(this post is copied from Falstaff's blog - http://2x3x7.blogspot.com/2011/03/pessimisms-ghost.html)
It takes a particular kind of despair
To see the glass half emptied of air.
Comments : Tongue-in-cheek, and concise - Just delicious. Started grinning when I read it. - Zen
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Sunday, February 14, 2010
One Old Oxford Ox
By Anonymous
One old Oxford ox opening oysters;
Two tee-totums totally tired of trying to trot to Tadbury;
Three tall tigers tippling tenpenny tea;
Four fat friars fanning fainting flies;
Five frippy Frenchmen foolishly fishing for flies;
Six sportsmen shooting snipes;
Seven Severn salmons swallowing shrimps;
Eight Englishmen eagerly examining Europe;
Nine nimble noblemen nibbling nonpareils;
Ten tinkers tinkling upon ten tin tinder-boxes with ten tenpenny tacks;
Eleven elephants elegantly equipt;
Twelve typographical typographers typically translating types.
Comments : Alliteration Allowed to run Amok is not Always Awesome ! - Zen
One old Oxford ox opening oysters;
Two tee-totums totally tired of trying to trot to Tadbury;
Three tall tigers tippling tenpenny tea;
Four fat friars fanning fainting flies;
Five frippy Frenchmen foolishly fishing for flies;
Six sportsmen shooting snipes;
Seven Severn salmons swallowing shrimps;
Eight Englishmen eagerly examining Europe;
Nine nimble noblemen nibbling nonpareils;
Ten tinkers tinkling upon ten tin tinder-boxes with ten tenpenny tacks;
Eleven elephants elegantly equipt;
Twelve typographical typographers typically translating types.
Comments : Alliteration Allowed to run Amok is not Always Awesome ! - Zen
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His
By Sir Philip Sidney
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driv'n.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight:
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still me thought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true love hath my heart and I have his.
By Wendy Cope
My true love hath my heart and I have hers
We swapped last Tuesday and felt quite elated
But now whenever one of us refers
To 'my heart' things get rather complicated.
Comments : You did not seriously think I was going to post only the soppy Sir Philip Sidney poem, did you ? Isn't Wendy Cope's wry take on it refreshing ? Not to mention, sensible ! - Zen
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driv'n.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight:
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still me thought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true love hath my heart and I have his.
By Wendy Cope
My true love hath my heart and I have hers
We swapped last Tuesday and felt quite elated
But now whenever one of us refers
To 'my heart' things get rather complicated.
Comments : You did not seriously think I was going to post only the soppy Sir Philip Sidney poem, did you ? Isn't Wendy Cope's wry take on it refreshing ? Not to mention, sensible ! - Zen
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
To a Greedy Lover
By Norman Cameron
What is this recompense you’d have from me ?
Melville asked no compassion of the sea.
Roll to and fro, forgotten in my wrack,
Love as you please – I owe you nothing back.
Comments : A hilarious poem, I love the way Herman Melville and the sea are woven into this crisp declaration. - Zen
What is this recompense you’d have from me ?
Melville asked no compassion of the sea.
Roll to and fro, forgotten in my wrack,
Love as you please – I owe you nothing back.
Comments : A hilarious poem, I love the way Herman Melville and the sea are woven into this crisp declaration. - Zen
Friday, November 20, 2009
All Things Dull and Ugly
All things dull and ugly
All creatures short and squat
All things rude and nasty
The Lord God made the lot
Each little snake that poisons
Each little wasp that stings
He made their brutish venom
He made their horrid wings
All things sick and cancerous
All evil great and small
All things foul and dangerous
The Lord God made them all
Each nasty little hornet
Each beastly little squid
Who made the spiky urchin?
Who made the sharks? He did
All things scabbed and ulcerous
All pox both great and small
Putrid, foul and gangrenous
The Lord God made them all.
Amen.
Comments : Thanks JS for the poem. Here are the comments on the poem from J’s blog :
The second poem I came across was in Richard Dawkins' The Greatest Show on Earth. (Who knew, the guy has a sense of humor too.) Dawkins of course is an evolutionary biologist, and by definition, a disbeliever of creationist dogma. He is also an avowed and outspoken atheist. All of which is useful in understanding his quoting of this poem below in his latest book on the evidence for evolution.
