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Ode Humorous Poems | Ode Poems About Humorous

These Ode Humorous poems are examples of Ode poems about Humorous. These are the best examples of Ode Humorous poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Quatrain | |

Ode to the Not So Innocent Fifties

If only I had been a teen in the Fifties
I'm sure I would have had "Happy Days",
Like Fonzie I would have donned a leather jacket
And young babes would have lavished me with praise

Like James Dean I would have that swagger
There'd be a cigarette hanging from my lips
I'd have the right moves on the dance floor
They would say "Check out those Elvis Hips!"

You would see me riding down main street 
On my Harley with a babe on the back
Making our way to A&W
The best burger before a Mac attack

Once done eating we'd go to the Drive in
If dad would lend me his new Chevrolet
The back seat would be way more comfortable
Then a roll in the barn in the hay!

With fogged windows we wouldn't see the Movie
We'd still hear Humphry Bogart and Becall 
Passionately rounding all love's bases
Not concearned about the movie at all!

So now I am living in my fifties
I'm Fifty three years old to be exact
The back seats have gotten much smaller
And I am way to uncool to attract!

For Kelly Deschler's Decade Contest.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux

Details | Ode | |

one race

The firmament above, beneath we exist,
This diversity in divine artistry
Same eyes divers sizes
Different skin same sin
Different color same honor
Same human same humor
Why try to sort out maize from corn? They are all same
Cus just one shot, your race wont spare you

Copyright © victor nwakanma

Details | Quatrain | |

An Ode To Pink Poop

Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink Or smelled like a dozen red roses Beautiful music was heard when we tooted There'd be no need for holding noses We'd relish the thought of soiling our whites To show off a new shade of pink And proud to fart Ludwig's Fifth Symphony While sitting on the throne by the sink It can possibly be construed as a bit unusual To be writing a poem about poop But pink poop deserves special recognition So let's all just let out a big whoop! Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink And smelled to high heaven of roses We'd be so proud of our load of pink magic There'd be no need for holding noses © Jack Ellison 2013

Copyright © Jack Ellison

Details | Rhyme | |

Ode To Bacon

Ode To Bacon

I woke up to thoughts of you
I can almost see you now.
I long for just a little lick,
to taste of you somehow.

This hunger in my body,
this hunger in my mind.
Every time I get this urge
it's you I look to find.

I don't know how it happened,
I never even saw it start.
It seems that I was born a man
with bacon in my heart.

The crackle and the sizzle
it is my favorite sound.
The only part I really hate
you come in just one pound.

I think of you I drink of you
you are my finest wine.
Thick sliced and smoked with maple
I'm so glad you are mine.

Piled high on top of bread
or sprinkled on a salad.
Someday of my love for you
someone will write a ballad.

Where I will be the hero
from a fate that's worse than death.
And then spend eternity
with bacon on my breath.

Together as it's meant to be
with all the love we're makin.
Tattooed across my tummy.
My heart belongs to bacon.

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert

Details | Rhyme | |

Ode on a Japanese Commode

Thou still unflushed queen of whiteness,	 
Thou wonder-child of science so sublime,	 
Porcelain goddess, who canst thus express	 
Scatology more sweetly than our rhyme:	 
What nether-laved pleasure haunts about thy shape
Of ablutions or massages, or of both,	 
In Nippon or the bay of Napoli?	 
What heated seats are these? What options loth?	 
What aqueous play! No struggle to escape.	 
What pipes and blowers! What wild ecstasy!

© June 13, 2013

With apologies to the ghost of John Keats
"Ode on a Grecian Urn"

Copyright © Roy Jerden

Details | Ode | |



I’ve got a cold. I must
admit – 
I’m feeling pretty low,
My head feels full of
bed stuff – 
I hope its quick to go.

My throat feels full 
of gravel. 
My neck won’t support 
my head.
Small tasks are quite
I just can’t get out of 

My muscles ache as if
some beats is pulling
me apart.
On top of that, my 
head is being stabbed
by a large dart.

I’ve got the shivers,
hot and cold.
No comfort can be
I feel if a foot came
And crashed me on
the ground.

