Category Archives: Humour

Ditty

Enough’s been sung of juice divine
From reddish clusters grown on vine –
The drink of gods, which common men call wine.

Tis time to praise th’supremest food,
Of poets yet unsung, unwooed –
O pale mounts of pungence, stir my mood!

How gloriously you fill the belly!
Your perfect texture, unlike jelly,
Is solid softness – let them call you smelly!

Both simple folk and royals please
Their palates with a graceful ease
By munching ‘pon the humble hunk of cheese.

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The Ballad of St. Urban the Urbane

A translation of the original Vita Urbani Beati Urbani into the vulgar tongue

St. Urban from an early age
~~Was known to follow fashion
He rushed to buy the newest rage
~~ With pure and holy passion

When just a child of five years old
~~He held the crowds agog
With words and sounds he had been told
~~Were soon to be en vogue

At age fifteen he did disdain
~~To pray with menial beads
(It did too much his style restrain)
~~Which was his only creed

Instead the newest luxury
~~He must have double quick
Else would he moan and cry ʻʻYou see
~~Itʼs making me quite sick!ʼʼ

Soon all the fashionable flocked
~~To see the famous Urban
So much that all the roads were blocked
~~By pilgrims wearing turbans.

The earnest fashion devotees
~~Would hang upon his lips
As he pronounced whose clothes did please
~~And passed on fashion tips

One day as he went out-a-doors
~~(Inside was ʻoutʼ again)
The crush of clumsy pilgrim bores
~~Squashed him by accidenʼ

Too young this fashion-martyr died
~~Upon the shopping mile
As final sacrifice he sighed
~~ʻʻAt least I died in styleʼʼ

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What wouldn’t a bit of civility do for the world

I’m terribly sorry
I’m a bit out of practice
With swearing, I mean.
My foot’s got under
Your industrial lorry,
Quo caritas humani lactes
That’s Latin, old bean.
So please don’t thunder
And just back up will yer,
I mean, if you don’t mind, sir.

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The Stork on the Steeple

The Stork on the Steeple‘s a story worth telling.
The parson of Dingle his dinner a-smelling
Came smiling and sauntering soft down the path
Like a hunter and hound return to the hearth
When the wind is a-whistling and wailing away
And a sullen and midsummer sun will not stay.
 
When the vicar caught view of the vagrant old fowl;
How he wondered and wished for the wisdom of owls.
So he went to his library to learn from its words
The best way of dealing with boisterous birds.
The unparalleled Priest in a Pother‘s advice
Was to leave them alone for they’d lessen the mice.
 
“You mistake”, said the fabulous fowl on the tower,
“To rid you of rodents o’erreaches my power;
The law of my life makes it Lent all year long –
Yes, I’m partial to parsnips and cheese with a pong,
And I’m grateful for goblets of gooseberry wine –
But on flesh of the furry I’ll feast not, nor dine!”
 
The surprised little priest had to pause and exclaim
“Your immaculate morals put martyrs to shame!
You’re a pillar of piety purest and chaste
And no cardinal’d accuse you as carnal in taste.”
So the frolicking fowl and the friendly old priest
Took their tea with a tall vegetarian feast.

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Hobbit feet

I’m actually quite proud
of my hairy hobbit feet
but some people think aloud
“You’re just weird, you creep!”

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The self pity club

happy-face-sad-face-600x400
The self pity club
 
Chords: D, Dmaj7, D6 (repeat)
 
1: Welcome to the self pity club
Everyone hates you and you’ve had enough
 I know how you feel, they all say
 They don’t mean it anyway
 The list of complaints just goes on and on
 It never ends, it never will
 
Chorus: I’m so dissatisfied
 That’s our club’s motto.
 Always criticise
 Never realise
 How good you’ve got it.
 
2: The members of the club are all the same
 They act as if they’ve been left out in the rain.
 No one is happy, everyone’s gray
 They tell newcomers to stay away
 The only three members are me, myself and I
 It can get quite lonely, no one says hi
 
Chorus: I’m so dissatisfied….
 
(PPPPooooooooooooooooorrrrr Me!)
 
 

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