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Ballad Humorous Poems | Ballad Poems About Humorous

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

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Details | Ballad | |

How The Big Mac Got The Gherkin

Once upon an ancient time, 
in long gone languid days, 
when distant misted myths bechanced 
in lovely rhym'ed ways, 
when time was so much freer, 
less allotted to the minute, 
‘twas then the mighty Big Mac 
got the gherkin in it. 


The night was one made fit for gods, 
and stars made white the sky, 
and drunk, dylsexic old McDonald 
sang Oh Eee, Oh Eee, I. 
His greatest yet creation 
sat on his barbie plate, 
it was the mighty Big Mac, 
with no inkling of its fate. 


McDonald thought the pattie lacked 
ce qu'il ne savait pas. 
He decided what he'd give it 
was this green thing from a jar. 
But Big Mac cried out, ‘Hang about! 
I like the way I am! 
And I think that what I need the least, 
is a prostate gland exam.' 


McDonald growled, ‘Don't be a sook! 
It's not gonna hurt a bit. 
Just close your eyes and grit your teeth, 
and keep loose where you sit.' 
Big Mac firmly grasped his bun 
and held it really tight, 
he had Phallicvegiephobia 
and would resist with all his might. 


But McDonald was too smart by far, 
Big Mac was not his match, 
the old bloke snuck up from behind 
to by surprise him catch. 
Beneath an unsuspecting arm 
he applied a little tickle, 
the burger gave a little laugh, 
and got a little pickle... 


So the Big Mac we all know today 
was born of subterfuge. 
And although the gherkin in it 
aint really all that huge, 
remember that it's only there 
by the skullest of skullduggery, 
and that bit we discard's the fruit 
of midnight burger buggery. 


Details | Ballad | |

Tight Pants

As soon as I convince myself that food is not my friend
This one-sided relationship will all come to an end
Each day when I arise I pledge an archetypal goal
To overcome the food addition pulling on my soul

But as the day goes forward, problems start to come around
The vending machine calls me and my love jones comes on down

Food shouldn’t be my buddy, nor my solace when I’m sad
Not what to do when I’m alone or feeling really bad

I can’t find myself in popcorn, there’s no counseling in chips
This love affair’s not working out; I see it on my hips

I utilize my pantry like a confessional booth
But it’s really not where I should go when looking for the truth

For many years I’ve searched and searched for pairs of loving eyes
Those I find are on potatoes - or my skinny lover – fries

I look for comfort in the coolness of a milkshake’s sweet embrace
It seems to be what I need but – it’s showing in my face

I love the crunch of fried fish once it’s bubbled in hot grease
But back fat rolls as a result make sexiness decrease

I always think I’ll overcome but alas and alack
The smell of rising dough just seems to stab me in the back

This symbiant feeds off me as I gorge upon its flesh
And my attempts to conquer it are marginal at best
The truthful path to happiness is what I most desire
But yet the path I choose to walk is paved with tight attire

Buying bigger clothes would be a way to make amends but
Money is a joke that I discuss with all my friends

Vanity keeps me from moving on to larger sizes
Self-esteem flees from me with my morning scale surprises

Pain becomes a part of me when I put on my jeans
Because of how the waistband cuts so deep into my spleen

There are the times I launch a siege and race off to the gym
I cut out all the dirty carbs and find myself in Zen

But alas my lover follows me and sings a sweet sweet song
Of a tired, broken lady who has worked out far too long

Of pudding pops and ice cream which I certainly deserve
Cause in kickboxing they tortured me and worked up quite a nerve

Of Cheez-Its and Doritos and all kinds of savory treats
Because “After all, I did work out, I should get something neat!”