All creatures short and squat
All things rude and nasty
The Lord God made the lot
Each little snake that poisons
Each little wasp that stings
He made their brutish venom
He made their horrid wings
All things sick and cancerous
All evil great and small
All things foul and dangerous
The Lord God made them all
Each nasty little hornet
Each beastly little squid
Who made the spiky urchin?
Who made the sharks? He did
All things scabbed and ulcerous
All pox both great and small
Putrid, foul and gangrenous
The Lord God made them all.
Amen.
Comments : Thanks JS for the poem. Here are the comments on the poem from J’s blog :
The second poem I came across was in Richard Dawkins' The Greatest Show on Earth. (Who knew, the guy has a sense of humor too.) Dawkins of course is an evolutionary biologist, and by definition, a disbeliever of creationist dogma. He is also an avowed and outspoken atheist. All of which is useful in understanding his quoting of this poem below in his latest book on the evidence for evolution.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children
By Ogden Nash
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.
I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.
Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.
Comments : This poem by Ogden Nash was forwarded to me by a friend who recently had a baby daughter. I found it quite funny - though a bit lengthy - and decided to post it here. Hope you enjoy it too. - Zen
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.
I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.
Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.
Comments : This poem by Ogden Nash was forwarded to me by a friend who recently had a baby daughter. I found it quite funny - though a bit lengthy - and decided to post it here. Hope you enjoy it too. - Zen
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sects from A to Z
By R.S.Gwynn
High Anglicans (or C. Of E.)
Are numerous far over the sea.
They ring a small bell a lot.
Read T.S. Eliot,
And burn incense in no small degree.
The Baptists put stock in immersion
And loudly will cast the aspersion
That a ritual that stops
With a few sprinkled drops
Is merely a watered-down version.
The blue-eyed Episcopal ladies
And gentlemen look like the Brady’s.
Their children are blond
And they are all quite fond
Of the Escalade and the Mercedes.
Fundamentalists think it’s apparent
That the Bible is strictly inerrant.
When one asks, once again,
“Well, so who married Cain?”
The claim Yahweh was, singly, her parent.
A.J.W (Jehovah’s Witness)
Should never be asked in to sit. Nes-
tle in, bolt your door
or you’ll let in a bore
Who will point out your soul’s lack of fitness.
The Mormons once had a hegemony
In Utah, allowing polygamy.
With their bearded heads hung,
The men thanked Brigham Young,
Who responded, “Yes, wasn’t that big of me ?”
The Oneidans detected sin’s essence
In all symptoms of manly tumescence,
So their men they unmanned,
Crying, “Take sin in hand!” –
A religiously planned obsolescence.
The Quakers possess inner lightning
And refrain from all feuding and fighting;
They enter their meetings
With “Bless Thee” for greetings,
But the service is hardly exciting.
The Shakers thought sexual activity
Was a wasteful sinful proclivity :
“No more sleeping in pairs !
Go make tables and chairs !
Sublimate and increase productivity !”
Unitarians pray, but they never
Say to whom, and thus claim the endeavour,
While it’s heavenward sent,
More precisely is meant
To address someone known as “Whoever.”
The number of folks who use X’s
In spelling out Christmas perplexes.
It’s truly inanity
(Just think, Xianity ! ) –
A small matter, I know, but it vexes.
Most zealots are eager to tell us
That their God is bad-tempered and jealous.
They go on for hours
Describing His powers
With a zeal that’s excessively zealous.
Comment : The limericks made me smile, and I’ve always been partial to an attempt to poke fun at organised religion and zealots, hence I had to run this poem on the blog. - Zen
High Anglicans (or C. Of E.)
Are numerous far over the sea.
They ring a small bell a lot.
Read T.S. Eliot,
And burn incense in no small degree.
The Baptists put stock in immersion
And loudly will cast the aspersion
That a ritual that stops
With a few sprinkled drops
Is merely a watered-down version.
The blue-eyed Episcopal ladies
And gentlemen look like the Brady’s.
Their children are blond
And they are all quite fond
Of the Escalade and the Mercedes.
Fundamentalists think it’s apparent
That the Bible is strictly inerrant.
When one asks, once again,
“Well, so who married Cain?”
The claim Yahweh was, singly, her parent.