My skin is blotchy,
dry and sore.
I’ve got a nasty
My eyes don’t
function properly.
I hope this feeling 

Suddenly, just
My body feels so
I’m now feeling
sorry for myself.
Cos I’ve got a 
very nasty cold.


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |


Ha ha ha ha. Here's a poem for all the UK and USA school teachers who are writing any school reports - and they want to tell the real truth about their pupils!!!!!!


I’m writing here a useful
For those who’ve never
To help you understand
the terms
Used in a school report.

Teachers are most careful
They write the term’s 
They’re honest but they’re
So as not to give offence.

A “lively child” is often one
You peel off a wall.
To call him bad or even 
Just wouldn’t do at all.

“Lacking motivation” is a
Coded way of saying:
‘He doesn’t lift a finger but
Likes gossiping and playing.’

A child that’s “lacking social
In terms both straight and
Is one who snatches what he
wants –
In fact, he’s bloody rude!

“Lacking presentation skills”
Is nothing more or less
Than saying his work’s 
‘It’s all a scruffy mess.’ 

So when you open his 
Please stay that generous
Top of his class, or sat on
his a**e?
Make sure you understand.


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



My computer has a language
That is foreign to me
It speaks of RAM and Gigabytes
And what could ROM be!  

I don't understand the Windows
My computer says are there
Nor the Gem Clip at the side of 
my page
Wth eyes that blink and stare!  

I don't unerstand the cures
That maintenance wizards do
It's called defragmenter, scan 
And virus cleaning too!  

Yet, computer and I work hand 
and eye
With a mouse to translate
The tasks that I want it to do
While it points out my mistakes!


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



The world is full of doom
and gloom, no matter
where you go,
It does its best to inject
us all – and make us all
feel low.

Those depressing and 
boring newspapers, they
invade our minds so much,
As their insidious news – 
grabs you by the crutch!

There is simply no escape
from this horrible disease,
And all we want the papers
to do – is publish good news
with ease.

Even the TV news – it’s full
of death and scandal,
And it never lets up at all – 
I think they’ve lost their

Tales of destruction – and
of death – it can drive us 
all mad,
And all I want to do – is 
feel a little less sad!

One word, especially, it
really is an entity –
It pops up in nearly every 
sentence, it is of course;

Those depressing and 
boring TV news readers – 
they really are well paid,
Because if they weren’t – 
they’d all be on parade!

They like to dress so smart,
there’s nothing wrong 
with that;
‘But all that is missing – is a 
silly, dapper hat!’ 

They think they are 
celebrities, that is strictly
But when they read the
boring news – I want to
give them a good smacking!

So can I make this plea – on
behalf of the nation:
“Give us more good news – 
so we can have a CELEBRATION!”

Will my request be in vain? 
and be ignored by those editors?
As they carry on waffling their
“doom” and “gloom” – it really is

DARRYL ASHTON           

Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |

If I was Leonard Nimoy

If I was Leonard Nimoy I would rush about the place, 
I would hold my long pointy fingers in front of me as I sprang from door to door,
My pointy boots deftly propelling me from shadow to shadow my pointy ears sleek in the dark,
I would wear an elf’s cloak like a slender bony wraith and be like Pan in the woods.

If I was Leonard Nimoy, ceaselessly running here and there,
I would fondle things, peruse things, and look under things and open cupboards,
A real nosey sneak, climbing through windows and going through draws,
I’d sniff other people’s belongings with my long sensitive nose,
trying on peoples clothes, reading their diaries, wearing their shoes.

If I was Leonard Nimoy I would be a real cheeky bastard,
Quickly rushing about, hands in front, cloak flapping behind,
Stooping like a thief in the dark, arranging dinner dates, making phone calls,
Then I would vocally abuse people and adroitly cut them down.

If I was Leonard Nimoy I would use my Vulcan logic to orally molest people,
I would line people up with my stone hard glare and coldly hurl verbal perversions at them
Willowy fingers, hunched shoulders, flat black hair, pointy ears, spikey shoes, cloak fluttering behind.
Expressionless, cool, thin and dexterous, I’d cause a right awkward mess behind the scenes.