Food. Not song, or dance, or even following my dreams
Not writing funny poems or saying silly things
Not feeling good, not working hard, not fitting in my clothes
Filling my gut with sustenance but not filling the holes 

This relationship waits for me at the end of every day 
It’s never late; it’s always there faithful in every way

You have to ask yourself sometimes, “What kind of friend is that?”
Who gives me what I think I want no matter how I act?
Is this the friend I want to keep, the one who fills my needs
Or is this just a mind-screw consummating my foul deeds

My ankles swell, my belly too, my butt hangs kinda’ low
I can sit in for the fat girl during any vaudeville show - but

As soon as I convince myself that food is not my friend
This one-sided relationship will all come to an end
Today when I arise I’ll pledge an archetypal goal
To overcome this food addition pulling on my soul


Details | Ballad | |

The Barmaid And The Pedlar

There's an old English song called  All Jolly Fellows That Follow The PLow.  The tune works fine as is for the chorus and with the verses if the tune for the 3rd and 4th lines is repeated for th 5th and 6th. Well, it works for me but my singing has never been much hindered by tunes.



It was after that big game one long gone September,
the score line was one I’d like not to remember,
in a small Richmond pub not too far from the ground,
we all settled down with our sorrows to drown.
We were well on the way, as were most of the crowd,
when in came a young pedlar a shouting out loud.

“Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to eat out.”

Cried the barmaid, “How many do I get to a yard?”
“Madam, three if they’re soft or two if they’re hard”
She felt for the soft ones cos she wanted a lot,
but the more that she squeezed em the harder they got.
She found not a sausage was e’en a bit soft
so she told the young pedlar to go get far offed 

“Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to eat out.”

Said the pedlar, “Why madam no need to be rude.
And in fact what you told me was verging on crude
But you don’t look so bad for a foul mouthed old sow
so step on outside, if you like, with me now.
If you play your cards right I might squeeze your left breast.
If I find I like that I might squeeze all the rest.”

“Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to eat out.”

Said the barmaid to pedlar, “You are a right jerk,
I’m a barmaid and never do mission’ry work.
But if you're near to the shops and you buy me some eggs,
I might squeeze that there pimple you’ve got ‘tween your legs.”
Then she said something that made the whole crowd guffaw,
“And will you stop off at home and please check the back door?”

“Sausages, sold by the yard or the pound!
Get a fresh sausage, the best to be found!
It’ll make your wife happy of that there’s no doubt,
with her very own snag she won’t need to eat out.”



For Cyndi MacMillan's pub song contest


Details | Ballad | |

TRIPPIN' OUT

 Here I sit
 Watching time go by.
 I'm all alone,
 But high.

 I think I'm "Trippin' Out", without a doubt.

 Everything seems to be spinning.
 I see two frogs playing poker.
 And neither one's winning.

 I'm "Trippin' Out", without a doubt.

 The phone rang,
 I answered my shoe.
 I couldn't remember
 What to do.

 I'm "Trippin' Out", without a doubt.

 I heard the doorbell,
 And wondered if he or she
 Would be able to tell.


 That I'm "Trippin' Out", without a doubt.

 So, I didn't answer the door
 And decided to get stoned some more.
 So I lit another joint,
 And to get right to the point.

 I was "Trippin' Out", without a doubt.

 My eyelids sank,.
 And my mind grew blank
 As the world moved farther away.
 I woke up the next day
 With these words to say,

 I was "Trippin' Out", without a doubt. 

(per contest rules - Influence was Marijuana)


Details | Ballad | |

Pan and Satan

Pan and Satan.

One morning I was walking in my garden
When old Jupiter came up close to me.
And standing by his side stood fair Demeter
Who smiled at me so warm and tenderly.
She said “my son we’ve come to give our blessings
And we’ve a story we would like to tell.
Of how the great God Pan turned into Satan
And child I hope that you will listen well.

For Pan he was the god of natures beauty
And he wore no taint till Satan came along.
He’d play his pipes so gaily in the meadows
Though sometimes there was mischief in his song.

Then Satan said to pan “well I don’t give a damn
I’m going to steal your horns and make you me.
Then I’ll build a master plan and strike some fear in man
So always he will live in misery.
And that’s the way old Pan became young Satan
Yet still the old one dances deep within.
But if the two had never joined together
Then where would dwell the ugliness of sin.

1990


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.


