These Funny Ballad poems are examples of Ballad poems about Funny. These are the best examples of Funny Ballad poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Mom.. I think I might be homosexual..
CALM~DOWN !.. I just said THINK !..
It's not I fear
My multi~studded ear ,
Or that I look stunning dressed in pink .
I wont complain ,
As I sip champagne
Of my blemish~free youthful looks ,
Or how I enjoy the finer things in life ;
Like fine art , or poetry books .
NO !.. I never joined the Girl~Guides .
You're being silly...patronizingly .
I dont like damp
But I do love camp....
'Specially in Summer , by the sea .
I like being with Brad and Christopher ;
Young Lloyd is such a dear
And Mourice is such a sweet lad ;
Yes.. I'll always keep them near .
But , deep inside my inner soul
When push will come to shove .
For my own part ,
Who has my heart ,
Yes !.. It's Annie I really love .
But one thing that still bothers me ,
And will , until my dying day ....
Is , when on that morn....
Yes!.. When I was born..
WHY ! !.. Did you name me GAY ??...
Prospector Pete had roamed the hills fer years searchin' fer gold!
He and his faithful burro, Fred, were both growin' weary and old.
He'd looked fer color in many a mountain and stream in Colorado,
Lookin' fer that mother lode, that elusive vein, his own El Dorado!
Oh, he'd found a few nuggets here and there, but didn't amount to much.
Those he did find he'd blown on gamblin', women, whiskey and such!
Pete would save a bag of dust or two from his many wanton toots,
To grubstake himself to re-supply his picks, jeans, shovels and boots.
He staked his claims along ripplin' streams and left many holes along the way.
The mountains and valleys are pocked with his many diggin's to this very day!
He'd come up dry, nothin' there, and move on to more appealin' pickin's,
Burrowin' and pannin' with elbows flyin' workin' like the dickens!
Pete would winter in his cabin 'til spring then he'd begin his annual quest,
Packin' his tools on long-sufferin' Fred and headin' fer the hills to the west.
If he didn't find that elusive bonanza this year he swore that he would retire,
To his ramshackle cabin at the foot of Mount Pisgah and enjoy the blazin' fire!
Years passed and Prospector Pete wasn't seen 'round town much anymore.
On a wintry day his friends found him froze to death upon his cabin floor!
They dug Prospector Pete's grave and buried him outside his cabin door.
Eureka! Six feet down was that vein of gold that he'd been lookin' for!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
For better or for worse they'd pledged
upon their wedding day,
but all the so called better bits
had somehow gone astray.
Poor Blue and Joan had lost the zing
that matrimony brings,
so both sought out a counsellor
and hoped he'd patch up things.
"I sense you do not spend much time,"
the counsellor advised,
"on doing the together things
you both once highly prized.
"The best advice that I can give
is, spend less time apart.
Go find a common interest
and that will be a start."
While driving home Joan said to Blue,
"I know what we can do.
Next week when you go hunting dear
I'll come along with you."
"But Joan you've never seen a deer
or ever used a gun,
but still if that is what you want
I guess it could be fun."
The next weekend they set on out
and Blue advised his Joan
to watch for hunters who may claim
a deer that's not their own.
With Joan concealed and out of sight
Blue showed a lot of nous
and circled 'round to chase a deer
towards his waiting spouse.
Then suddenly he heard a ... BANG!
That made his poor ears ring
and as he worked towards his wife
he heard Joan arguing.
Blue saw as he peered through the trees
his Joan and some poor dude,
both locked into a verbal war;
a ding dong all out feud.
The bloke then cried "Okay! Okay!
You keep the flamin' beast,
but may I have the saddle though?
Please grant me that at least?"
T'was a warm summer's day, when I took to the trail,
to cruise that old black spruce, way down in the swale.
A gallon of bug dope was strapped on my hip,
which I figured would last me for most of the trip.
Down through the sphagnum I plowed like a moose,
a huffin' and puffin' and spittin' my snoose.
Then off in the distance, I heard a faint roar,
like B-29's coming home from the war.
The sky clouded over, so you barely could see,
"They're mosquitoes! "I cried, and they're coming for me.
They flew by me once and past me again,
a-flexing their stingers, before they moved in.
I grabbed for my bug dope and spread it on thick,
just hopin' and prayin', it would do the trick.
They came at me fiercely and punctured my hide,
But before they could drink much, they dropped off and died.
I thought to myself, "What type of bug dope is this?"
The mosquitoes all had smiles on, as they lay there in bliss.
After checking the label, I saw my mistake,
t'was the 100 proof whiskey, that Uncle Jake makes.