Copyright © Steve Humphries Artist

Details | Bio | |

Solitude: To Yoda, An Ode

Green bark a prism creates,
Feel the pull of earth, you must.

Rotates, a slime of endless hates,
Can hold me not, this world’s crust.

Friendship’s ties, isolation Deflates,
Succumbs, my spaceship, to bitter rust.

Mist, my soul forever permeates,
Lift-off, booms the rocket’s thrust.

My spirit when light returns, elates,
Swamps swell, swallowed hope’s swirling dust.

Trapped, I am, until student from fate
Arrives to learn; Cloud City or bust.

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Ode | |



Granny has a laptop,
its sleek and shiny new;
She gazes at it fondly,
and wonders... what to 

She keeps it gently on 
her lap,
she really thinks its nice,
She doesn't like the mouse 
at all,
she's very scared of mice!

But soon she'll start blogging
and take the world by storm,
With precise posts on ecology,
and why our globe is warm!

She'll be in touch on email,
with family friends on the net;
And keep us all enthralled,
with her global tete-a-tete!

She'll engage in quirky forums,
and have a million fans,
Asking for her recipes,
of fish curries and flans!

She'll keep the world begging,
for her poetry and prose,
For her masterpiece in Egyptology,
for the stories that she knows!

So, get set darling Granny,
we're so happy you're online,
You're a Granny in a million,
I'm so glad you're mine!!!


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |

6 Second Trailer

6 Second Trailer

Did you see it?

It's a fantastic flick
This is...

The full trailer?

It's coming
It's coming
So am I

Did you see her...
So sweet
Gotta tweet
Gotta sleep

Don't ya love it

Who wrote it?

The screenplay?
Who cares?


Premiering 2015

Bit early, eh?

What, the trailer?
Ya think?

Yeah, but

Copyright © Odin Roark

Details | Quatrain | |

An Ode To Brussel Sprouts

This is quite a bit overdue my friends It's an ode to Brussel Sprouts Those delicious spherical bundles of joy Not too popular hereabouts Poor wee fellows just want to be loved Along with the other veggies They've long had a real image problem About as popular as a wedgie Thinking of starting a worldwide petition Any Soupers wishing to join Send a hundred dollars to me, Jester Jack You'll receive a commemorate coin Along with the coin you'll receive a bushel Of these oh so luscious little critters As a bonus for ordering before December An autographed picture of John Ritter Hey, it rhymes doesn't it !!! © Jack Ellison 2013

Copyright © Jack Ellison

Details | Ode | |



(With apologies to Johnny 

My name is Alfred Garnett,
and I'm married to a silly 
'Every time I come home
from work - she tells me
what to do!'

I am a Tory supporter - 
well, someone has to be - 
I keep on praising Ted
Heath - he lived at bleak
house for free!

I work very hard every
day - and I have a little
And when I was told to
work a three day week - 
oh, I really did have a

I like to smoke my pipe
a lot - but the tobacco
costs too much - 
It is my only pleasure -
the sex is out of touch!!

We now have a new 
home help - his name 
is Marigold Winston - 
But because he's like 
a woman - I call it 
bloody treason!

He prances about in a
pinny - and he talks
in an African dialect - 
Why did the bloody 
council pick him? Could
they not be a bit more 

Now I call him Marigold - 
he's always prancing
He really is an eyesore - 
he always has to shout! 

But he does know his
place - he loves his
kitchen duties,
He cooks and cleans
like a demented queen - 
and he cleans my dirty

My wife, Else, God Bless
her soul - is up in 
heaven now,
But the DHSS stopped
her pension - she's left
me skint - the cow!

I've called the social
services - they are no
bloody good,
They act just like the
DHSS - they don't pay
me like they should!   

My name is Alfred 
Garnett - and I often
have a beer - 
It is my only pleasure - 
now I've lost my, Elsie'

People say I'm a racist - 
and a bigot, and a 
I think they've got the
wrong person - some
said I was their saviour!!!!

I love to watch West Ham - 
(up the hammers) - and 
watch it all for nothing;
'I even used a wheelchair - 
while the stewards weren't

I want to say goodbye 
to you - and I thank you
for being true,
Oh, how I miss my Elsie - 
that bloody silly moo!!    