Details | Ballad | |

The Winged Man and His Wife

Once in a land full of life
At least that's what I was told so
There lived a happy man and his wife
Who smiled and watched the birds go

One day as they were watching the birds
The old man had flipped his hat
For he had said only a few words
And it was that he could fly like that

The wife then began to frown
For the man had simply gone mad
So she got ready to leave the town
Which made the cheery guy sad

He swore to her that he would fly
So the wife had grabbed her things
She opened the door and said bye
And when she left, the man sprouted wings

A few years had come and gone
The wife grew old and watched time pass
One day when sitting, she heard a song
That sounded from her fifth floor window glass

'my love,' it said, 'I now have wings.
my love,' it went on, 'I wish you would see me fly.
my dear, come look at me, drop your things.
I wait by your window, perched in the sky.'

The wife got up and looked out the pane
She froze at the sight she had saw
Her husband flying, or was she insane?
He smiled at her dropped jaw.

'My love, come with me. Fly in the sky.'
'I can't,' she shook her head
'oh come on. climb out. I promise you won't die.'
So she climbed out, and was never seen again.

(this is fictional)


Details | Ballad | |

Loneliness - A Country Song

I wonder what I am going to do.
I wonder where U are.
& I wonder why the cocktails, are no longer free at the bar.
I wonder why my ankles swell,
And I wonder if U know.
I wonder if the sugar’s sweet, and if ice really tastes like snow.

If you think my sugar’s sweet,
And ice really tastes like snow,
Then I wonder if when you remember me - you’ll call home and let me know.

It would be better for both of us,
If you’d call home and let me know.
Perhaps then, I’d know where to go.

I wonder if U love me,
I wonder if you’re true.
I wonder if the yard guy we hired is really out with the flu.
I wonder what happened to last night,
I wonder why I didn’t know.
& I wonder if you will spit in my hand,
And try to sell it as snow.

If you believe you will spit in my hand,
And try to sell it as snow,
Then I ask if when you remember me you will help me, by letting me go.

It would be the best thing for the both of us, if you would let me go.
I’m alone when I’m with you, alone when I’m not
I swear babe, I just don’t know.

I wonder why I give a damn,
Because clearly you do not.
I wonder when I’ll get a life, and stop wanting the one that you’ve got.
Wonder if I will grow some cajones,
I wonder where mine are,
And I wonder if it’s after five cause then cocktails - are free at the bar.


Details | Ballad | |

Sir Archibald and the Black Knight - Part 1

Let me sing you a tale, a story of old,
Of a man without fear, of a knight brave and bold,
He sought out adventures, whenever they called,
And the name of this knight was Sir Archibald.

Whilst out riding his horse, a steed of great power,
He saw in the distance a creepy old tower,
At the top of this tower lived a pretty young maid,
Who was cold and was lonely and longed to be saved.

“Oh Sir Archibald, won’t you please rescue me?
I’m stuck in this tower and there’s nowt on TV.
I’m forced to stay in here, and wash all these socks,
While the evil Black Knight holds the keys to the locks.”

Sir Archibald loved the maiden so fair,
With her glittering eyes and her long golden hair.
“Of course I will save you!” was the knight’s brave reply,
“Or at least I shall give it a jolly good try!”

Sir Archie rode onwards, as fast as he could,
Until he came to the edge of the wood,
And there stood before him a terrible sight,
The tall, strong and mighty, the evil Black Knight.

The Black Knight was massive, someone to be feared,
With a scar on his face and a huge tatty beard,
Our villain’s description is only complete,
When we mention his dark eyes and big smelly feet.

“What do you want?!” called he with the big booming voice,
Of a man you’d avoid if were given the choice,
“You’ve got a young girl there, who you must set free.
Let her go now, or else answer to me!”


Details | Ballad | |

PAPER CLIP SOLILOQUY

      Oh Paper Clip, Dear Paper Clip
      let me always sing your praises!

      You keep my pages held tight
      without the violence of stapling
      and yet your grip is so gentle as
      to release a sheet without a blemish.

      When the project in your care concludes
      you go back into the desk desk drawer
      with nary a complaint or a quibble
      and fall back into the stiff routine
      of anticipating the next chance
      to make yourself useful.

      You are so loyal and understanding
      that even when I ask you to be
      a hanger of christmas ornaments
      you immediately bend to the task.

      You don't even mind
      when I straighten you out
      and use you like a toothpick.

      You remain the consummate aide
      through both thick reams and thin.

