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Humorous Ballad Poems | Ballad Poems About Humorous

These Humorous Ballad poems are examples of Ballad poems about Humorous. These are the best examples of Humorous Ballad 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 
lay 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. 
The 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 the foulest 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 |

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 |

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 | Ballade |

The day the loo flew

The day the loo flew.

Way back in the nineteen eighties
I was half way through my life.
When my feet grew loose and restless
And boredom caused some strife
And so we two discussed it
And decided what we’d do
We’d go and live in a little shed
With a nice old country view

We started out in a caravan
Lived there for a month or two
Then we bought a roller door shed
And rigged it up nice too
Then put a little shed outside
With a dunny for our use
Hoping that no wind would come
And blast that poor shed lose

Then one day, it happened
It was five past twelve at night
The moon was full and filled the sky
It was a pretty sight
With rain a pouring from the sky
Then I felt a need there grow
And when that need does show it’s face
One really has to go

So I rushed into that tiny shed
And pulled my trousers down
I wasn’t happy about the rain
And my face it wore a frown
But When that blast of wind occurred
And the shed began to move
The mood that I was in right then
It sure did not improve.

That wind did clutch it in it’s arms
And tossed it in the air 
That shed it sailed upon the breeze
As rain fell everywhere
And I’m sitting there in all my glory
That rain just drenching me
And all that I could do was laugh
So I did, I laughed like crazy.

8 July 2013 @ 2024hrs.
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