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



There's a family nobody likes to meet;
They live, it is said, on Complaining Street
In the city of Never-Are-Satisfied,
The River of Discontent beside.

They growl at that and they growl at this;
Whatever comes, there is something amiss;
And whether their station be high or humble,
They are all known by the name of Grumble.

The weather is always too hot or cold;
Summer and winter alike they scold.
Nothing goes right with the folks you meet
Down on that gloomy Complaining Street.

They growl at the rain and they growl at 
the sun;
In fact, their growling is never done.
And if everything pleased them, there isn't 
a doubt
They'd growl that they'd nothing to grumble 

But the queerest thing is that not one of the 
Can be brought to acknowledge his family 
For never a Grumbler will own that he
Is connected with it at all, you see.

The worst thing is that if anyone stays
Among them too long, he will learn their ways;
And before he dreams of the terrible jumble
He's adopted into the family of Grumble.

And so it were wisest to keep our feet
From wandering into Complaining Street;
And never to growl, whatever we do,
Lest we be mistaken for Grumblers, too.

Let us learn to walk with a smile and a song,
No matter if things do sometimes go wrong;
And then, be our station high or humble,
We'll never belong to the family of Grumble!


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |




It is with real sadness and deep regret that we announce the death of Coronation Street. Born in December 1960 in a back street in Manchester, it grew up to become the most watched and best-loved series on television. Noted for all its wit, sharp storylines and strong characters, Coronation Street was unmissable. Fans flocked to Granada Studios to see the place of its birth, and videos of its life and times sold in their thousands.

Millions of fans adored its residents, which included Ena Sharples and Elsie Tanner, whose presence and confrontations on screen crackled and mesmerised; the unforgettable Hilda and Stan Ogden who knew their place (deep in our hearts); and Ken and Deirdre with their continual rows and love interests. For years, it entertained and reigned supreme, regularly topping the viewing charts.

But, almost unnoticed, Coronation Street became ill. An occasional deviation from the script here, a far-fetched storyline there, and the introduction of characters who seemed to have lost their way en route to an Eastenders audition. Fans noticed. What was happening?

In denial, Coronation Street refused to go to the doctor. Gradually its main characters were usurped and suffocated as ‘modern families’, and ‘storylines relevant to today’ took over.

A cancer of political correctness set in. Terminally stricken, Coronation Street grew worse and, unable to watch the death of an old friend, viewers deserted it. There were many at the funeral: scriptwriters who thought, wrongly, that they could raise the dead, and actors and actresses who were glad of the work but knew little of the deceased.

The real Coronation Street was brilliant in its day. Now, friends of the late series can only mourn: they thought it would go on for ever. No flowers by request, but a donation to any organisation teaching scriptwriting would be most appreciated.



Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ballad | |

An Ode to the Thighs

The mountain, it was steep.
The snow was very deep.
Caused involuntary “ahs”
from anyone who saw.

To get up to the top
was not some little hop.
It took tram, chair and poma
to tackle that big momma.

To start from the summit,
a near vertical plummet,
took the heart of a lion,
and left most people cryin’.

He checks skis, boots and poles,
but really he just knows,
he’s putting off the trauma,
the approaching descent drama.

It’s really exhilarating.
His heart is fibrillating.
He sucks up, screams and GOES,
and attacks the chest-deep snow.

It’s man against the mountain.
On his wits he is a countin’,
for to miss one little turn,
means a faceload full of burn.

He turns, he slips, he sails.
It seems he never fails,
to again make it down,
to that quaint little town.

With heart so pure and strong,
it doesn’t take too long.
He’ll never give up the fight
to conquer fields of white.

He goes again, again
The battle he does win
between the fields of snow
and our mighty hero.

The day comes to an end.
Misfortunes do portend.
Our hero’s not come in –
Good god, what’s happenin’?

A cry goes through the town.
Our hero has gone down.
The patrolman are a scurryin’.
The crowds they are a worryin’.

My gosh, good god, oh my
catch a glimpse as he goes by.
Our hero’s on a gurney.
Why’s he on this journey?

