Long Funnier Poems
Long Funnier Poems. Below are the most popular long Funnier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Funnier poems by poem length and keyword.
There's nothing funnier than a cross-eyed chicken
With legs the size of your arm
Kentucky Fried Chicken would sure love to know
The name of this progressive farm
Aside from the unnerving cross-eyed feature
The implications are immense
Imagine a leg on your plate so big
You wouldn't know where to commence
The cross-eyed feature might cause some concern
If the patrons viewed this poor old bird
Before it was rendered suitable for your gullet
It looked hilariously absurd
The cross eyes were caused by trying to eject
A super sized extra large egg
Probably gave the poor bird a hernia
Before passing it, for mercy it begged
Such is the way of us civilized humans
Thinking of our bellies all day
Paying no attention to these cross-eyed chickens
Trying not to end up on our plate
© Jack Ellison 2014
Her name was Griselda, and she was a sassy, super confident witch.
She could perform magic potion that threw prissy snakes into a ditch.
Her ideas were monumental, super fantastic, funnier than any of mine.
She taught me so many crazy things, I was in trouble lots of the time.
When mother was around, Griselda got scarce, so she never did see.
A blotchy mess of ketchup on the ceiling? Mom always blamed me.
Griselda’s laugh was full throttled, with a little of a donkey’s heehaw.
She'd come back when the door shut and ask, “Do you think she saw?"
Could never get mad at her; she had a charisma that knocked me flat.
About five foot seven, skinny, with red curls that were amazingly fat.
Her face covered in freckles, and a smile that made it impossible for me
To get upset with Griselda no matter how much trouble she would be.
Popping in and out daily many times from when I was five to six.
We played pranks on my brother, who demanded our spells we un-fix.
At four he was terrified of Griselda and me, when we got all wound up.
We'd conjure magic like mad, using it on my brother and our black pup.
The pup Beauregard always knew when Griselda was in the house.
He would tiptoe away more quietly than the tiniest scared little mouse.
After my sixth birthday party, I am very disappointed and sad to say
Griselda faded away and I have not seen her even one more tiny day.
Santa is the grandfather of all children,
he lets them sit on his leg and tells them many stories;
if they are sad, he laughs hard and promises them toys:
they think is funnier than a circus clown!
Santa knows that some of them won't have a Merry Christmas
without a mom and dad who can buy them presents;
others are ill and need love more than dolls and trains
and for them he's got some special to make them smile for hours:
a sleight ride to the North Pole while reindeers wiggle their tails...
over towns, over clouds they fly to reach the land of Polar bears!
Santa is the grandfather of all children, they are the reason of his cheer
and he understands them regardless of their native language;
they hold hands and dance around him singing, " Jingle Bells. "
How happy and proud he seems for that wonderful and precious patronage:
the innocence of the little ones who can and will build a world without fear!
We can be like them by putting our differences aside and be true friends!
Freckles fall from Tatters downtrodden countenance.
They fell like snow onto his chest below. Only one
landed on his nose, Rudolph-proud. He shared
Bozo’s hair - orange and red - a frenetic flair. Face
is narrow, pale - with blue eyes - used to be
pie in the sky blueberry…now Tatters is just blue.
Lips, thin and pink; eyebrows like charcoal crows.
Tatters donned his clown suit when he was twenty-one,
after he downed his first whiskey at the circus. A drunken
clown - is there any other - aren’t they funnier? Audience
applauds when he attempts a unicycle and when he rides
pink elephants. Now twenty-five he longs to shed
his jaundice billow of ruffles chained about his neck.
He will! He did! But alas it is too late. He’s not nearly
as funny…his elephant’s gray, but…
he still falls off his seat -
the crowd applauds at his insane antics
when he tumbles from the unicycle.
Only the redhead teen, with freckles,
sees a tattered-tear splashdown in the big tent.
Her sensitive hands will speak
as she depicts his suffering in indelible ink.
The clown gains serious applause - after all
his life’s framed in the teen’s blueberry eyes.
1/5/2023
I was going to jump on the bed at midnight
While she slept to wish her a happy birthday.
But she looked so asleep and it was so quiet.
I did it anyway because it's funnier to go through with it.
It's not like I'm throwing a nerf ball at her head.
So I get my knees on the bed and hop up-and-down
And "whisper-yell," "happy birthday happy birthday."
And she's not upset, in fact, she's giggling.
And she whispers to me that she loves me.
I whisper to her that I love her, too.
And I leave the room with the bed
I just jumped and sang on.
And I'm 32.
I mean it's not like I fell off the bed
While jumping and hurt my head.
And made an owie.
I'm not 5.