A.J.W (Jehovah’s Witness)
Should never be asked in to sit. Nes-
tle in, bolt your door
or you’ll let in a bore
Who will point out your soul’s lack of fitness.
The Mormons once had a hegemony
In Utah, allowing polygamy.
With their bearded heads hung,
The men thanked Brigham Young,
Who responded, “Yes, wasn’t that big of me ?”
The Oneidans detected sin’s essence
In all symptoms of manly tumescence,
So their men they unmanned,
Crying, “Take sin in hand!” –
A religiously planned obsolescence.
The Quakers possess inner lightning
And refrain from all feuding and fighting;
They enter their meetings
With “Bless Thee” for greetings,
But the service is hardly exciting.
The Shakers thought sexual activity
Was a wasteful sinful proclivity :
“No more sleeping in pairs !
Go make tables and chairs !
Sublimate and increase productivity !”
Unitarians pray, but they never
Say to whom, and thus claim the endeavour,
While it’s heavenward sent,
More precisely is meant
To address someone known as “Whoever.”
The number of folks who use X’s
In spelling out Christmas perplexes.
It’s truly inanity
(Just think, Xianity ! ) –
A small matter, I know, but it vexes.
Most zealots are eager to tell us
That their God is bad-tempered and jealous.
They go on for hours
Describing His powers
With a zeal that’s excessively zealous.
Comment : The limericks made me smile, and I’ve always been partial to an attempt to poke fun at organised religion and zealots, hence I had to run this poem on the blog. - Zen
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The Prime of Life
It was, in truth, an eager youth
Who halted me one day.
He gazed in bliss at me, and this
Is what he had to say :
“Why, mazel tov, it’s Asimov,
A blessing on your head !
For many a year, I’ve lived in fear
That you were long since dead.
Or if alive, one fifty-five
Cold years had passed you by,
And left you weak, with poor physique,
Thin hair and rheumy eye.
For sure enough, I’ve read your stuff
Since I was but a lad
And couldn’t spell nor hardly tell
The good yarns from the bad.
My father too, was reading you
Before he met my Ma,
For you he yearned, once he had learned
About you from his Pa.
Since time began, you wondrous man,
My ancestors did love
That s.f dean and writing machine
The Aged Asimov.”
I’d had my fill. I said, “Be still !
I’ve kept my old-time spark.
My step is light, my eye is bright,
My hair is thick and dark.”
His smile, in brief, spelled disbelief,
So this is what I did;
I scowled, you know, and with one blow,
I killed that rotten kid.
Comments : Read the poem in a collection of stories by Asimov titled ‘ The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories’. Couldn’t stop grinning as I went through the poem. This poem is for all the cheeky young whipper-snappers I know. :-) Zen
Notes : First Published in the Magazine Of Fantasy and Science Fiction, October 1966, the original title was ‘I’m in the prime of life, you rotten kid !’. Edward L. Ferman, editor of F&SF, shortened that to ‘The prime of life’. It is also part of a collection of stories by Asimov titled ‘ The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories’.
Who halted me one day.
He gazed in bliss at me, and this
Is what he had to say :
“Why, mazel tov, it’s Asimov,
A blessing on your head !
For many a year, I’ve lived in fear
That you were long since dead.
Or if alive, one fifty-five
Cold years had passed you by,
And left you weak, with poor physique,
Thin hair and rheumy eye.
For sure enough, I’ve read your stuff
Since I was but a lad
And couldn’t spell nor hardly tell
The good yarns from the bad.
My father too, was reading you
Before he met my Ma,
For you he yearned, once he had learned
About you from his Pa.
Since time began, you wondrous man,
My ancestors did love
That s.f dean and writing machine
The Aged Asimov.”
I’d had my fill. I said, “Be still !
I’ve kept my old-time spark.
My step is light, my eye is bright,
My hair is thick and dark.”
His smile, in brief, spelled disbelief,
So this is what I did;
I scowled, you know, and with one blow,
I killed that rotten kid.
Comments : Read the poem in a collection of stories by Asimov titled ‘ The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories’. Couldn’t stop grinning as I went through the poem. This poem is for all the cheeky young whipper-snappers I know. :-) Zen
Notes : First Published in the Magazine Of Fantasy and Science Fiction, October 1966, the original title was ‘I’m in the prime of life, you rotten kid !’. Edward L. Ferman, editor of F&SF, shortened that to ‘The prime of life’. It is also part of a collection of stories by Asimov titled ‘ The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories’.
