Humorous Poetry

A great, innovative, and  rhythmic  way to express humor, comedy  and funny ideas and situations creating happiness, joy, and relief against stress and tension.


TO wed, or not to wed;–that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in a man to suffer

The slings and sorrows of that blind young archer;

Or fly to arms against a host of troubles,

And at the altar end them. To woo–to wed–

No more; and by this step to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand hopes and fears

The single suffer–’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To woo–to wed;–

To wed–perchance repent!–ay, there’s the rub;

For in that wedded state, what woes may come

When we have launched upon that untried sea

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes celibacy of so long life;

For who would bear the quips and jeers of friends,

The husband’s pity, and the coquette’s scorn,

The vacant hearth, the solitary cell,

The unshared sorrow, and the void within,

When he himself might his redemption gain

With a fair damsel. Who would beauty shun

To toil and plod over a barren heath;

But that the dread of something yet beyond–

The undiscovered country, from whose bourne

No bachelor returns–puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of!

Thus forethought does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And numberless flirtations, long pursued,

With this regard, their currents turn awry

And lose the name of marriage.




A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East–

Haughty, being great–purse-proud, being rich–

A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which–

Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron’s suite,

An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,

His honor, proudly free, severely merry,

Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade,

Did your good father gain a livelihood?”–

“He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,

“And in his time was reckoned good.”

“A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,

Instead of teaching you to sew!

Pray, why did not your father make

A saddler, sir, of you?”

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.

At length Modestus, bowing low,

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),

“Sir, by your leave, I fain would know

Your father’s trade!”

“My father’s trade! Bless me, that’s too bad!

My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?

My father, sir, did never stoop so low–

He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”

“Excuse the liberty I take,”

Modestus said, with archness on his brow,

“Pray, why did not your father make

A gentleman of you


Service with smile

There is a smile plastered on my face,

though his words sting like mace.

He sputters and shouts on the phone.

As I think, “There’s no place like home.”

I’m wondering if this guy is stable

I guess he really cares about his cable

Now his threats are making me nervous.

Don’t you just love customer service


The Hardest Part Of Work

The hardest part of work,

is to pretend you’re working hard.

You can only stack so many papers,

or shuffle so many business cards.

In one tab you’ll have your email.

And the other you’ll have your shows.

And you can switch between them so quickly

Your boss hardly knows.

Hulu shows the Office,

Youtube has dancing Dogs.

Amazon sells lots of books,

On Ebay you bought some Pogs.

An online game of Scrabble

Makes you think of many words.

But when nature calls you leave,

And beat angry birds.

But once you tire of Facebook,

And you’ve written too many Tweets.

You’ll stroll down to the breakroom,

And help yourself to treats.

And if there is a co worker,

with semi-engaging news

You’ll only stop and gossip,

for at least an hour or two.

Other times you’ll play ping pong,

your favorite company perk.

It’s amazing what you get done.

when you come to work.



Mr. Nobody

I know a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody’s house!

There’s no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked

By Mr. Nobody.

Tis he who always tears out books,

Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

And scatters pins afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak,

For prithee, don’t you see,

We leave the oiling to be done

By Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the door

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed,

To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill; the boots

That lying round you see

Are not our boots,—they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.



There’s a family nobody likes to meet;
They live, it is said, on Complaining Street
In the city of Never-Are-Satisfied,
The River of Discontent beside.

They growl at that and they growl at this;
Whatever comes, there is something amiss;
And whether their station be high or humble,
They are all known by the name of Grumble.

The weather is always too hot or cold;
Summer and winter alike they scold.
Nothing goes right with the folks you meet
Down on that gloomy Complaining Street.

They growl at the rain and they growl at the sun;
In fact, their growling is never done.
And if everything pleased them, there isn’t a doubt
They’d growl that they’d nothing to grumble about!

But the queerest thing is that not one of the same
Can be brought to acknowledge his family name;
For never a Grumbler will own that he
Is connected with it at all, you see.

The worst thing is that if anyone stays
Among them too long, he will learn their ways;
And before he dreams of the terrible jumble
He’s adopted into the family of Grumble.

And so it were wisest to keep our feet
From wandering into Complaining Street;
And never to growl, whatever we do,
Lest we be mistaken for Grumblers, too.

Let us learn to walk with a smile and a song,
No matter if things do sometimes go wrong;
And then, be our station high or humble,
We’ll never belong to the family of Grumble!



How to treat Grandma

When Grandma visits you, my dears,
Be good as you can be;
Don’t put hot waffles in her ears,
Or beetles in her tea.

Don’t sew a pattern on her cheek
With worsted or with silk;
Don’t call her naughty names in Greek,
Or spray her face with milk.

Don’t drive a staple in her foot,
Don’t stick pins in her head;
And, oh, I beg you, do not put
Live embers in her bed.

These things are not considered kind;
The worry her, and tease –
Such cruelty is not refined
It always fails to please.

Be good to Grandma, little chaps,
Whatever else you do;
And then she’ll grow to be – perhaps –
More tolerant of you.


Ms. Cork-A Biography

Her best friend is her cake and fork

I never believed that story about the baby and the stork,

But it truly does make you wonder,

Where did such an infant slumber

What beginnings led to such awful ends?

O, heaven, please make amends

For what disaster did befall,

When this child did but crawl?

Here she is now old and grumpy,

Like over soaked cereal, gone lumpy

She contemplates, on that which irritates

Her mind is in an unhealthy state

And so her life plays out an evil fate

By which no heavenly means did conspire

It is her own thinking that stirs the pot, and lights the fire

Perhaps there are students who add to this unrest

And truly, I do not wish to jest,

I know that grievous tidings have come thy way and faith and hope may but sway

But the sun will shine thru the clouds again, and awaken a new and glorious day

If only you would condescend, laughter would be sure to mend

Dikey Haircuts would be at an end

Bring what might, bring what may,

Consider that, which I say and

Happiness will surely arise this day


Judged by the Company One Keeps

One night in late October,
When I was far from sober,
Returning with my load with manly pride,
My feet began to stutter,
So I lay down in the gutter,
And a pig came near and lay down by my side;
A lady passing by was heard to say:
“You can tell a man who boozes,
By the company he chooses,”
And the pig got up and slowly walked away.


Get Up, Get Up

Get up, get up, you lazy-head,
Get up you lazy sinner,
We need those sheets for tablecloths,
It’s nearly time for dinner.



Today’s the day,
I’m selling my house
The house is almost perfect,
There’s only one mouse
It’s such a great deal,
It’s a huge freaking steal
You won’t go wrong with this house

However, there’s a few minor problems
That I should mention
All of the problems equal just a bit of tention

The floor always creaks,
The ceiling always leaks,
There’s a bear that lives in the backyard
But removing him shouldn’t be hard

Some rooms have mold,
There’s a draft so room will get cold
Also sleep with your doors closed,
Or the mouse will head your hair ’till your bald

The garden is dead
You should buy a new bed,
Because the one I have is an oldy
It’s all lumpy and moldy

All in all, you should buy this house,
It’s such a great deal!
It’s a huge freaking steal!
Just a few minor problems
But it won’t be hard to solve ’em
So you really should buy this house
But you cannot sue,
If any of the following, should happen to you;

Ceiling collapses on you, bear eats you, mouse eats your eye balls, there’s a huge flood and you drown, or almost drown, the floor collapses beneath you, the mold comes alive and takes form of a monster and spreads a plague on the human race turning every living thing inside out, or if the ghost that lives in the closet tricks you into coming into the ghost world with him.



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