Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Hilarious Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Hilarious poems. This is a select list of the best famous Hilarious poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Hilarious poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of hilarious poems.

Search for the best famous Hilarious poems, articles about Hilarious poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Hilarious poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...



Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

Spiders

 Is the spider a monster in miniature?
His web is a cruel stair, to be sure,
Designed artfully, cunningly placed,
A delicate trap, carefully spun
To bind the fly (innocent or unaware)
In a net as strong as a chain or a gun.
There are far more spiders than the man in the street supposes And the philosopher-king imagines, let alone knows! There are six hundred kinds of spiders and each one Differs in kind and in unkindness.
In variety of behavior spiders are unrivalled: The fat garden spider sits motionless, amidst or at the heart Of the orb of its web: other kinds run, Scuttling across the floor, falling into bathtubs, Trapped in the path of its own wrath, by overconfidence drowned and undone.
Other kinds - more and more kinds under the stars and the sun - Are carnivores: all are relentless, ruthless Enemies of insects.
Their methods of getting food Are unconventional, numerous, various and sometimes hilarious: Some spiders spin webs as beautiful As Japanese drawings, intricate as clocks, strong as rocks: Others construct traps which consist only Of two sticky and tricky threads.
Yet this ambush is enough To bind and chain a crawling ant for long enough: The famished spider feels the vibration Which transforms patience into sensation and satiation.
The handsome wolf spider moves suddenly freely and relies Upon lightning suddenness, stealth and surprise, Possessing accurate eyes, pouncing upon his victim with the speed of surmise.
Courtship is dangerous: there are just as many elaborate and endless techniques and varieties As characterize the wooing of more analytic, more introspective beings: Sometimes the male Arrives with the gift of a freshly caught fly.
Sometimes he ties down the female, when she is frail, With deft strokes and quick maneuvres and threads of silk: But courtship and wooing, whatever their form, are informed By extreme caution, prudence, and calculation, For the female spider, lazier and fiercer than the male suitor, May make a meal of him if she does not feel in the same mood, or if her appetite Consumes her far more than the revelation of love's consummation.
Here among spiders, as in the higher forms of nature, The male runs a terrifying risk when he goes seeking for the bounty of beautiful Alma Magna Mater: Yet clearly and truly he must seek and find his mate and match like every other living creature!
Written by John Ashbery | Create an image from this poem