Friday, April 3, 2009
I love my dog
By Cat Stevens
I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
All he asks from me is the food to give him strength
All he ever needs is love and that he knows he'll get
So, I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
All the pay I need comes shining through his eyes
I don't need no cold water to make me realize that
I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...
I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...
I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na...
I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na
Comments : since we are on dogs. Here's one reason dogs are preferable to the opposite sex - Anonymous
I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
All he asks from me is the food to give him strength
All he ever needs is love and that he knows he'll get
So, I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
All the pay I need comes shining through his eyes
I don't need no cold water to make me realize that
I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...
I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.
Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...
I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na...
I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na
Comments : since we are on dogs. Here's one reason dogs are preferable to the opposite sex - Anonymous
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sam's Ghazals
By Elise Paschen
You’re out. The house is dead. With me:
You’re safe. Why not stay home, instead, with me ?
That Ur prince whisked you off past four.
At my leash-end, you’re not misled by me.
He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.
My needs are few: a bowl, a lead, some love.
You won’t get in the red with me.
You never have to cook, just pop a Mighty Dog:
a snap to have breakfasted with me.
He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.
Maybe I have my quirks (stairs scare, streets clank),
But you’ve always kept your head with me.
He is six foot one. I am one foot high.
Don’t ever let him tread on me.
Though small, I claim my space and like you snug.
(It’s tough sharing a bed with me.)
My name is Samson. Yours is Paschen.
So keep your name and stay unwed with me.
- Sam
Comments : And after last week’s poem from a she-dog to her master, here is one from a he-dog to his mistress. I love the reasons given by the dog to convince his mistress that he is better than a human boyfriend.
Notice the brilliant contrast the dog brings out in
‘He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.’
Also,
‘He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.’
:-) Awesome, isn’t it ?
- Zen
You’re out. The house is dead. With me:
You’re safe. Why not stay home, instead, with me ?
That Ur prince whisked you off past four.
At my leash-end, you’re not misled by me.
He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.
My needs are few: a bowl, a lead, some love.
You won’t get in the red with me.
You never have to cook, just pop a Mighty Dog:
a snap to have breakfasted with me.
He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.
Maybe I have my quirks (stairs scare, streets clank),
But you’ve always kept your head with me.
He is six foot one. I am one foot high.
Don’t ever let him tread on me.
Though small, I claim my space and like you snug.
(It’s tough sharing a bed with me.)
My name is Samson. Yours is Paschen.
So keep your name and stay unwed with me.
- Sam
Comments : And after last week’s poem from a she-dog to her master, here is one from a he-dog to his mistress. I love the reasons given by the dog to convince his mistress that he is better than a human boyfriend.
Notice the brilliant contrast the dog brings out in
‘He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.’
Also,
‘He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.’
:-) Awesome, isn’t it ?
- Zen
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Doggerel
By Abigail Thomas
I’m quintessential female
I have a jealous heart
and that last girl he brought up here
was nothing but a tart
she ate up all his ice-cream
she drank up all his schnapps
and then she made a noisy fuss
when I climbed on their laps
he took me off the sofa
he put me in the chair
she said,”My god, your furniture
is nothing but dog - hair”
(my master is an idiot
how freely I admit it
he used to have a thinking – cap
but someone must have hid it)
she laughed at all his silly jokes
(which most girls find a chore)
and then she took off all her clothes
and dropped them on the floor
it’s not that I’m small-minded
he’s had some other lovers
but this one didn’t understand
I sleep under the covers
I don’t like to be pushed around
I do not care for scowls
she told him that I snapped at her
when all I did was growl
I’m certainly no prude
(I’d prove it if he’d let me)
but I saw no reason why she shouldn’t
rue the day she met me
her clothes I chewed to pieces
her silly boots I bit up
some of this mess I swallowed
but most of it I spit up
“how could you keep a dog like him?”
she cried,”this filthy cur?”
my master looked at me and smiled,
“No, not a him, a her.”
- Suzy
Comments : I found this poem about a possessive pet dog quite cute. Rather true to human emotions too, but being expressed by a dog with rhyme and metre makes it adorable. It's from a book titled 'Unleashed. Poems by Writers Dogs'.