There's nothing funnier than a cross-eyed chicken
With legs the size of your arm
The Chicken Emporiums would sure love to know
The name of this progressive farm
Aside from the unnerving cross-eyed feature
The implications are really immense
Imagine a leg on your plate so humongous
You wouldn't know where to commence
The cross-eyed feature might cause some concern
If the patrons viewed this poor old bird
Before it was rendered suitable for your gullet
It sure looked hilariously absurd
The cross eyes were caused by trying to eject
A super sized extra large egg
Probably gave the poor brave bird a hernia
Before passing it, for mercy it begged
Such is the way of us civilized humans
Thinking of our bellies all day
Paying no attention to these cross-eyed chickens
As they dance to the hen house ballet
© Jack Ellison 2015
There's nothing funnier than cross-eyed chickens
With legs the size of your arm
Kentucky Fried Chicken would sure love to know
The name of this progressive farm
Aside from the unnerving cross-eyed feature
The implications are immense
Imagine a leg on your plate so big
You wouldn't know where to commence
The cross-eyed feature might cause some concern
If the patrons viewed this poor bird
Before it was rendered suitable for your gullet
It sure looked totally absurd
The cross eyes were caused by trying to eject
A super sized extra large egg
Probably gave the poor bird a hernia
Before passing for mercy it begged
Such is the way of us civilized humans
Always thinking of our bellies all day
Paying no attention to these cross-eyed chickens
Just trying not to end up on our plate
©Jack Ellison 2012
If I was gone people would pretend they knew me
They would come to the house and annoy my husband.
He would keep the door locked and not let them in
The dog would bark her disapproval.
If I was gone they would tell jokes about me.
They would embellish the truth, so it would be funnier.
I would be sitting in the eaves, listening,
so I could correct them if any of us got to heaven.
If I was gone they would tear my house apart.
They would burn all of my paintings.
They would dance and sing around the bonfire.
They would debate cleaning my house.
If I was gone I would not care.
I would turn my back on this world
And go tromping into the next one
Or the next life, for I do not think any of us
Is ever truly gone.
(On the morning of February 25, 1983, the great dramatist
Tennessee Williams was found dead in a New York hotel suite.
He had choked on the plastic cap of his eyedrops bottle, which
he habitually held in his mouth when applying the eyedrops.
The alcohol and pills he'd consumed suppressed his gag response.
This poem is (we are asked to imagine) the last thing he wrote,
a flurry of notes scribbled on hotel stationery.)
Why don’t I just go out and meet some bum?
for I confound hell in Elysium.
Romantic anonymity, just like
you’re lost out in the rain, Ciudad Juarez …
No human thing disgusts me, if it’s not
unkind, or violent.
I feel good, now.
I’m jacked up, and I’ve got my Seconal wind.
Where are you, Merlo? I’ve spent too much time
alone. We make decisions - is it will?
Well, character is fate. (Those eye drops. Damn,
where are they?) Walking out on Mom and Rose
was something which, although it had to be,
required a holy selfishness of me
that was spectacular.
The Rose Tattoo.
The only thing I wanted was to love –
was that too much to ask? Somebody’s Stella –
Stella for star. We muse too much on cruelty.
The pain’s no bane, so long as there is love.
Who cares what people say, after you’re gone?
I just wish I’d been lighter, funnier.
Camino, Orpheus, Sweet Bird of Youth:
they’re all so miserable – I’m not like that.
I think I’ll do a comedy named “Playwrights Dead”.
They always seem to go in silly ways!
There’s Hasek, Aeschylus and Ottoway,
and Orton, too. And Marlowe, most of all.
I need an epigraph that’s frivolous,
ironic, ludicrous, nonsensical.
(Ah, found my drops.)
In spite of all life’s dangers
If “proud”’s allowed, two things above the crowd
still clamor loud. I love the Texas Rangers,
and casual kindness, meted out by strangers.
When they died,
it was not only a heart that stopped,
nor merely a voice that fell silent.
A library burned.
Not the kind of library?built from stone and timber,
with catalogues and numbered shelves,
but one assembled slowly
from years of seeing, wondering,
remembering.
Whole aisles vanished at once.
The exact shade of evening
on a childhood road.
The joke that grew funnier
with every retelling.
The face of a friend
whose name no one else could recall.
The lessons learned from mistakes
never written down.
Volumes collapsed into ash.
There were books on grief
annotated by survival.
Books on love
dog-eared by devotion.
Books on ordinary days
that seemed forgettable
until no one remained
who remembered them.
Some shelves held facts:
birthdays,
addresses,
recipes,
directions.
Others held things
for which no language exists—
a mother's glance,
the weight of a hand on a shoulder,
the private meaning of a shared silence.
And though a few books
had been copied,
lent out,
quoted to others,
most existed nowhere else.
Now the doors are closed.
The lamps are dark.
Dust settles where stories once stood.
We gather what fragments remain:
a sentence remembered,
a photograph,
a habit inherited,
a tale told secondhand.
Yet we know that countless
volumes are gone forever.
For every person who dies
takes with them a collection
that can never be rebuilt—
a singular archive
of a singular life.
And so we mourn not only the one who left,
but the unwritten histories,
the unshared wisdom,
the irreplaceable library
that disappeared with them.
~Johnny Adicks
2026.06
Inspired by what my wife Cindi said, “When a person dies, that library of knowledge dies with them”.