Into the Dusk-Charged Air

 Far from the Rappahannock, the silent
Danube moves along toward the sea.
The brown and green Nile rolls slowly Like the Niagara's welling descent.
Tractors stood on the green banks of the Loire Near where it joined the Cher.
The St.
Lawrence prods among black stones And mud.
But the Arno is all stones.
Wind ruffles the Hudson's Surface.
The Irawaddy is overflowing.
But the yellowish, gray Tiber Is contained within steep banks.
The Isar Flows too fast to swim in, the Jordan's water Courses over the flat land.
The Allegheny and its boats Were dark blue.
The Moskowa is Gray boats.
The Amstel flows slowly.
Leaves fall into the Connecticut as it passes Underneath.
The Liffey is full of sewage, Like the Seine, but unlike The brownish-yellow Dordogne.
Mountains hem in the Colorado And the Oder is very deep, almost As deep as the Congo is wide.
The plain banks of the Neva are Gray.
The dark Saône flows silently.
And the Volga is long and wide As it flows across the brownish land.
The Ebro Is blue, and slow.
The Shannon flows Swiftly between its banks.
The Mississippi Is one of the world's longest rivers, like the Amazon.
It has the Missouri for a tributary.
The Harlem flows amid factories And buildings.
The Nelson is in Canada, Flowing.
Through hard banks the Dubawnt Forces its way.
People walk near the Trent.
The landscape around the Mohawk stretches away; The Rubicon is merely a brook.
In winter the Main Surges; the Rhine sings its eternal song.
The Rhône slogs along through whitish banks And the Rio Grande spins tales of the past.
The Loir bursts its frozen shackles But the Moldau's wet mud ensnares it.
The East catches the light.
Near the Escaut the noise of factories echoes And the sinuous Humboldt gurgles wildly.
The Po too flows, and the many-colored Thames.
Into the Atlantic Ocean Pours the Garonne.
Few ships navigate On the Housatonic, but quite a few can be seen On the Elbe.
For centuries The Afton has flowed.
If the Rio Negro Could abandon its song, and the Magdalena The jungle flowers, the Tagus Would still flow serenely, and the Ohio Abrade its slate banks.
The tan Euphrates would Sidle silently across the world.
The Yukon Was choked with ice, but the Susquehanna still pushed Bravely along.
The Dee caught the day's last flares Like the Pilcomayo's carrion rose.
The Peace offered eternal fragrance Perhaps, but the Mackenzie churned livid mud Like tan chalk-marks.
Near where The Brahmaputra slapped swollen dikes And the Pechora? The São Francisco Skulks amid gray, rubbery nettles.
The Liard's Reflexes are slow, and the Arkansas erodes Anthracite hummocks.
The Paraná stinks.
The Ottawa is light emerald green Among grays.
Better that the Indus fade In steaming sands! Let the Brazos Freeze solid! And the Wabash turn to a leaden Cinder of ice! The Marañón is too tepid, we must Find a way to freeze it hard.
The Ural Is freezing slowly in the blasts.
The black Yonne Congeals nicely.
And the Petit-Morin Curls up on the solid earth.
The Inn Does not remember better times, and the Merrimack's Galvanized.
The Ganges is liquid snow by now; The Vyatka's ice-gray.
The once-molten Tennessee s Curdled.
The Japurá is a pack of ice.
Gelid The Columbia's gray loam banks.
The Don's merely A giant icicle.
The Niger freezes, slowly.
The interminable Lena plods on But the Purus' mercurial waters are icy, grim With cold.
The Loing is choked with fragments of ice.
The Weser is frozen, like liquid air.
And so is the Kama.
And the beige, thickly flowing Tocantins.
The rivers bask in the cold.
The stern Uruguay chafes its banks, A mass of ice.
The Hooghly is solid Ice.
The Adour is silent, motionless.
The lovely Tigris is nothing but scratchy ice Like the Yellowstone, with its osier-clustered banks.
The Mekong is beginning to thaw out a little And the Donets gurgles beneath the Huge blocks of ice.
The Manzanares gushes free.
The Illinois darts through the sunny air again.
But the Dnieper is still ice-bound.
Somewhere The Salado propels irs floes, but the Roosevelt's Frozen.
The Oka is frozen solider Than the Somme.
The Minho slumbers In winter, nor does the Snake Remember August.
Hilarious, the Canadian Is solid ice.
The Madeira slavers Across the thawing fields, and the Plata laughs.
The Dvina soaks up the snow.
The Sava's Temperature is above freezing.
The Avon Carols noiselessly.
The Drôme presses Grass banks; the Adige's frozen Surface is like gray pebbles.
Birds circle the Ticino.
In winter The Var was dark blue, unfrozen.
The Thwaite, cold, is choked with sandy ice; The Ardèche glistens feebly through the freezing rain.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK

 Welcome, my old friend,
Welcome to a foreign fireside,
While the sullen gales of autumn
Shake the windows.
The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee.
There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse.
Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn.
Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus.
Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic,-- When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight.
Thou recallest bards, Who in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages.
Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer.
Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings.
Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties.
Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;-- Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them.
Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.
And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom,-- Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel.
Written by Wilfred Owen | Create an image from this poem

Mental Cases

 Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain, -- but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
Misery swelters.
Surely we have perished Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish? -- These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders, Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them, Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, Carnage incomparable and human squander Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented Back into their brains, because on their sense Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black; Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh -- Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
-- Thus their hands are plucking at each other; Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; Snatching after us who smote them, brother, Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Duties of an Aide-de-camp