- Zen
I’m quintessential female
I have a jealous heart
and that last girl he brought up here
was nothing but a tart
she ate up all his ice-cream
she drank up all his schnapps
and then she made a noisy fuss
when I climbed on their laps
he took me off the sofa
he put me in the chair
she said,”My god, your furniture
is nothing but dog - hair”
(my master is an idiot
how freely I admit it
he used to have a thinking – cap
but someone must have hid it)
she laughed at all his silly jokes
(which most girls find a chore)
and then she took off all her clothes
and dropped them on the floor
it’s not that I’m small-minded
he’s had some other lovers
but this one didn’t understand
I sleep under the covers
I don’t like to be pushed around
I do not care for scowls
she told him that I snapped at her
when all I did was growl
I’m certainly no prude
(I’d prove it if he’d let me)
but I saw no reason why she shouldn’t
rue the day she met me
her clothes I chewed to pieces
her silly boots I bit up
some of this mess I swallowed
but most of it I spit up
“how could you keep a dog like him?”
she cried,”this filthy cur?”
my master looked at me and smiled,
“No, not a him, a her.”
- Suzy
Comments : I found this poem about a possessive pet dog quite cute. Rather true to human emotions too, but being expressed by a dog with rhyme and metre makes it adorable. It's from a book titled 'Unleashed. Poems by Writers Dogs'.
- Zen
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Julie Andrews on Maturity
To commemorate her birthday , actress/vocalist, Julie Andrews made a special appearance at Manhattan 's Radio City Music Hall for the benefit of the AARP.
One of the musical numbers she performed was 'My Favourite Things' from the legendary movie 'Sound Of Music'.
Here are the lyrics she used:
Botox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Cadillacs and cataracts, hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favourite things.
When the pipes leak, When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.
Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Back pain, confused brains and no need for sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favourite things.
When the joints ache, When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,
And then I don't feel so bad.
Comments : A friend forwarded this to me as it fitted the theme for the month (thanks N). I had to run it on the blog - it was funny, plus I loved the movie as a kid and still do.
- Zen
One of the musical numbers she performed was 'My Favourite Things' from the legendary movie 'Sound Of Music'.
Here are the lyrics she used:
Botox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Cadillacs and cataracts, hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favourite things.
When the pipes leak, When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.
Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favourite things.
Back pain, confused brains and no need for sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favourite things.
When the joints ache, When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,
And then I don't feel so bad.
Comments : A friend forwarded this to me as it fitted the theme for the month (thanks N). I had to run it on the blog - it was funny, plus I loved the movie as a kid and still do.
- Zen
Sunday, January 18, 2009
When I'm 64
The Beatles
When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
You'll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave
Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
Comments : Have liked this song for many years - it is just too cute. And a very different kind of lovesong too - soppy though it is. The minute Anita submitted a poem on 'turning 30', I knew ageing and the various aspects of it would be the theme for the month and that I would post 'When I'm 64'.
- Zen
When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
You'll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave
Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
Comments : Have liked this song for many years - it is just too cute. And a very different kind of lovesong too - soppy though it is. The minute Anita submitted a poem on 'turning 30', I knew ageing and the various aspects of it would be the theme for the month and that I would post 'When I'm 64'.
- Zen
Monday, January 12, 2009
A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty
Ogden Nash
Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman'?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?
Comments : Turning thirty was a frightening experience. Very much like Miranda, I woke up and checked the mirror next morning fully expecting to find an old, shrivelled woman. Friends all around me who have turned thirty have displayed similar reluctance to crossover into the threshold of 'old and greying'. Which is why I loved this poem of Nash, which displays none of his trademark sarcasm, just plain sweet kindness which the newly minted thirty-year old requires. And just as Nash says, is age really that relevant?
- By Anita
Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman'?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?
Comments : Turning thirty was a frightening experience. Very much like Miranda, I woke up and checked the mirror next morning fully expecting to find an old, shrivelled woman. Friends all around me who have turned thirty have displayed similar reluctance to crossover into the threshold of 'old and greying'. Which is why I loved this poem of Nash, which displays none of his trademark sarcasm, just plain sweet kindness which the newly minted thirty-year old requires. And just as Nash says, is age really that relevant?
