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Best Famous Humorous Poems

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

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Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Face Lift

 You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask.
The nauseous vault Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.
They've changed all that.
Traveling Nude as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift, Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous, I roll to an anteroom where a kind man Fists my fingers for me.
He makes me feel something precious Is leaking from the finger-vents.
At the count of two, Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard.
I don't know a thing.
For five days I lie in secret, Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I'm in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten.
I grow backward.
I'm twenty, Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my fingers Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle; I hadn't a cat yet.
Now she's done for, the dewlapped lady I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror— Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years, Nodding and rocking and fingering her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze, Pink and smooth as a baby.

Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Kings Must Die

 Alphonso Rex who died in Rome
Was quite a fistful as a kid;
For when I visited his home,
That gorgeous palace in Madrid,
The grinning guide-chap showed me where
He rode his bronco up the stair.
That stairway grand of marbled might, The most majestic in the land, In statured splendour, flight on flight, He urged his steed with whip in hand.
No lackey could restrain him for He gained the gilded corridor.
He burst into the Royal suite, And like a cowboy whooped with glee; Dodging the charger's flying feet The Chamberlain was shocked to see: Imagine how it must have been a Grief to Mother Queen Christina! And so through sheer magnificence I roamed from stately room to room, Yet haunted ever by the sense Of tragical dynastic doom.
The walls were wailing: Kings must die, Being plain blokes like you and I.
Well, here's the moral to my rhyme: When memories more worthy fade We find that whimsically Time Conserves some crazy escapade.
So as I left I stood to stare With humorous enjoyment where Alphonso crashed the Palace stair.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

The Bight

 [On my birthday]

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed, the water in the bight doesn't wet anything, the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize.
Pelicans crash into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard, it seems to me, like pickaxes, rarely coming up with anything to show for it, and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar on impalpable drafts and open their tails like scissors on the curves or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in with the obliging air of retrievers, bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock where, glinting like little plowshares, the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in, and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm, like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Goes the dredge, and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues, awful but cheerful.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

The Height of the Ridiculous

 I WROTE some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so *****, so very *****, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb.
"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added, (as a trifling jest,) "There'll be the devil to pay.
" He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Three Wives

 Said Jones: "I'm glad my wife's not clever;
Her intellect is second-rate.
If she was witty she would never Give me a chance to scintillate; But cap my humorous endeavour And make me seem as addle-pate.
" Said Smith: "I'm glad my wife's no beauty, For if a siren's charm she had, And stinted her domestic duty, I fear that she would drive me mad: For I am one of those sad fellows Who are unreasonably jealous.
" Said Brown: ""I know my wife's not witty, Nor is she very long on looks; She's neither humorous nor pretty, But oh how she divinely cooks! You guys must come some night to dinner - You'll see my little girl's a winner.
" So it's important in our lives, (Exaggerating more or less), To be content with our wives, And prize the virtues they possess; And with dispraise to turn one's back On all the qualities they lack.

Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

Blanche Sweet


(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water.
") Beauty has a throne-room In our humorous town, Spoiling its hob-goblins, Laughing shadows down.
Rank musicians torture Ragtime ballads vile, But we walk serenely Down the odorous aisle.
We forgive the squalor And the boom and squeal For the Great Queen flashes From the moving reel.
Just a prim blonde stranger In her early day, Hiding brilliant weapons, Too averse to play, Then she burst upon us Dancing through the night.
Oh, her maiden radiance, Veils and roses white.
With new powers, yet cautious, Not too smart or skilled, That first flash of dancing Wrought the thing she willed:— Mobs of us made noble By her strong desire, By her white, uplifting, Royal romance-fire.
Though the tin piano Snarls its tango rude, Though the chairs are shaky And the dramas crude, Solemn are her motions, Stately are her wiles, Filling oafs with wisdom, Saving souls with smiles; 'Mid the restless actors She is rich and slow.
She will stand like marble, She will pause and glow, Though the film is twitching, Keep a peaceful reign, Ruler of her passion, Ruler of our pain!
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 04: Illicit