Is he hurt – did he crash?
His head a tree did bash?
Please say it isn’t so
Come on, we gotta know.

Speculation runs a flutter.
The crowds they stand and mutter,
with faces stained by tear,
they say “Please help us here”.

The data is a mess.
His friends they won’t confess.
So people stand and stare
at their seeming lack of care.

On his buds there is no frown -
just big smiles all around.
They don’t understand the cries -
he merely thrashed his thighs.

Copyright © Mark Hamilton

Details | Ode | |



My name is Paul Gascoigne,
and I like a little drink,
But now I’m in serious
trouble – and I need to see
a shrink!

I was a fabulous footballer
in my day,
But I got involved in alcohol –
now I’ve lost my way!

I even played for England –
and scored against Scotland,
But my career soon nose
dived – I just need a helping

I drink a lot – that is true –
but it really is killing me,
But when I go to the pubs –
all my beers are free!

I have to get a grip, or I’ll
end up dead as dead  –
But all I do at the moment –
I think of beer instead!  

I see myself in a mirror –
and I need a razor blade;
‘I think I’ll cut my throat –
or drink some lucozade!!’

I am going into rehab – as
soon as I jump the queue;
‘Then I will be forever dry –
I’ll drink some Irn Bru!!'

One day I will win my
battle against the demon
Or carry on as I am – I’ll end
up in the clink!

I have accepted – I ruined
my career – that is what I
But with some help – I
could coach – and watch
the kids all glow.

It seems like mission
impossible – but I am
determined to dry out,
And regain my reputation
maybe I can add some

I could coach for England –
or for Tottenham Hotspur,
If I sort myself out – my life
won’t be a blur!

Please, do wish me luck –
and I hope not to be a
‘And if I need a drink – I’ll
simply drink some pop!'   


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



(To the tune of; Onward
Christian Soldiers)

(It may help if you do sing

Onward Christian poets,
its time to call our bluff,
You can write with harmony – 
because you know your
Write the rhyme my poet
Then you’ll start new 
Onward to annoy the folk,
and write some more sick

Onward Christian poets – 
writing as they go,
Waving to the crowd they
do – with Christmas time
in tow! 

Onward then ye poets, 
Christmas is now here,
See those decorations – 
why do we not cheer?
See those festive 
Christmas trees – and 
those fairy lights,
Dazzling on the festive
branch, a monstrous
sight delights!

Onward Christian poets,
moaning at the sights,
They are not that happy -     
they’ve lost their human

Onward then ye poets,
sing as you do write,
Writing all those poems,
it is your human right.
People will complain to
you, but you ignore 
them, true,
All they do is whinge 
and moan – oh I need 
the loo!

Onward Christian poets,
we suffer writer’s cramp,
Now my failing eyesight,
where’s my bleeding’

Onward Christian poets,
battling PC crap,
But when they read their
poems – we give them all
a clap!
Writing poems of MPs, 
and about their sleaze,
Brussels spout their 
dictating views – their 
expenses we will freeze!

Onward Christian poets,
smiling as they type,
But sometimes they will
admit – they write a load
of tripe!

Onward Christian poets,
feeling quite depressed,
All they want for Christmas,
is something very blessed.
Listening to the garbage – 
that’s on the TV news,
So we’ll write a whole lot
more – and then we’ll have
a snooze!

Onward Christian poets,
running out of ink,
All that poetry writing,
sure does make us think!

Onward Christian poets,
off to church we go,
Singing all those Christmas
hymns, ‘oh diddly oh!’       
Oh we need a drink or two,
but we may get drunk – 
Give me now my sparkling
hooch – then we’ll write 
more junk!       

Onward Christian poets,
we wish you all the best,
Not many can write poetry, 
so we’ll put you to the test!   

Onward Christian poets,
writing in the States,
They are all together – 
eating juicy steaks.
Lots of pampered poets – 
eating to their fill.
Now they’re full from
over-eating – now they
need a pill!

Onward Christian poets,
touring in the States,
But they keep on writing -  
about their own mistakes.