      You have won my heart
      you little metallic angel
      and if Mother approves
      I have every intention
      of making you an honest binder.


Details | Ballad | |

The Black Pearl Poem - Booty Returned

Like many merchant vessels
That sailed from our Mersey shore
This sturdy piece of timber
Can hold its own in tales of yore

A dried up piece of flotsam
Washed up on Wirral banks
Was dutifully cleaned and dressed
And a verse written on its shank

Amid the other bits of timber
That made up the Black Pearl
This poem had taken its place
With the many flags unfurled

Everything in Pearl had stories
Of pirates tales galore
Made up, true or invented
No one really knows for sure

But each made up this pirate ship
That was not built in any dock 
Neither wind nor tide could shake her
Sturdy on her rock

And then one day a storm rolled in
December Twenty thirteen
Unleashed torrential fury
That until then none had seen

Tempest battered Black Pearls flanks
Steadfast in the wind she’d sway
Ripped viciously at her robust planks
Sadly some things were washed away

One of these was this poem
That a little boy had wrote
Whose parents could not see the ship
Now at sea awash did float

Although lost in the Mersey’s waters
Both brown as murky tea
This poem on wood was never lost
Nor did she sail back to sea

Instead with the tides it ebbed and flowed
Liverpool’s docks had called it there
From where it may have started
No one knew or even cared

And then one day some months ahead
Lewis Baigent found sure fame
For bobbing in dock waters
He found the very same

Words still clear upon the wood
Not a letter out of place
The chain and rope still part of it
And the skull and crossbones face

The word got round to Black Pearl’s crew
The booty was held and fast
They sent a party to redeem her 
To be returned again at last

To take its place once again
Upon famed Black Pearl’s hull
And stories, myths and legends
Will abound ‘til we are full

Of yarns and tales and stories rich 
One greater than the other
Dredged from imaginations
And narrated without any bother

So gather round my children
Mums and dads and more
Dogs and cats and grown ups
And you loiterers on the shore

For what I have to tell you 
Is not all just hearsay
This poem has ventured near and far
But has been returned this day


Details | Ballad | |

her delighted mind

she seems like a saint in my dark moments
as she graces me with her gentle smile
because her nomadic heart came to rest for
a butterfly's moment within my grasp
and with noble intent i heart and soul to her attentions
so she unsticks my head
with her own road of good intentions

she is tender in my wilderness
placing small acts of cataclysm in my path
to dislodge my mud filled head
and with her devices nailed to my mind
it is easier to think so i think

so with her delighted mind she tinkers
with my comfort zone
trying to find the greasy spoon
that i eat my metaphysical meals with
leaves me hungry for words
when it comes time to put pen to paper

my head full of mud
grapple with the notions of her divinity
but the weight of thinking too much
keeps me from doing freestyle take to wing
so it is me that must unstick
from her influences
and her rubber band heart
that keeps bouncing back


Details | Ballad | |

Sir Archibald and The Black Knight - Part 2

“That girl’s going nowhere; she’s got socks to clean!”
The Black Knight did answer, he really was mean.
“If you’ve come here to get her I’ll give you a kick,
And knock you over with my big pointy stick!”

“So be it,” said Archie, “I’ll give you a chance,
To beat me on horseback, with sword or with lance!”
The Black Knight closed his visor and climbed on his horse,
A steed known as Twilight (he was black too of course!).

They rode at each other as fast as they could,
Both aiming their lances as all good knights should,
Sir Archibald’s lance hit the Black Knight square on,
He fell off his horse and our hero had won.

“Oh please do not hurt me!” the Black Knight did cry,
“I’ve grazed both my knees and got mud in my eye.
You can take the fair maiden. I’ll look after my health,
By not picking fights and doing housework myself!”

The girl was so happy her eyes filled with tears,
She had been locked in that tower for years and years.
She’d been there for so long her beautiful hair,
Had grown longer and longer, it lay everywhere.

The poor maiden cried, “I may have to stay,
I cannot escape here. My hair’s in the way!”
 “Don’t worry my dear; I’ve got something for that!”
And he scooped it all up in a big purple hat.