- By Anita
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Reflection on a Wicked World
Ogden Nash
Purity.
Is Obscurity.
Comments : Loved this for being concise, tongue-in-cheek and such a deliciously wicked observation itself.
- Zen
Purity.
Is Obscurity.
Comments : Loved this for being concise, tongue-in-cheek and such a deliciously wicked observation itself.
- Zen
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Flea's Hymn
By Kathryn Walker
To the tune of 'All Things Bright and Beautiful'
All things brown and beautiful
All things brown and small,
All things brown and difficult -
The Big Dog made them all.
- Flea
Comments :
Merry Christmas Everyone !
I found this poem quite funny - the way the 'Big Dog' for fleas stands in for the 'Lord God' for humans. and of course, 'all things bright and beautiful' is a nice song to remember on Christmas.
This poem is part of a lovely anthology titled 'Unleashead - Poems by Writers Dogs'. Expect to see more doggy poems in the days ahead.
- Zen
To the tune of 'All Things Bright and Beautiful'
All things brown and beautiful
All things brown and small,
All things brown and difficult -
The Big Dog made them all.
- Flea
Comments :
Merry Christmas Everyone !
I found this poem quite funny - the way the 'Big Dog' for fleas stands in for the 'Lord God' for humans. and of course, 'all things bright and beautiful' is a nice song to remember on Christmas.
This poem is part of a lovely anthology titled 'Unleashead - Poems by Writers Dogs'. Expect to see more doggy poems in the days ahead.
- Zen
Sunday, November 16, 2008
archy goes abroad
london england
since i have been
residing in westminster
abbey i have learned
a secret that i desire
to pass on to the psychic
sharps it is this
until the body of a human
being perishes utterly
the spirit is not
released from its vicinity
so long as there is any
form left in the physical
part of it the ghost cannot go
to heaven or to hell
the ancient greeks
understood this and they
burned the body very often
so that the spirit could
get immediate release
the ancient Egyptians
also knew it
but they reacted differently
to the knowledge
the embalmed the body
so that the form would
persist for thousands
of years and the ghost would have
to stick around for a time
here in westminster abbey
there are hundreds of
ghosts that have not yet
been released
some of them are able to wander
a few miles away
and some of them cannot
go further than a few hundred
yards from the graves
where their bodies lie
for the most part
they make the best of it
they go out on little
excursions around london
and at night they sit on
their tombs and
tell their experiences
to each other
it is perhaps the most
exclusive club in London
henry the eighth came in
about three o clock this morning
after rambling about
picadilly for a couple of hours
and I wish I had the
space to report in detail
the ensuing conversation
between him and charles dickens
now and then
a ghost can so influence
a living person that you
might say he had grabbed off
that living persons body and was
using it as his own
edward the black prince
was telling the gang
the other evening
that he had been leading the life
of a city clerk for three weeks
one of those birds
with a top hat and a sack coat
who come floating though
the mist and drizzle
with manuscript cases
under their arms looking unreal
even when they are not animated
by ghosts edward the black prince
who is known democratically
as neddie black here
says this clerk was a mild and
humble wight when he took
him over but he worked
him up to the place where
he assaulted a policeman
saturday night then left him flatone of the most pathetic
sights however
is to see the ghost of queen
victoria going out every
evening with the ghost
of a scepter in her hand
to find mr lytton strachey
and bean him it seems she beans
him and beans him and he
never knows it
and every night on the stroke
of midnight elizabeth tudor
is married to sir walter raleigh by that
eminent clergyman
dr lawrence sterne
the gang pulls a good many
pageants which are written
by ben johnson but i think
the jinks will not be properly
planned and staged until
j m barrie gets here
this is the jolliest bunch
i have met in london
they have learned
since they passed over
that appearances and suety
puddings are not all they were
cracked up to be anon from your little friend
archy
Comments : I loved this poem for it's whimsical rambling story. The idea of the ghosts of Henry the Eighth and Charles Dickens sitting having a conversation, the 'most exclusive club in London' these just cracked me up. - Zen
Don Marquis first introduced archy the cockroach and mehitabel, a cat in her ninth life, in his newspaper column, ‘The Sun Dial’ in 1916. In a previous life archy was a free verse poet, while mehitabel’s soul once belonged to Cleopatra. She is toujours gai, but archy is more philosophical. It is he who records their songs and observations on the boss’ typewriter late at night. But he is not strong enough to make capital letters so it all comes out lower case.
the main question is
whether the stuff is
literature or not.
it is.