 Oh, some folk think vice-royalty is festive and hilarious, 
The duties of an A.
D.
C.
are manifold and various, So listen, whilst I tell in song The duties of an aide-de-cong.
Whatsoever betide To the Governor's side We must stick -- or the public would eat him -- For each bounder we see Says, "Just introduce me To His Lordship -- I'm anxious to meet him.
" Then they grab at his paw And they chatter and jaw Till they'd talk him to death -- if we'd let 'em -- And the folk he has met, They are all in a fret, Just for fear he might chance to forget 'em.
When some local King Billy Is talking him silly, Or the pound-keeper's wife has waylaid him, From folks of that stamp When he has to decamp -- We're his aides to decamp -- so we aid him.
Then some feminine beauty Will come and salute ye, She may be a Miss or a Madam, Or a man comes in view, Bails you up, "How de do!" And you don't know the fellow from Adam! But you've got to keep sweet With each man that you meet, And a trifle like this mustn't bar you, So you clutch at his fin, And you say, with a grin, "Oh, delighted to see you -- how are you?" Then we do country shows Where some prize-taker blows Of his pig -- a great, vast forty-stoner -- "See, my Lord! ain't he fine! How is that for a swine!" When it isn't a patch on its owner! We fix up the dinners For parsons and sinners And lawyers and bishops and showmen, And a judge of the court We put next to a "sport", And an Orangeman next to a Roman.
We send invitations To all celebrations, Some Nobody's presence entreating, And the old folks of all We invite to a ball, And the young -- to a grandmothers' meeting.
And when we go dancing, Like cart-horses prancing, We plunge where the people are thickenkn'; And each gay local swell Thinks it's "off" to dance well, So he copies our style -- ain't it sickenin'! Then at banquets we dine And swig cheap, nasty wine, But the poor aide-de-camp mustn't funk it -- And they call it champagne, But we're free to maintain That he feels real pain when he's drunk it.
Then our horses bestriding We go out a-riding Lest our health by confinement we'd injure; You can notice the glare Of the Governor's hair When the little boys say, "Go it, Ginger!" Then some wandering lords -- They so often are frauds -- This out-of-way country invading, If a man dresses well And behaves like a swell, Then he's somebody's cook masquerading.
But an out-an-out *** With a thirst for the glass And the symptoms of drink on his "boko", Who is perpetually Pursuing the ballet, He is always the "true Orinoco".
We must slave with our quills -- Keep the cash -- pay the bills -- Keep account of the liquor and victuals -- So I think you'll agree That the gay A.
D.
C.
Has a life that's not all beer and skittles!
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