And so ends our tale, just as it should be,
With hero and maiden both safe and happy,
And the evil Black Knight, whom we mustn’t forget,
Is now whiter than white, and owns a laundrette.


Details | Ballad | |

INK IN THE PAPER

It brings happiness.
I am looking at the sundown, 
tied in a tree branches.

In the Garama river cruise,
we laugh and joke,
with monkeys in the trees,
and with the fireflies.

The experience with no price,
but has a great value, 
We come and go.
We meet and depart.

We listen to different stories.
Stories of bravery.
Tales of cultures.
And the beauty of the language.

The language of tongue. 
The language of self. 
But I am putting an ink to paper, 
will make the story begin.


Details | Ballad | |

brooding river

Brooding River 
 This winter saw a lot of rain the river 
near the houses Is still running clear and lucid 
giving its soul to the ocean 
On the old Roman Bridge I asked the river to stop wasting 
its precious sweet water to the salty sea,
one cannot let thirsty horses drink brackish liquid 
after having hauled a cart full of dead sheep
up to a mountain top,
offerings to a god that only exist in the mind of an 
idiot savant. 
The river hears me not its job is to run dry during 
the summer and when fall arrives be reborn. 
But beware of a river that has no fish
those who haughtily laugh will be turned into frogs,
the banks are full of them.
 Only a princess can make them into human again.
But they will still have frog souls.
 Alas due to hard time the princess is a dancer in 
a Spanish nightclub knows nothing about emails
and she is not on facebook. 


Details | Ballad | |

The Mojo Trick

The Mojo Trick
Loch David Crane
June 1979

Sweat-sticky and hot! The P. I. is not
	a comfortable place to be;
but sit here and perspire (as though by the fire)
	and I'll tell a tale to thee.

I was coming alive in a Philippine dive
	after Mojo and San Miguels;
 the raging fire in my stomach went higher
	but my sea legs rode out the swells.

I began with a pitcher of Mojo that hit
	a spot in my appetite;
and glass after glass I drank till the last
	and soon was feeling just right.	

Then a hostess sat down in a low-cut gown
	and asked "I sit with you tonight?"
And I nodded OK in a nonchalant way
	so she seated herself on my right.

Now the hostesses here are all drink San Miguel beer
	And the same is served all around;
but it don't show much class to charge five times' a 	glass
when serving's the same size per round.
So you pay a dear price to drink beer over ice
	which is how it is served in P.I.;
if you buy a girl beer when she says "I work here,"
	then she knows you're a Big Spender guy.

So I looked at this girl and my mind began to whirl
	and the Mojo played a trick.
Her face was so funny – a nose like a bunny –
	I wouldn't let her flick my Bic!

I won’t call her ugly, but with that funny mug she'd
	make customers run and hide;
you could send that girl in to a crowded room; then
	watch as horrified man stepped outside.

So as I drank my beer with a grin ear  to ear
	I said "My name is Billy, I think."
She was hardly demure; she said "My name is La Tour.
	I love you no lie.  Buy me drink."

Well I should have said "no," and let the chick go
	but I wasn't alone in the place;
and the thought of all night with this dog was a fright
	though her body was nice – but that face!

I thought "just one more brew,” cause I'd only had two,
	and I said that I'd buy her a drink.
Then she gave me a grin with her toothless brown chin
	and my self image started to sink.

But because I was shy (I'm just that sort of guy)
	I just couldn't tell her to leave;
so I stared at the band and I drummed with my hand
	and I brushed off the lint from my sleeve.

Well the music was fine; but the bar girl's next line
	was to say "Are you married, young man?"
And I saw my way out and lied with a pout –
	told her I had a wife in Japan.

So she finished her beer, and was soon gone from here,
and I ordered two beers to celebrate;
I was lucky, I thought, not to get caught
	between her and a magistrate.

For the Philippine girls wear long dresses and curls
	and use perfume and makeup for baits;
for to marry a guy, seaman or G.I.,
	means a free trip back to the States.

Then a man from the crew asked me "What's wrong with 	you?
	Why did you let that girl go?"
And I told him her face was scare spots off an ace
	but he looked back at me and said "No."

