Most Commented Humor Poems (1,865)

'So tell me,' he said, 'what is this?'
As he shoved it towards my face
Now I knew to answer rather quick
Would be a sad mistake I'd make

I scratched my chin and pondered a while
On the rightful answer I would give
'It looks I think, on first glance
A fountain pen that has gone berserk.'

I could see frustration on his face
As he pulled out another Rorschach Card
'This,' he said, 'what does this mean?'
I could see his anger slowly building

This time no hesitation, I shot right back
'Seems to me you've let your children loose
The paper used to empty pen, such a mess I see
So take it home, and give your kids a thrashing.'

There stood death in my room
I must admit looking rather angry
Tapping his feet to an unheard beat
As I kept working on the PC

He kept mumbling under his breath
As he was waiting for me to finish
Far be it for him to take me mid stride
He was after all, if nothing else, a gentleman

But I kept writing on and on
This poem is far from finished
I scratched my head and spoke the words
I needed to get the right meaning

Backwards and forwards he paced in my room
And at his watch he kept glancing
Finally he had had enough
He snarled and cursed me plenty

“I don’t have the time to wait for you
while you dabble writing poetry
I’ll come back one of these years
when I’m good and ready.”

He wrapped his coat around himself
And stomped out into the evening
I didn’t care that he was peeved
I really wasn’t ready to leave yet

Lazy males lying, idle, asleep while we burn
Hardly ever knowing when the time is right
When it is their turn
Most times they have to be rebuffed
We are not ready and they want to do stuff
And they have a tendency to be so gruff and rough
And so we teach them to behave like one of us
We make them gentle and docile and forget about such stuff
And to forget that they are different from us
Ever so often they miss when our time is right
So we have to rouse them and them excite
For we would have them enjoy our delights
Now they need not fear about being rough
The best they can give we can handle that stuff
Now they cannot outdo us for we cannot get enough
They has to stop and recharge but not us
They need not worry about their great big size
We may be small but can handle whatever they realize
Matters not how large whatever they got we can handle that
There they go again lazy males asleep and resting
And in our heat we burn
Now we have to excite them for it is their turn

The hand's fidget,
Of those who smoke.
Thumbs twiddling,
Pressure,
Time.
Awaiting destinations.

A bald tattooed man,
With his mobile phone in hand.
Spits into the bin.
Peering round,
He looks to see,
Who has just caught him.

And across the bin,
A sign say's,

( NO SMOKING IN THE BUS STATION ).


17/06/13.

Next stop,
Jervis Street.

Next stop,
Abbey Street.

Next stop,
Bus Aras.

The muse of the electric tram.
Snake like creatures,
Slipping,
Gliding,
Past each other.

Each one carries,
A multitude of coloured eggs.
Yet!
No-one notices.


17/06/`3.