These Philosophy Funny poems are examples of Funny poems about Philosophy. These are the best examples of Philosophy Funny poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Like kin folk come to stay
A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids
That always get ‘n your way.
It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought,
There ain't much in-between.
You work like hell to make ’em good,
But still they’re sorta lean.
The ranch went under late last year,
The drought got mighty tough.
The boss held-out a long, long time,
But finally said, "enough!"
So here I am dispatchin’ cops
An’ watchin’ felons sleep,
In Junction, at the county jail,
A job I’ll prob’ly keep.
The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge,
Where older people stay,
A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors
To earn some ‘extra’ pay.
Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used,
It goes to payin’ rent,
An’ after all the bills are paid,
We wonder where it went.
We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps,
An' then our weddin' rings;
Then when we couldn't pay the loan,
They sold the 'dad-blamed' things.
We felt real bad a day or two
But then we let it go,
Cause it got Christmas for the kids
When money got real slow.
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Don't matter who you are;
They'll cost ya things you've set aside,
An' clean your cookie jar.
You'll loose some sleep an' worry some,
Won't pay to moan an' groan;
But hang on to your happiness,
They'll finally leave ya 'lone.
I read it from the bathroom wall.
God alone save's us one and all.
Along with other mixed obscenities like
for a good time call.
Some read rise against.
Others read Elivis was here.
God bless America communist take fear.
Its the lost and found of misspelled words
were the misfits gather do they all.
Im stuck here in a inconvertible position reading writtings from
I strain to read Robert and Beth forever.
whomever they are.
I question does this bathroom last through stormy weather.
I wonder what kind of philosopher finds solice in such a dingy
Do they comb the wall just lookin for space.
Theres traces of blood from a drunken brawl.
Im sitting in the true melting pot of the world.
Reading writtings from the bathroom wall.
This's the world of dreams and
Where I think ev'ry that reels,
After a thousands times,
would as same beliefs things
Is it a mere dream?
The world as we know it will end!
This warning the Mayans did send
But yes there's still time
After reading this rhyme
To honor Black Friday and spend
'Tis strange where we should get the notion
That poetry expressed in motion
Should within the human form reside.
When nature gives us many chances
Unpractised and ephemeral dances
Like in a muddy field when sheep collide
Truth is, that nature's not so humble
And doesn't mind the dancer's stumble
There's nothing that it ever seeks to hide
Uncaring it leaves all revealed
And is not shamed if one small field
Has crazy sheep and one long muddy slide
They're mad, they're bad, they're having fun
Those naughty sheep and every one
Is doing what convention has denied
The hillside's muddy, wet and slick
With crazy sheepies sliding quick
Down to the bottom, down where sheep collide.
Many count good nature's fare
The birdsong and the country air
Among the wonders of the countryside
But strange delight can yet be found
In woolly bodies sliding round
A simple muddy field where sheep collide.
While nature guides celestial spheres
In cosmic dances, it appears,
With majesty the earthborn are denied
Down far beneath in mud and grass
A sheep slides on its woolly a***:
A sense of fun, though not a sense of pride.
Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust
for things start to be.
I had a dream
Where all my clothes
Were in my toilet bowl
Apparently this means that
I am drenched in emotions
Which need to be released
So I wrote
Where has dad gone, momma dear?
Hush, my little lamb.
Your dad's gone to the thicket dear
And mad old Abraham
That man went early this grim morn, and took his sharpened knife
And with him took his own first born, to offer up his life
With servants and with firewood, both, they journeyed to Moriah
And on the hillside there they built an altar and a fire
And Isaac, when he heard the plan, went willingly, it's odd
That he should let that daft old man, so worship his cruel god.
Your father, he was passing by, and heard but could not see
And foolishly could not deny his curiosity
So closer did your father scramble peering through the thorns
Unaware of how the brambles tangled with his horns
Just to see a crazy man who planned to kill his kin
Your father did not understand the danger he was in
For then again that mad old man started hearing voices
His god was speaking to the loon and giving him new choices
And so his plan to slay the boy came about to falter
And Abraham, he took your pa and dragged him to the altar
But that was never fair, mama, can you tell me why
When Isaac he was all prepared and well prepared to die
And all had been decided on, so what cruel trick mama
Was played upon that grand old ram, who was my own papa?
Life is not fair, my little lamb, nor is it like to change
And fate plays tricks on all of us, both sinister and strange
So you take care, my little lamb, with this advice from me
Do not visit places where you know you should not be
The moral of this story dear, is take heed of the odds
And stay away from two-leggies worshipping their gods
not sure how she got here
only know she needs to leave
underneath the stranger
my arm numb; asleep,
mouth a desert.
a hundred dead cigarettes dance my tongue dry
princess of night
exposed by light.
get me out of this;
another dreaded morning mess.
along with my will.
I swore never again;
the lie is half the thrill.
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.