I called for "beer 12" and started to delve
	into my pocket for money;
my friend said "I'll buy," and his cash didn't lie,
	and "Mind if I sit with your honey?"
I said "you can do just what you want to do,"
	and I said that I couldn’t look at her;	
but he thought she was cute, had a nice bod to boot,
	so I nodded to go ahead after.

But beer thirteen made my vision grow keen,
	and I saw what a prize I had missed;
"I have drunk too much brew!   She was beautiful, too."
	as I saw him voluptuously kissed.

I thought "How could this be? She said she loved me! "
	My hand shook; my ice cubes went clink.
I heard her say to him "My name is Tuptim.
	I love you no lie.  By me drink."

So I smiled. I was glad; I was no longer mad
	'cause the Mojo had clouded my eyes;
I realized then she was after my friend, 
	and I hoped he was quick with his lies.

So it's "sailor beware!" In Olongopo there;
	where the girls fish for guys in the bars;
and though I often roam, I always come home,
	– single! Thanking my lucky stars.

– By the Phantom of the O2 level

(O1 and O2 are Officer’s and Civilians’ quarters on the USS Kitty Hawk; I taught English aboard several ships at sea, in the Program Afloat for College Education.)


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The Ballad Of James 'Umbrella Jim' Miner

'Umbrella Jim' was the sneakiest scoundrel west of the Missisip'!
Usin' the shell game and sleight of hand, of yer purse he'd gyp.
He'd set up shop 'neath an umbrella whether inside or under an oak.
Usin' three thimbles and a ball he cleaned the jeans of many a bloke!
'Umbrella Jim' was a renown huckster as well as bein' quite witty.
He'd warm up his potential victims by singin' this delightful ditty:
"A little bit of fun now and then,
Is relished by the best of men!
Select yer shell!  The one you choose,
If right you win, if not, you lose!
But I'll warn ye, yer chances are mighty slim,
Of winnin' a prize from Umbrella Jim!"
'Twas his regular trade to deceive the eye with sleight of hand.
He was very adept at what he did and his every move was planned.
The fate of 'Umbrella Jim' as far as I can tell is unknown,
But I'd bet some sucker saw him hung from an oak, if truth be known!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved


Details | Ballad | |

a five minute

Time start now
I have to make this poem
Oh wait I only got 
4 minutes left

Well every  second counts
If your trying to survive the desert I guess
Then she sat beside me and said:
What the F**k are you doing
Are you crazy?

And I said I guess so
Did you cook already 
Im hungry
She said:
And your f**king lazy

Then I said:
Oh sorry love one more minute
Then Ill stand up
Ill watch the dishes for you
feed the the cats for you
and as well as our gold fish

10 second left
my brain stuck up
now this is the
5 minute poem my love
Come here and give me kiss







-comments please mate- TY


Details | Ballad | |

2 Excerpts from the Lost Book of Tuberlantis

From The Lost Book of Tuberlantis
(Translated from the Spudscrit by The Potato of Terror)


Retrieved Passage 1:
Prologue

Many leagues beneath the sea
where the flat-winged sloth skate flies
lie the million fossil eyes
of Tuberlantis: drowned city.

There tuber groovers, bright and bold
who once cross-dressed for star-crossed love
lie prone while freight ships pass above
they sleep in silt, like buried gold.

For all the laughter and the beers,
the long-lost camp, the gaiety
for buried lives of mystery
we weep for them, and droop our ears.

And Oh! The laugh like cackling loons
And Ah! The whip that downward swings
upon the tuber's broken wings
and scattered crumbs of macaroons.

Here lie the pages of a sage
who fought against becoming mad
who wrote the only thoughts he had
through fizzing fits and gnashing rage.




Retrieved Passage 2:
The Book of Days


They said to him it was unwise
it could not be pushed in that way
he nodded back, rolling his eyes
and went and pushed it anyway

The tubers all were sore dismayed
at such repentless recklessness
with such a coarse tool as a spade
by a King Edward in a dress

They hauled him to a prison cell
they made him eat cold plates of tripe
and pick oakum, in that dark hell
where budding criminals turn ripe

and so he wrote a Book of Days
to chronicle his suffering
with stolen ink and icing glaze
amid great huffs and muttering

he wrote it all on bedding sheets
and anything that came to hand
he hid it in his trouser pleats
hoping the world would understand

an erring artist's vanity
and descent into wicked ways
the slow collapse of sanity
that gave birth to The Book of Days.