 Of what she said to me that night—no matter.
The strange thing came next day.
My brain was full of music—something she played me—; I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, Urging to restlessness: verging on grief.
I tried to play the tune, from memory,— But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed And found no resolution—only hung there, And left me morbid .
Where, then, had I heard it? .
What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? 'Dust', it said, 'dust .
and dust .
and sunlight .
A cold clear April evening .
snow, bedraggled, Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass .
And someone walking alone; and someone saying That all must end, for the time had come to go .
' These were the phrases .
but behind, beneath them A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow I stood and guessed .
Was it the blue-eyed lady? The one who always danced in golden slippers— And had I danced with her,—upon this music? Or was it further back—the unplumbed twilight Of childhood?—No—much recenter than that.
You know, without my telling you, how sometimes A word or name eludes you, and you seek it Through running ghosts of shadow,—leaping at it, Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, You hear it, see it flash among the branches, And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it— Well, it was so I followed down this music, Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars—; Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, The thing resolved itself: and I remembered An April afternoon, eight years ago— Or was it nine?—no matter—call it nine— A room in which the last of sunlight faded; A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; And, she who played the same thing later, playing.
She played this tune.
And in the middle of it Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands Fall in her lap.
She sat there so a moment, With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.
'You know—we've got to end this—Miriam loves you .
If she should ever know, or even guess it,— What would she do?—Listen!—I'm not absurd .
I'm sure of it.
If you had eyes, for women— To understand them—which you've never had— You'd know it too .
' So went this colloquy, Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, Half grave, half flippant .
while her fingers, softly, Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure .
Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness That she could neither break it—nor conclude? It paused .
and wandered .
paused again; while she, Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,— Half asked me if I thought I ought to go .
Well, April passed with many other evenings, Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, With violets always there, and fragrant curtains .
And she was right: and Miriam found it out .
And after that, when eight deep years had passed— Or nine—we met once more,—by accident .
But was it just by accident, I wonder, She played this tune?—Or what, then, was intended? .
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem


 I want a true history of my city



And all his descendants

With their particular vilenesses -

I met one in the sixties

Who had all the coldness of Himmler

So svelte and adored by the cognoscenti.
I want a history responsive To the needs of the working-class One that will minute the back-to-backs Spread over the city like a seamless robe SO **** CUTHBERT BRODERICK’S TOWN HALL BRIDEWELL AND MAGISTRACY.
I want a history of the culture Of the working class and not Hoggart’s slimy gone-up-in-the-world Jabber for the curious bourgeoisie He was especially maladroit On working-class sexuality A voyeur picking humorous moments To show the ignorance of the class He sprang from.
“Anything was an occasion” - Or did he mean ‘excuse’? - “for intercourse, Even a visit to the chip-shop”.
O for the gentleness And the quiet intimacy And joyful spontaneity Of working-class sexuality Reading Shelley’s ‘Defence of Poetry’ Sitting on a bus by a girl who, smiling, said, “I told Jack if he was finished with me He wasn’t having any but he pulled me Into the bushes laughing all the way So what could I say?” I want a history of the warmth Of working-class mothers Explaining the mysteries of periods.
To their adolescent daughters and the Revelations of working-class brides.
I want a history of family outings To Temple Newsam where I saw an *** Eating straw from the steel manger Of Christ.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Russian Sonia

 I, born in Weimar
Of a mother who was French
And German father, a most learned professor,
Orphaned at fourteen years,
Became a dancer, known as Russian Sonia,
All up and down the boulevards of Paris,
Mistress betimes of sundry dukes and counts,
And later of poor artists and of poets.
At forty years, passée, I sought New York And met old Patrick Hummer on the boat, Red-faced and hale, though turned his sixtieth year, Returning after having sold a ship-load Of cattle in the German city, Hamburg.
He brought me to Spoon River and we lived here For twenty years -- they thought that we were married! This oak tree near me is the favorite haunt Of blue jays chattering, chattering all the day.
And why not? for my very dust is laughing For thinking of the humorous thing called life.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

In Memory Of Alfred Pollexfen

 Five-and-twenty years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid In that tomb by him and her His son George, the astrologer; And Masons drove from miles away To scatter the Acacia spray Upon a melancholy man Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies Far from the customary skies, The Mall and Eades's grammar school, In London or in Liverpool; But where is laid the sailor John That so many lands had known, Quiet lands or unquiet seas Where the Indians trade or Japanese? He never found his rest ashore, Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John? And yesterday the youngest son, A humorous, unambitious man, Was buried near the astrologer, Yesterday in the tenth year Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng, Decided he would journey home, Now that his fiftieth year had come, And 'Mr.
Alfred' be again Upon the lips of common men Who carried in their memory His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard A visionary white sea-bird Lamenting that a man should die; And with that cry I have raised my cry.