(p.s. I copied the above bit from the back cover of 'archy and mehitabel')
since i have been
residing in westminster
abbey i have learned
a secret that i desire
to pass on to the psychic
sharps it is this
until the body of a human
being perishes utterly
the spirit is not
released from its vicinity
so long as there is any
form left in the physical
part of it the ghost cannot go
to heaven or to hell
the ancient greeks
understood this and they
burned the body very often
so that the spirit could
get immediate release
the ancient Egyptians
also knew it
but they reacted differently
to the knowledge
the embalmed the body
so that the form would
persist for thousands
of years and the ghost would have
to stick around for a time
here in westminster abbey
there are hundreds of
ghosts that have not yet
been released
some of them are able to wander
a few miles away
and some of them cannot
go further than a few hundred
yards from the graves
where their bodies lie
for the most part
they make the best of it
they go out on little
excursions around london
and at night they sit on
their tombs and
tell their experiences
to each other
it is perhaps the most
exclusive club in London
henry the eighth came in
about three o clock this morning
after rambling about
picadilly for a couple of hours
and I wish I had the
space to report in detail
the ensuing conversation
between him and charles dickens
now and then
a ghost can so influence
a living person that you
might say he had grabbed off
that living persons body and was
using it as his own
edward the black prince
was telling the gang
the other evening
that he had been leading the life
of a city clerk for three weeks
one of those birds
with a top hat and a sack coat
who come floating though
the mist and drizzle
with manuscript cases
under their arms looking unreal
even when they are not animated
by ghosts edward the black prince
who is known democratically
as neddie black here
says this clerk was a mild and
humble wight when he took
him over but he worked
him up to the place where
he assaulted a policeman
saturday night then left him flatone of the most pathetic
sights however
is to see the ghost of queen
victoria going out every
evening with the ghost
of a scepter in her hand
to find mr lytton strachey
and bean him it seems she beans
him and beans him and he
never knows it
and every night on the stroke
of midnight elizabeth tudor
is married to sir walter raleigh by that
eminent clergyman
dr lawrence sterne
the gang pulls a good many
pageants which are written
by ben johnson but i think
the jinks will not be properly
planned and staged until
j m barrie gets here
this is the jolliest bunch
i have met in london
they have learned
since they passed over
that appearances and suety
puddings are not all they were
cracked up to be anon from your little friend
archy
Comments : I loved this poem for it's whimsical rambling story. The idea of the ghosts of Henry the Eighth and Charles Dickens sitting having a conversation, the 'most exclusive club in London' these just cracked me up. - Zen
Don Marquis first introduced archy the cockroach and mehitabel, a cat in her ninth life, in his newspaper column, ‘The Sun Dial’ in 1916. In a previous life archy was a free verse poet, while mehitabel’s soul once belonged to Cleopatra. She is toujours gai, but archy is more philosophical. It is he who records their songs and observations on the boss’ typewriter late at night. But he is not strong enough to make capital letters so it all comes out lower case.
the main question is
whether the stuff is
literature or not.
it is.
(p.s. I copied the above bit from the back cover of 'archy and mehitabel')
excerpts from 'certain maxims of archy'
(From 'archy and mehitabel'
by don marquis)
if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it won t cheer
you up much if
you expect to go there
prohibition makes you
want to cry
into your beer and
denies you the beer
to cry into
that stern and
rockbound coast felt
like an amateur
when it saw how grim
the puritans that
landed on it were
Comments : I liked these excerpts, especially the first and the last. The last reminded me of some serious kill-joys I know, and the first was just too tongue-in-cheek to leave out of this post.
- Zen
by don marquis)
if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it won t cheer
you up much if
you expect to go there
prohibition makes you
want to cry
into your beer and
denies you the beer
to cry into
that stern and
rockbound coast felt
like an amateur
when it saw how grim
the puritans that
landed on it were
Comments : I liked these excerpts, especially the first and the last. The last reminded me of some serious kill-joys I know, and the first was just too tongue-in-cheek to leave out of this post.
- Zen
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)