Category: Funny Poems

Poems that laugh at life… they’re the very best form of therapy after all.

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Squelch

And now, a slightly dark and gooey poem for hypochondriacs…

Squelch

I heard the squelch of death again –
or was it just a neutron firing
deep within my boggy brain,

or possibly a cell expiring
down amongst a mucus mess?
It could have been my heart perspiring

(that may be a thing I guess)
or, deep down in the adipose,
the squealing of a fat-lump pressed

to serve as fuel, and I suppose
it might have been a small mutation –
“Pop!” (we get a lot of those),

a bronchiole’s sharp inhalation,
“Hiss!” a membrane’s gooey breath,
a bile-duct’s bitter salivation…

Probably, it wasn’t death.

 

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Photo by Pierre Acobas on Unsplash

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Measure the Children

The increasingly Orwellian nature of education in this country inspired me to write this. Despite the best efforts of some wonderful teachers, it seems that the emphasis  is firmly on conformity and performance – as if our children were washing machines off a production line.

If it helps by the way, I picture “the meddlers” as being little oompah-loompah-crossed-with-Michael-Gove figures  – but please don’t have nightmares about that!

Measure the Children

The school was a cauldron of mischief and learning,
and children were children, their impish minds turning,
until, at the will of political men
came an army of meddlers with rulers and pens
squealing, “Measure the children, measure them!”

“Let art be abandoned! Let music be killed!”
cried the meddling ones. “There are forms to be filled!”
Then they pored over stories of magical horses
impatiently counting subordinate clauses
to measure the children, measure them.

“More!” they screamed, hurling out brain-popping sums
while the tape measures tangled small fingers and thumbs.
“Forget curiosity! Curb innovation!
We’re sending your teachers for recalibration…
Measure the children, measure them!”

We strive for a future where oneness prevails,
but there’s no place for play on the measuring scales,
and as tables and tests burn the light from their eyes,
we say, “Hush, little citizens, think of the prize…”
and measure the children, measure them.

 

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I Am Your Pudding

Something for you if you’re about to have your Sunday dinner with a nice bit of pud.

Repeat after me:

Puddings are not evil.

I am worth it.

I Am Your Pudding

I am your pudding – dive in and demolish me!
I bring you ecstacy, yet you admonish me,
“BAD!” you say, “FAT!” you say, “GUILT!” you say, “CALORIES!”
Who wants a life though that’s rice-cake-and-salady?

Scream it! You want me, with all of my tawdriness,
Scoop me up! Bundle your lips round my naughtiness!
Life is a struggle – so just put your trust in me –
Throw off your hang-ups – it’s time to get custardy!

 

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Photo by Pablo Merchán Montes on Unsplash

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Christmas Morning Chaos

If you’re contemplating leaving something out for Santa and his reindeer on Christmas Eve, I’m posting this up as a warning… “Dont give booze to Rudolph!”

Christmas Morning Chaos

The night had gone well, it was true,
And Santa sat down, with a “phew!”
Then he shouted “my deers!
Let’s crack open some beers,
He really did NOT think that through.

Cos Santa had not heard the news,
That reindeer CANNOT take their booze,
And soon, plucky Cupid,
Was no longer lucid,
And went for a cry in the loos.

Next, Donner and Blitzen went rogue,
Hot-twerking to Kylie Minogue,
And Dasher drank rum,
Which burnt his poor tum,
Then threw up on Santa’s new brogues.

Then Dancer and Prancer were bitchin’,
And Comet passed out in the kitchen,
Naughty Rudolph, uh-oh,
Was sent out in the snow,
For making lewd gestures to Vixen.

As the party crashed on until six,
And they conga’d like crazed lunatics,
Santa rued his mistake,
Should have just brought a cake!
Because reindeer and booze do not mix!

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Bobbing Mummy

Is anyone else more than a little bit broken from PICKING SHIT UP?!

Bobbing Mummy

If you knock something from the shelf,
No need to pick it up yourself!
Just leave it there upon the floor –
Whatever else is Mummy for?
Bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.

What joy, a new construction set,
With bits that are the smallest yet!
Mummy’s here! It doesn’t matter!
Open box, prepare to scatter!
Bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.

Got a wrapper in your hand?
Don’t worry! Drop it where you stand!
Perhaps your paper missed the privy?
Don’t despair! You have a skivvy!
Bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.

Mummy has an education,
Wild ideas above her station,
Visions of equality,
I know right? That’s insanity!
She’s bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.

 

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On Being Offered Cheese As A Dessert

OK – I’m going to say it – I’m not the world’s greatest fan of cheese. (Some people literally can’t handle this information, but I’ll press on.) I quite like an emmental or a mild cheddar but beyond that? Not a fan. So the thought of passing up a treacle tart in favour of some manky old sheep’s curd… well it blows my mind.