The Rhyme of the Three Greybeards

 He'd been for years in Sydney "a-acting of the goat", 
His name was Joseph Swallow, "the Great Australian Pote", 
In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote.
And so his friends held meetings (Oh, narrow souls were theirs!) To advertise their little selves and Joseph's own affairs.
They got up a collection for Joseph unawares.
They looked up his connections and rivals by the score – The wife who had divorced him some twenty years before, And several politicians he'd made feel very sore.
They sent him down to Coolan, a long train ride from here, Because of his grey hairs and "pomes" and painted blondes – and beer.
(I mean to say the painted blondes would always give him beer.
) (They loved him for his eyes were dark, and you must not condemn The love for opposites that mark the everlasting fem.
Besides, he "made up" little bits of poetry for them.
) They sent him "for his own sake", but not for that alone – A poet's sins are public; his sorrows are his own.
And poets' friends have skins like hides, and mostly hearts of stone.
They said "We'll send some money and you must use your pen.
"So long," they said.
"Adoo!" they said.
"And don't come back again.
Well, stay at least a twelve-month – we might be dead by then.
" Two greybeards down at Coolan – familiar grins they had – They took delivery of the goods, and also of the bad.
(Some bread and meat had come by train – Joe Swallow was the bad.
) They'd met him shearing west o' Bourke in some forgotten year.
They introduced him to the town and pints of Wagga beer.
(And Wagga pints are very good –- I wish I had some here.
) It was the Busy Bee Hotel where no one worked at all, Except perhaps to cook the grub and clean the rooms and "hall".
The usual half-wit yardman worked at each one's beck and call.
'Twas "Drink it down!" and "Fillemup!" and "If the pub goes dry, There's one just two-mile down the road, and more in Gundagai" – Where married folk by accident get poison in the pie.
The train comes in at eight o'clock – or half-past, I forget, And when the dinner table at the Busy Bee was set, Upon the long verandah stool the beards were wagging yet.
They talked of where they hadn't been and what they hadn't won; They talked of mostly everything that's known beneath the sun.
The things they didn't talk about were big things they had done.
They talked of what they called to mind, and couldn't call to mind; They talked of men who saw too far and people who were "blind".
Tradition says that Joe's grey beard wagged not so far behind.
They got a horse and sulky and a riding horse as well, And after three o'clock they left the Busy Bee Hotel – In case two missuses should send from homes where they did dwell.
No barber bides in Coolan, no baker bakes the bread; And every local industry, save rabbitin', is dead – And choppin' wood.
The women do all that, be it said.
(I'll add a line and mention that two-up goes ahead.
) The shadows from the sinking sun were long by hill and scrub; The two-up school had just begun, in spite of beer and grub; But three greybeards were wagging yet down at the Two-mile pub.
A full, round, placid summer moon was floating in the sky; They took a demijohn of beer, in case they should go dry; And three greybeards went wagging down the road to Gundagai.
At Gundagai next morning (which poets call "th' morn") The greybeards sought a doctor – a friend of the forlorn – Whose name is as an angel's who sometimes blows a horn.
And Doctor Gabriel fixed 'em up, but 'twas not in the bar.
It wasn't rum or whisky, nor yet was it Three Star.
'Twas mixed up in a chemist's shop, and swifter stuff by far.
They went out to the backyard (to make my meaning plain); The doctor's stuff wrought mightily, but by no means in vain.
Then they could eat their breakfasts and drink their beer again.
They made a bond between the three, as rock against the wave, That they'd go to the barber's shop and each have a clean shave, To show the people how they looked when they were young and brave.
They had the shave and bought three suits (and startling suits in sooth), And three white shirts and three red ties (to tell the awful truth), To show the people how they looked in their hilarious youth.
They burnt their old clothes in the yard, and their old hats as well; The publican kicked up a row because they made a smell.
They put on bran'-new "larstin'-sides" – and, oh, they looked a yell! Next morning, or the next (or next), from demon-haunted beds, And very far from feeling like what sporting men call "peds", The three rode back without their beards, with "boxers" on their heads! They tried to get Joe lodgings at the Busy Bee in vain; They did not take him to their homes, they took him to the train; They sent him back to Sydney till grey beards grew again.
They sent him back to Sydney to keep away a year; Because of shaven beards and wives they thought him safer here.
And so he cut his friends and stuck to powdered blondes and beer.
Until the finish came at last, as 'twill to any "bloke"; But in Joe's case it chanced to be a paralytic stroke; The soft heart of a powdered blonde was, as she put it, "broke".
She sought Joe in the hospital and took the choicest food; She went there very modestly and in a chastened mood, And timid and respectful-like – because she was no good.
She sat the death-watch out alone on the verandah dim; And after all was past and gone she dried her eyes abrim, And sought the head-nurse timidly, and asked "May I see him?" And then she went back to her bar, where she'd not been for weeks, To practise there her barmaid's smile and mend and patch the streaks The only real tears for Joe had left upon her cheeks
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Shakespeare And Cervantes

 Obit 23rd April 1616

Is it not strange that on this common date,
Two titans of their age, aye of all Time,
Together should renounce this mortal state,
And rise like gods, unsullied and sublime?
Should mutually render up the ghost,
And hand n hand join Jove's celestial host?

What wondrous welcome from the scribes on high!
Homer and Virgil would be waiting there;
Plato and Aristotle standing nigh;
Petrarch and Dante greet the peerless pair:
And as in harmony they make their bow,
Horace might quip: "Great timing, you'll allow.
" Imagine this transcendant team arrive At some hilarious banquet of the gods! Their nations battled when they were alive, And they were bitter foes - but what's the odd? Actor and soldier, happy hand in hand, By death close-linked, like loving brothers stand.
But how diverse! Our Will had gold and gear, Chattels and land, the starshine of success; The bleak Castilian fought with casque and spear, Passing his life in prisons - more or less.
The Bard of Avon was accounted rich; Cervantes often bedded in a ditch.
Yet when I slough this flesh, if I could meet By sweet, fantastic fate one of these two, In languorous Elysian retreat, Which would I choose? Fair reader, which would you? Well, though our William more divinely wrote, By gad! the lousy Spaniard has my vote.