Finally ye poets – they all
gather round – 
Writing about Good God – 
now they’re heaven bound.
Onward now and forward – 
they love their writing fate,
All aboard the poet train – 
and it’s bleeding’ late!

Onward Christian poets, 
you we all adore,
So let’s all celebrate poems – 
we all want some more! 


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



The super jet is waiting - 
on the runway for take
It is a super furry jet - 
but who owns this jet - 
a toff?

The name is Aleksandr
Orlov - and co-pilot 
Sergei, too,
They are going back
to Africa - on a mission
for me and you.

Aleksandr ties his tie - 
and acts so professional - 
But just before take off - 
Sergei feels ill! 

'I don't feel very well,
Sergei tells Aleksandr,
Come, come, now, it
must have been that

Sergei gets out his
crisps - and starts
munching in full flight;
'Aleksandr has had
enough - and causes
quite a fight!'

The computermabob 
is working - and Sergei's
fur stands on end,
Aleksandr looks at him - 
he's going round the

Suddenly, they see 
Africa - the sun is 
shining hot,
Sergei's busy pruning
his fur - and he's found
another spot!

Aleksandr says; 'it is a
little pimple - and it's
on your furry leg,
Then, just by magic - 
they see Baby Oleg!  

Professionally they
land the plane - and
their smile is as wide
as wide,
But why does baby 
Oleg - suddenly go
and hide?

She has to be brought
home - the animal 
rights have ordered,
But both Sergei and
Aleksandr - hide in a
small cupboard!

Now they are all on
board - a super furry
Aleksandr says to Sergei:
"I told you not to fret!"

Now they are back home - 
and Oleg's on his feet,
Sergei asks Aleksandr:
"where's our mongoose

All are sat around a table
and Sergei starts to play 
with his pimple;
'When Oleg asks papa
Aleksandr how he found
him - he says; 'it was oh 
so very SIMPLE!!!!'


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



I’m going to eat a rabbit,
that is tasty for me,
I caught it in my garden – 
and I want it for my tea!
The pesky little rabbit – 
ran and ran so fast – 
But I caught the floppy
ear’d beast – and ate it;
‘just like that!’

My name is Jeanette
Winterson, I live in Great
I am a little eccentric – 
that’s what makes me 
I grow a bunch of herbs,
and I hope to grow more
Before those pesky rabbits – 
come leaping over my 

The people have gone mad – 
on my Twitter page – 
It is so very evident – they 
are all in a rage!
I only culled a rabbit – it 
tasted very good,
Just the way I like it – and
how I knew it would! 

So hear me pesky rabbit – 
I’ll call for Elmer Fudd – 
He shall be my dinner guest – 
and you’ll taste really good! 
So keep your paws to yourself – 
or you’ll end up in a stew –
I kid you not, Mr Rabbit – 
my dish is calling you!


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



We went to that Ikea
A wardrobe there to
We looked around 
and chatted,
Such choice they have – 
oh, my!

Then we finally settled
On one which looked
quite nice,
Yet, really, when I’m
looking back,
Not sure I’d do it twice.

We took the wardrobe’s
And went out to the 
Where it’s in convenient
So you can get it through
the door.

We had to put the back
seats down
And leave the hatch ajar,
The wife sat bending over,
So she could get into the

We struggled to the 
The cardboard box 
was tossed,
Took out the little
‘Twas then I thought:
‘I’m lost!’

It wasn’t quite my 
first time,
I’d had an earlier try,
Some years ago I
struggled with
Similar stuff from MFI.

The sides and back
were lettered,
A sketch of what to
An enormous list of
bits and bobs – 
But missing one or

I scanned the text 
quite briefly
(That was error 
number one),
Popped out to get 
my tool box
And wasn’t too long

Some dowels were
then inserted
In holes marked A
and E,
The wardrobe looked
a funny shape,
Well, it certainly did
to me.

The doors hung slightly
Some drawers just 
didn’t fit,
And after several 
stressful hours
I was a bit fed up with

It all ended in frustration,
My new attempt at
I’ll now buy stuff 
‘assembled’ – 
Can’t stand to see a 
grown man cry!


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |


A rubbish/garbage collector is driving along a street picking up wheelie bins and emptying them into his compactor.