On Being Offered Cheese As A Dessert

THAT is a curd that forms on an inert
tub of old rancid milk – it is NOT a dessert,
It is NOT a dessert, so don’t lie to me please,
It is cheese.

That bit is stinky and that bit is crusty,
You’re trying to be funny! You’re joking! You must be!
Cos that bit is mouldy and that bit is goaty,
If this is a dream, then please somebody poke me…

How can a fatberg with crackers exert
The appeal of a pie – it is NOT a dessert,
It is NOT a dessert, it’s an udder that sneezed,
It is cheese!

I‘m craving some custard all yummy and creamy,
A big chocolate brownie, deliciously dreamy,
The hot toffee pudding! So silky! So steamy!
Just bring on the sugary goodness and FEED ME!

Well, I say “cam-em-bare” and you say “cam-em-burt”,
Doesn’t alter the fact – it is NOT a dessert,
It is NOT a dessert – Just like pork! Just like peas!
IT IS CHEESE!

 

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Claire from Customer Care

We have precious little time on this beautiful Earth, and there is nothing I resent more than having to spend it jumping through hoops all in the name of “customer service”. Sitting on hold, explaining things three times to people in different departments, listening to protracted terms and conditions scripts, or – my favourite – “passing security”. (Next time, you’re told that you’ve passed security, do what I do – cheer. They never know what to do with that.)

Anyway, I parcelled up all my frustrations, stuffed them all into a poetic person known as Claire from Customer Care, and vented.

Claire from Customer Care

I can’t come out tonight,
I’m on with Claire from customer care,
Who is voicing my pointless choices,
As my ears bleed despair.

I can’t come out tonight,
I’m finding my ideal tariff
with just ten sections of soul-sucking questions,
As my hopes vanish.

I can’t come out tonight,
I’m ticking terms and conditions,
Poring over each torturous clause,
While The Reaper’s steps quicken.

I can’t come out tonight,
I’m completing a quick questionnaire,
Assessing my satisfaction with that interaction
with Claire from customer care…

And my starving eyes… just stare.

I should have gone out tonight,
Instead, to the beat of on-hold music,
I lose it.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Last Halloween

Just don’t fix a date for October 31st – that’s all I’m saying!

Last Halloween

As skies were turning dark last Halloween,
I sat in terror, waiting for my date.
Then in he walked, all beautiful and lean,
With eyes whose depths I could not contemplate.

I studied his anatomy at length,
As there he stood, not daring once to breathe,
His jutting jaw betrayed a deathly strength,
His cheekbones were as perfect as his teeth.

He rattled through the small talk, then we delved
much deeper, and he let me see within,
And when we kissed goodbye, at almost twelve,
I really felt I’d got beneath his skin.

Then midnight struck. My vision cleared. I saw…
A skeleton was walking out the door.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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You Have To Be A Hexagon

Despite the name of the poem… please don’t be a hexagon, lovely people… I much prefer dodecagons and splodge-agons!

You Have To Be A Hexagon

A hexagon,
A hexagon,
You have to be a hexagon,
Cos everybody knows it’s great,
To fit right in and tessellate.

But I am a dodecagon!
I might just be the only one,
This side is long,
And this one’s short,
And this bit’s weirder than I thought.

No no!
No NO!
A hexagon!
You HAVE to be a hexagon!
Such gleeful uniformity –
It’s how the world is meant to be!

But me, I am a splodge-agon,
A sort of blob with wobbles on,
A curvy individual,
A fun and floopy visual!

A hexagon!
A HEXAGON!
WHY CAN’T YOU BE A HEXAGON?
If you can’t look
Like others do,
I’m going to have to pick on you!

Don’t want to be a hexagon.

I’m sorry?!

A bland, six-cornered dullathon.

I’M SORRY?!

I just don’t want to tessellate,
With you and your identi-mates,
Who mock the eccentricity,
Of those who do it differently,
And I don’t NEED to fit your norm,
Each corner crafted to conform,
No no, I’ll floop, and stretch, and be…
A strange and perfect fit… for me.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

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Cauliflower Makes Me Poo

Cauliflower Makes Me Poo

Cauliflower makes me poo,
It does! It does! I’m telling you!
These cute florets, they all beget
Poogeddon in an hour or two.

I thought “oh great! I’ll lose some weight!”
I piled it high upon my plate,
The poo deluge was REALLY huge,
I weighed myself – still ten stone eight!

So listen, if you’d like to try
Some weight loss via brassicae,
May I advise some exercise…
With cabbages strapped to your thighs.

 

© Nina Parmenter 2018

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