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

Now you addressed Pedantic
when eveyrone can see
that who wrote the poem reply was
Abberant Pew Addict, the.

Misccellannia

And Distressed M, don't worry -

Even vicars
Go for girls with knickers
- not that there's anything wrong
With wearing a thong -
After all
You could wear (or be wearing) nothing at all!

by James Gilroy Stalker

(Like you
I'm a mediocrity too)

You're quite right, Misccellannia
My excuse is it's late
So - sorry Pedantic
I really meant your mate -
If he is your mate, not some aberrant nutter
You found in the gutter

Jab

Dear Gilroy Stalker
I would never tell
what I am wearing (or not)
come heaven or hell.

Distressed Mediodrity

There's really nothing wrong
With wearing knickers *and* a thong.
And when my inspirations stop,
I fall back on qwertyuiop.

Paul the lazy poet whose next shortcut will be
asdfghjkl.

mesmerized
by your eyes
and sighs,
cries out the night:
oh no
don't go.
stay.
belay
that departure.
make hay.

Appeal

The tone of this thread has got lowered I see,
With a jab at an aberrant pew
There’s a thread full of puns,
About vicars and nuns,
And their penchants for knickers or thongs,

Though the poems were bad, I left in disgust,
Not wanting an unseemly spat,
About nuns’ dirty habits,
Or bonking like rabbits,
I felt that my duty was done.

So I ask myself, ‘How can I add to this thread,
In a positive, meaningful way,
Should I parody Yeats
Or maybe John Keats,
In the style of Emily Bronte?’

A Little Whine

A little guile, to raise a smile,
My weary task is but that way,
And I can sing - once in a while,
Maybe I need a holiday.

‘Why don’t thou go’, they harass me,
‘What for – thou didst invite now,
What sport, or art or glee,
Has thou rest on my poor weary brow?


From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Defensive Poetry Coarse

Ode to a Tubbybum Lady

Oh life so futile, is man so frail!
To hear thy voice, to see thy breast!
What doth thou wear, what is thy dress,
Beyond the pale, behind the veil?

From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Adolf Tennernsy Porodies

The steward pedant writes, and, having writ,
Goes on and on, without the slightest wit
Thus luring yikers in to cut his lines,
Now all thy tears wash every word of it.


a verse from
Abberant Pew Addict’s
'The Airy Tuba of Mary Homy-Yaka'

a Fluffy and an Aberrant Addict of the Pew
Have shown just what this thread can do
With contributions large and small
to the common weal,and that's not all
for they both rival well, hands down
the writer of this poem of appreciation
and rapid depreciation,
the clown!
He tells me stuff
And I just write it down
E'en though he's already rhymed 'down' with 'clown' -
It's at times like this the job really gets me down


E.J.Fotheringale, Secretary to Mr. Jabberwock

Sorry, ex-Secretary to Mr. Jabberwock, as of now

The Second Coming!

Tossing and turning in a maddening gyre,
The pervert can’t discern the perverter,
That central part – with vice-like grip doth hold,
Such ecstasy is loosed upon his world,
The blood-filled tide is loosed, and everywhere,
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
The best such predelictions, when they burst,
Are full of passion and with fantacy.
Somehow the palpitation in that gland,
Will bring a second coming in his hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly is that lot out,
Than a vast image of silicon Mandy,
Goggles his sight: someone with whom his mind can flirt,
A shape defying gravity and the dream of such man,
A blank gaze as pitiless as the sun,
Is moving her slow thighs, while all about her,
Peel themselves off like expectant vultures hard.
Til darkness comes again; but now he knows,
That sixty minutes of broken sleep,
Without vexed nightmares to rack his noddle.
So that - when rough sleep - its hour is up at last,
He switches on the video to be reborn.

Abberant Pew Addict
adaptation of
The Second Coming!
by
Eli Stum Willy Abater

YUK!

Jab

it just gets worser and worser

I find the inspiration
At the followin' destination:

http://www.poetseers.org/lin/alphabetical_index_of_poets/document_view

like this one?

"Not seldom clad in radiant vest
Deceitfully goes forth the dawn,
Not seldom evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn."

- W.Wordsworth

Blow, sad trumpets of defeat.
I espy wriggling in my meat.
The raven of forlorn destiny
Snatches at my plate hungrily.

Weep, sad rivers of despair.
There's nought in my pantry but air.
Whence the muffins I made yesterday?
Too soon they were taken out of play.

I walk the salt marsh paths. I watch and brood.
A distant heron's call imbues my moon
With but a moment's bittersweet regret,
That life's supreme adventure I've not met.

(Admits to having written it, but not yet able to explain why)

(In the previous post, :"moon" does not rhyme with "brood." Change "moon" to "mood" I will save the moon for use in a leter poem. )

...may i borrow it?


AARGHH!

THE MOON IS SO BRIGHT!

it's like a spotlight!