monde.

Just stop, for a minute and smile,
and look at your tidy pile,
of cash which you are saving for a luxury cruise down the Nile.
Then next you'll have a full makeover which will give you a great hairstyle,
which will make you look 30 years younger,
and give you ambitions of becoming a costermonger.

Why is everybody so serious
about being very industrious?
Why is everybody becoming delirious,
whenever they become curious?
Acting so damn mysterious,
when they become so furious,
about told they are notorious,
for failing to keep their promises
to help their friends with their crises.

You got your shades on your eyes,
whenever your eating a bag of french fries,
that inspires you to sing the Marseilles,
which you sang in a singing competition that won you the first prize,
of a years supply of ladies and gentlemens ties.

And your heels so very high,
which have wings on and help you fly,
right up to the sky as you say goodbye
to your friends who are having a game of jai alai.

That you can't even find good food,
to eat when wearing your cloak and hood,
which puts you in a very foul mood,
at being a called a cool dude or worse a shrewd prude.

Well it is time to sit down and drink a glass of lime,
and consider the merits of learning how to dance and mime,
which you'll making a living and hopefully earn more than one dime,
and that you'll become very famous when you are still in your prime.

Everybody look to their left
to stop you all from feeling bereft
about missing all the latest fashion bargains
and not being able to understand business jargons.

Everybody look to their right,
and it will make you feel alright,
even when coming with face to face with a barrow wight.
It may increase your body height,
and get excited about the latest sales pitch sound bite.

We're paying with love tonight,
by becoming very polite,
about the virtue of wearing thick gossamer tights,
on a cold winters day, watching the Northern Lights.

Listen, okay, whenever your being addressed by Ray,
who always begins to pray, before a game of croquet,
which always ends up with learning how to crotchet
and write what they have learned in an essay.


(Inspired by Jessie J)

Why do we have a bad poetry thread?
Is all the good poetry pretty much dead?
One person knows, and we don't see him much.
He's with Lewis Carroll, locked in some hutch.

Does Good Poetry exist in some thread?
Not gonna search for it, not 'til I'm dead.
Those who write bad verse may be unhinged.
All those who've read it have probably cringed.

It Doesn't Have To Be Bad.


'Bad' poetry was false titling
To give heart to those writling
An' make it fun
(See post Number One),

It's meant
To help those who would post poetry
But fear cold criticism
Or enmity

We welcome both the good and the bad
For judgment's rather sad
Compared with the ability
Of you an' me
To enjoy the creativity.

- That's all,
Paul

I've had a very strange time shopping,
as I went hopping to find the chocolate topping,
to put on the cakes that I baked,
which were previously soaked,
with lots of brandy, whisky, rum and barley wine
and plum liqueur which made the cake taste divine.
But every time I went down the aisle,
I was followed by my neighbour Mikhail,
who was dressed as the sugar plum fairy,
with his work colleague Jerry who worked at the dairy
and was dressed in a canary costume
and shouted out boom boom when walking towards the supermarkets wash room.

Thanks for the explanation.
Encouraging news for the nation
Of poets in waiting
{Some inebriating)
Who wish to ply this occupation.

Here comes the moving stag-horn sumach tree,
that never stays still as it is always on the move,
wishing that it could go on a long shopping spree,
but to do that, all it has to do is get back into the grove,
and hit that funky rhythm in the noon day heat,
on the way to the tree herders meet which is chaired by Pete,
who's a hybrid between a human and an Ent that comes from Kent,
and always wears expensive scent and talks with a London accent.

Who do you think you are?
You try to run the wine bar
by telling everyone you are descended from the last Russian Czar,
as well as being related to the man who created the character Babar.

And every day you tell stories of your adventures in Myanmar,
where you ran a very bizarre bazaar.
Selling chemistry bell jars and Havana cigars,
along with shampoos made from coal tar and antique sitars.

You say that you are friends with wild bears,
that live in Scottish Highland woodland cottages, who wear paisley head squares,
and when they are feeling nostalgic wear 70's trouser flares,
whenever they are at market selling their homemade wears.

Woo hoo!
Noohootoo
Is up and running
But where are you?

You're beautiful when wearing clothes made with pure lambs wool.
And when you're painting a picture of Taurus the Bull,
whenever there is a lull on the Hebridean Isle of Mull
watching a sea gull when the sky is cloudy and dull.

Taurus the bull is my sign of the Zodiac.
He's talented at getting his way but I don't have the knack.