Another day and the dishes have piled up yet again
So back I end up in front of the window
I do not glance up, but concentrate
On the dull, dirtied objects before me
I do not hear the voices from yesterday
I still wallow in the grime of gray
I smile in malcontent
As I lather the dishes with soap
Against my will, I look up
To see a lone, fat man opening a refrigerator
He is shirtless, bulgy, and he looks pregnant
My first supposition is to laugh
But I only look back down at the dishes
Not wanting to stare at the fat man
Not wanting to think he looks pregnant
For sure not wanting him to be my neighbor
Across the way
Against my will again, I look up
The fat, pregnant man is gone
I see ornaments on the refrigerator
Some pictures, some magnets
Family; not so different from my life
But yet, there is a transparent fancy of mystery
A flashy rage of difference in the silence
Oh, so quiet
The blazing sun sprays its light upon the hour
Not only are my hands wet from the soapy water
The deafening tone of quietude
Revels in me a mixture of loneliness and physical heat
A burning desire for something not seen
A desire for utter disgust of my newly found neighbors
But I find myself not disgusted at all
Until I look up again and see a fully naked man at the window
Across the way
The dawn was approaching, not a breath of air blew,
And the bass should be bitin', at the edge of the slough.
I gathered my tackle and shoved in the boat,
Not knowing whether, the blamed thing would float.
A pull on the kicker, got old Betsy churnin',
To the home of the large-mouth, for which i'd been yearnin'.
The boat snaked on through, the lily-pad carpet,
Toward an old sunken log, as black as a tarpit.
Don't ask me how, but I knew he'd be there,
Just awaitin' to be pulled, from his watery lair.
With a flick of the wrist, the lure sped toward the log,
Which stuck from the water, at the edge of the bog.
The silence was shattered, as the bass took the bait.
You could see in his eyes, the feeling of hate.
I had him hooked firmly, in the side of the lip,
And he couldn't get loose, no matter how he should flip.
I guessed that he'd weigh, no less than twelve pounds,
For he was straining my tackle, beyond all its' bounds.
An hour went by, but he fought just as strong.
He had to give in, 'cause I couldn't last long.
Finally the old lunker, turned on it's side,
And slid in the net, with mouth opened wide.
But after I weighed him, I found to my plight,
He'd lost over ten pounds, during this long and hard fight!
Let’s hve haggis and drinks mi luve
Find de bes ina de ole land
Lay yu head on mi chest mi luve
Whilst wi dance musik wid de band
Dance wid de band in de Highlands
Backyard jig good fer de ole soul
Tickle mi nose with yu gold locks
Tigether wi bade ead to toe’s sole
Call Fionn mi Luve with his jug
Nice poems he read at de gate
Summon the Clooties with a mug
Aye, they will cum and bles dis date
We’ll sail de river on Loch Ness
Kelpies will protect our flanks
Goddess Scotia says we bless
Oh mi chamin' sweet Sidhe, tanks
Aye! Mi sweet luve; Boobrie will fly
He will fetch up the Salmon Ring
And a knot cross de land we tye
Red Caps our guard til cum de spring
Then wid haggis and drinks mi luve
Goddesses'pipes blow dem great songs
In the grey mist we skip and dance
Then like Boobrie we fly with doves
Scottish Mythical Legends:
1. Fionn is a Scottish magician, warrior and poet
2. Clootie is a Scottish name for the devil. The name originated from the word cloot, which
mean a division in the cleft hoof of an animal.
3. Kelpie is a Scottish water devil who lurks in lakes and rivers and drowns its victims.
4. Scotia is a goddess normally portrayed as an old hag with the tusks of a wild boar
5. Sidhe (Shee) is the Gaelic name for fairies in the Highlands of Scotland and also Ireland.
6. Boodrie is a wonderful water-bird from the Highlands. It haunts and protects the lakes
7. Red Cap is a sort of short, stocky old guy with long gray hair and claws instead of hands
and fingers. He lives on the Scottish border and guard the ancient ruins of castles
Rubber duckie you're the one
You're the reason I'm the one
You're the one for me
During the night
She got in the fight
With a person named right
That might keep the light
From returning at dawn
They both took a yawn
Then out popped out a song
There is the stenographer who writes so fast and acc-u-writ
The bailiff who is next to you could move fast too, when he was fit
The witnesses and barristers who have been here e'er since morn'
The blessed, chosen jurors sitting bored and so forlorn.
The guilty, then, is hauled in, hand-cuffs on his blood-stained hands
A rustle and a bustle, then we're all coldly told to stand
There 'pears the “Judge Almighty" in his wig and frighty gown;
We're all suitably astonished to gaze upon this sight so mighty
Then we're all told politely to sit down.
Now the words are spoken, now the words are said,
Mighty words, fighty words, words from the Latin read.
A lunge, a thrust, a parry; the barristers burst forth,
The eloquences mish and mash and harry for all that they are worth.
Then finally, finally, there is order in the court,
The chosen choose to disappear to think what they've been taught.
The guilty stands! He's had enough! He cannot stand another day;
"Just lock me up or set me free!" "What will the jury say?"
Out comes the forlorn foreman, humbly to the room,
Looks the guilty in the eye and delivers him his doom.
The courtroom all fall silent, the players, all, are tense,
The Judge slams down his sentence:
"FINE: FIFTY CENTS!"