He goes to one house where the bin hasn’t been left out, and in the spirit of kindness, and after having a quick look about the bin, he gets out of his truck goes to the front door and knocks. There’s no answer.

Being a kind and conscientious bloke, he knocks again – much harder. Eventually a Japanese man comes to the door. “Harro!” says the Japanese man.

“Gidday, mate!

Where’s ya bin?” asks the collector.

“I bin on toiret,” explains the Japanese bloke, a bit perplexed.

Realising the fellow had misunderstood him, the bin man smiles and tries again.

“No! No! Mate, Where’s your dust bin?”

“I dust been to toiret, I toll you!” says the Japanese man, still perplexed.

“Listen,” says the collector, “You’re misunderstanding me. I mean, where’s your wheelie bin?”

“OK, OK.” Replies the Japanese man with a sheepish grin, and whispers in the collector’s ear.” I wheelie bin having sex wiffa wife’s sista!”


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



Welcome to Asda, we say
that so true,
There are bargains galore,
for me and for you.
When you walk in there –
there is a TV screen,                 
It really is the place to be –
the supermarket, supreme.
You can go and admire
those strawberries, and
lovely fresh baked bread,
But do watch those prices
 – it really has to be said.
All them fresh cream cakes –
oh they look so nice,
I’d eat the blinking lot of
them – especially the
vanilla slice!
There’s cooked meats too –
and all fresh fish that swim,                      
All prepared for us, by the
Asda efficient team.               
Walkers crisps I can’t afford
there’s hardly any in,
You shake a packet and all
you get is loads of air within!
From washing powders to
smelly stuff – a washing day
But doing all that ironing is
something I do dread.
There’s the “Hi-De-Hi” on the
microphone, who does greet
you as you walk in,
But having such high prices –
it really is a sin.
You can even shop for underwear
 – a pair of frilly knickers –
While I do justice to a pair – of
very trendy kickers!
There are sexy panties all on sale
and lots of bras to suit,
Oh the thought of buying these –
then saying they look cute!
Then you make that journey – to
the checkout to pay for all,
But seeing those big queues – it
really makes my skin crawl!
Looking all around me at the
people on their phones,
Oh, what do they all look like –
like living human clones!
Everyone’s so happy – as the
tills go jingle, jingle, jingle,
I bet them married folk I see –
do wish they were single!
Standing in the queue – I wait
my turn with glee,
Then I say; “I’m an MP – and
all my shopping’s free!”
My shopping is now all                      
done, so now I head off
home –
But I’ve got to face them
bus drivers – the ones
who make me moan!
They are so very miserable,
and they never ever smile,
My god when I try to board 
one - I just want to run a
But now I’m safely home –
and a cup of tea I’ll make,
And what makes it taste
even better -  a tasty Asda
cream cake.
Oh the joys of shopping at
Asda – is something we
should cherish –
Before all those low prices,
altogether vanish!  

Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



Little Jack Horner sat in the 
With hamburger, cola and 
Then ice cream and jelly, 
in front of the telly,
Fresh fruit never passes his

To school in the car, although 
it’s not far,
Then home at the end of the 
A snack before tea, in front of 
Though friends call and want 
him to play.

But Mother’s afraid, in the park 
if he played,
He may be approached by a 
And kicking a ball, he might trip 
and fall,
And riding a bike’s fraught with 

So safe in his chair, no fun or 
fresh air,
Each day he grows fatter and 
His peers taunt him and tease, 
because he’s obese,
But his mum says that size 
doesn’t matter.

But this is untrue, and as the 
lad grew,
Young Jack wished that he 
could be thinner,
Girls seldom go out with boys 
who are stout, 
Well, only to let them buy 

Jack wanted a date, so he 
planned to lose weight,
With exercise, will power
and diet,
And eighteen months on, 
with blubber all gone,
At social events he’s a riot!

A bonus it’s true, is he feels
better too,
His health has improved
without doubt,
But if mothers were wise, 
would this problem arise?
Be sensible – let them play 


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



It was one day last summer
I needed a plumber,
Something was wrong with 
my water,
It dripped and it spurted
And sometimes it squirted,
But just didn’t flow out like
 it oughta.