Details | Ballad | |

Yet 3 more Excerpts from The Lost Book of Tuberlantis

Retrieved Passage 6:
From The Book of Days - The Cellar


Don't send me down to the cellar
I swear I won't do it again
lest my sanity goes inter-stellar
and I beat myself senseless in vain

Don't send me down to the cellar
there are things there that scuttle and crawl
there are gnomes there that sing a capella
and an evil old troll in a shawl

There are heebies and jeebies aplenty
who leave trails of slime on the stairs
and their brains are undoubtedly empty
and their long arms have unsightly hairs

So leave me my cape and umbrella
and my half-eaten poems of woe
don't send me down to the cellar
nurse, not again, let me go!



Retrieved Passage 7:
Overboard


"Potato Overboard!"
Came the loud mid-shipman's cry
the Potato King had fallen in
we hung him out to dry
dangling from the mainsail mast
festooned with swaying weeds
it cured his hangover quite fast
it usually succeeds

"Oh Your Majesty"
said his fair queen, in dismay
the gulls had eaten both his socks
and took his wig away
he was a spud of rangy height
wall-eyed, with lantern jaw
but now he was a sorry sight
as many times before.

"Potato Overboard"
was a common cry, those days
We never cured His Majesty
of rabid dipso ways
he would fall into bouillabaise
cow troughs, and out of ships
and always buy up hard liquor
on foreign shopping trips.



Retrieved Passage 8:
The Hour of Cool is Nigh


I came to chill
I came to mellow down
I came to groove about in a yellow gown
hey man, I want to shimmy like a yak
this is the hour I have my cool attack

I came to chill
I came to croon for lurrve
I came to give coolness a helping shove
hey maestro, hit the bass and timpany
this is the funk hour, in the Name of Me

Dressed to thrill
I came to chill this town
to say "one has to get up to get down"
I came to watch the bumble bees go by
hey give it up, the Hour of Cool is nigh.


Details | Ballad | |

3 more Excerpts from The Lost Book of Tuberlantis

Retrieved Passage 3:
From The Book of Days, Sonnet 2


For Lo! I must relate this tome to you
who gather here to listen and believe
to tell the story I believe is true
before my sanity (BARK!) takes its leave.
The Spuds in Exile traversed the terrain
wearing long dresses of the fine-spun silk
all travelling by sedan car and train
with their bright ears fresh-bathed in llama milk
and (UUUURRRGGHHH!!) such necklaces as seldom seen
made of gold-plated prunes and aubergines
graced the neck-less heads of brown and green
of these arcane potato libertines.
And (WOOF!) soon you must go and leave me here
for my time of insanity is near.




Retrieved Passage 4:
A Running Transformathon


Mutation comes: hair after little spiny hair
appears on palms and small akimbo knees
and he is wont to don dark leather underwear
and mumble backwards in dour blasphemies

The beer flows, the cape swirls, the spud appears
grinning like a satyr in the dark
with twin horns standing up like stabbing tuber spears
he's poised to lope and gibber in the park

Mutation comes: the cycle goes and comes again
when the moon's bright halo lights the sky
the spud goes skinny-dancing at your window pane
and howls along with every mad dog's cry.




Retrieved Passage 5:
Revenge of The Jelly Men


I dreamed a dream,
screamed a scream,
a vocal vent of pain:
the Jelly Men are coming
to find me here again!
They are coming slow and stealthy,
they are coming with blancmange,
they are coming back to pelt me
with a stale Victoria sponge.

I see the day
fade away
to all-consuming black;
the Jelly Men are coming
in dark, deadly attack!
with their moaning and their howling
and their teeth fiercely displayed,
and their custard dogs slow-prowling
in the sleepless, shifting shade.

A sound of drums,
the tyrant comes,
on legs covered in hair!
The Jelly Men are coming
with their dark, demented stare!
I will lash them with strong cable,
I will fight them fearlessly,
I am here under the table
merely out of strategy.