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A selection of random funny poems from our vast
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poets - enjoy! Funny christmas party poems and other poetry
Jabed Meeker Humorist by Ellis Parker Butler
Twain? Oh, yes, I've heard Mark Twain
Heard him down to Pleasant Plain;
Funny? Yes, I guess so. Folks
Seemed to laugh loud at his jokes-
Laughed to beat the band; but I
Couldn't rightly make out why.
Guess his humor ain't refined.
Quite enough to suit my mind.
Mark's all right-right clever speaker-
But he can't touch Jabed Meeker;
And one thing that makes it queer
Is that Jabed lives right here.
You ain't met him? Son, you've missed
The most funniest humorist
I've met with in my born days-
Funniest talker, anyways,
When it comes to repartee-
That's the humor catches me!
Like a specimen? Huh! Well,
Take, for instance, his umbrell;
Wouldn't think, until he spoke,
He could turn that to a joke;
Mark Twain couldn't, bet you that!
That's where Meeker beats Mark flat!
Just imagine three or four
Fellers in Jim Beemer's store-
'Long comes Meeker, and some feller
Says, 'See Meeker's bum umbreller.'
Quick as lightning Meeker 'd yell:
'Don't you guy my bumberell!
Where's the feller dares to hoot
At this sping-spang bumbershoot?
Show me some one dares to call
Bad names at my bumbersoll!'
Right like that! Right off the reel!
Say, you'd ought to heard us squeal!
Then, before we'd got our breath,
Meeker, solemn sad as death,
Says: 'Stand up there 'gainst that wall,
Para-bumber-shooter-soll!'
Twain? All right! But just give me
Some one slick at repartee!
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There was an Old Man of the East by Edward Lear
There was an Old Man of the East,
Who gave all his children a feast;
But they all ate so much,
And their conduct was such,
That it killed that Old Man of the East.
= = = = = = = = = =
Delicate Cluster by Walt Whitman
Delicate cluster! flag of teeming life!
Covering all my lands! all my sea-shores lining!
Flag of death! (how I watch'd you through the smoke of battle
pressing!
How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!)
Flag cerulean! sunny flag! with the orbs of night dappled!
Ah my silvery beauty! ah my woolly white and crimson!
Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!
My sacred one, my mother.
= = = = = = = = = =
In Midnight Sleep by Walt Whitman
In midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,
Of the look at first of the mortally wounded--of that indescribable
look;
Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;
Of skies, so beauteous after a storm--and at night the moon so
unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather
the heaps,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
Long, long have they pass'd--faces and trenches and fields;
Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure--or away
from the fallen,
Onward I sped at the time--But now of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
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