I found Yellow Pages
And searched through
for ages,
I wanted a plumber quite
No cowboy for me,
With an exorbitant fee,
For I was hoping he wouldn’t
be dear.

He turned up at three
And I made him some tea,
And he proceeded to check
all my system.
He consulted his book,
The advice which he took,
On faults in case that he
missed ‘em.

He prodded and poked
And we both got soaked,
As he checked out the taps
in the sink.
Said, “There’s a blockage
My friend in your drainage,
And your waste pipe has
gone on the blink.” 

I didn’t need to be told
That my system was old,
That was something I 
already knew,
But my elbows were worn
And my lagging was torn,
And my ballcock – that was
stuck too.

He checked all my heating
While he was eating,
Right down to my flow and
Said, “I’m known in the 
For being so thorough,
And you’re giving me cause
for concern. 

You’re pilot’s not firing,
It must be the wiring,
And your pump’s got an
airlock there too,
Your safety valve’s stuck,
‘Cos it’s all full of muck,
And I must check in case
it’s the flue.

Your boiler’s corroded
And pipework eroded,
And your tank, well, that’s
all gone rusty.
Your joints are all leaking
And water is seeping,
And that’s why it smells
rather musty.

Your thermostat knob
Is not doing its job,
And that’s why your
temperature’s rising.
With a system as old
And, may I be bold?
Well, really, it’s hardly

I’d now got the gist
From my ever long list,
‘Cos I feel as though I
am dead,
I said that I’d call him
The very next morning,
But I’ll call the doctor


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Ode | |



A drunk man who smelled like beer sat down on a subway next to a priest. The man’s tie was stained, his face was plastered with red lipstick and a half-empty bottle of gin was sticking out of his torn coat pocket. He opened his newspaper and began reading.

After a few minutes the man turned to the priest and asked, ‘Say, Father, what causes arthritis?’

The priest replies, ‘My Son, it’s caused by loose living, being with cheap, wicked women, too much alcohol, contempt for your fellow man and a lack of a bath.’

The drunk muttered in response, ‘Well, I’d never believe it.’ Then returned to his paper.

The priest, thinking about what he had said, nudged the man and apologised. ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. How long have you had arthritis?’

The drunk answered, ‘I don’t have it, Father. I was just reading here that the Pope does.’


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Free verse | |


Oh Goddess, Little Debbie,
Queen of all Saturated Fat,
Sometime of Swiss, which is called Roll,
Now of the delightful Court of Nutty Bars,
I respectfully esteem your Zebra Cakes,
I salute your Cosmic Brownies
And I kiss your empty boxes of Oatmeal Crème Pies.

It can’t be, Oh Goddess,
The tasty chomps of your Honey Buns,
Nor that of your delicious and calorie-laden Donut Sticks,
Which causes me now to wear plus sizes.
But since this is your respectful tribute, Oh Goddess,
It seems appropriate to me to proclaim
According to a greedy and overeating custom,
That I complete one roll of your Powdered Donuts.
Your face, Oh Goddess,
Is so adored that I placed a lovely tattoo
On each layer of my 4-layer belly,
Such as a memorial
Or the obsession
Or my adulation.
It is like the cow coming through chocolate-covered grass,
Yet a bit different,
For the grass is not chocolate-covered,
Only carpet and I am the cow.
Loving you, Oh Goddess,
I love all of your consequences;
But I imagine
That even if I did not love you
I would love the sweetness of even your crumbs,
And my fatness, shaped in the honor of all your snacks.


Copyright © Nikkia Roberts

Details | Rhyme | |

An Ode to Models

Come on you thin things,
eat some pies,
get some blubber on those thighs.
Eat some chocolate
gain some pounds
Make those boobies nice and round.
Get a spare tyre,
don’t be flat.
Boys don’t like their girls like that.

Make things wobble,
learn to twerk.
You can make that booty work.
Get some roses in those cheeks,
go and eat a bag of sweets
Be all jolly
Be all fat
Boys prefer their girls like that

I hope….

Copyright © Kaye Locke