Light verse goes by a variety of names, including light poetry, humorous verse, humorous poetry and (sometimes) nonsense verse, children's verse and doggerel. Humorous poetic forms employed here include limericks, double dactyls, heroic and not-so-heroic couplets, puns, epigrams, parodies and one-liners. I even have a section of humorous haiku translations of the Oriental masters Basho and Issa, with my hopefully humorous reply to Basho's famous frog poem. Categories include: Animal poems, Dog poems (we have had up to seven canine members of our family), Nature poems, Children's poems, Political limericks, Scientific limericks, Subversive poems about God and Religion, and X-Rated Limericks (last on the page).
Limericks and Nonsense Verse
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
Honeymoon Not-So-Sweet, or, Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his bawdy, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
The Platypus
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not erotic.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or beaver.
The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch
An elephant never forgets
and thus they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you,
no matter how sincere your regrets!
Being a peace activist, I once wrote a limerick in an attempt to stop needless wars:
Of Tetley’s and V-2's
(or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits")
by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
I have even written a double limerick about writing limericks:
The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
The limerick as parody:
That Not-So-Mellow Fellow, Othello
by Michael R. Burch
Not sure ’bout that fellow, Othello,
was he a “hero” or merely piss yellow?
He killed his poor wife
over a handkerchief!
Thus Iago proved his heart Jello.
Cowboy Limericks
A cowboy exclaimed, “Fiddle-faddle!
Who cares if I ‘date’ my own cattle?”
But his wife cried, “You chump!”
Kicked him hard in the rump,
And now he can’t sit in the saddle.
—Michael R. Burch
A cowboy confessed to his brother
That he’d taken his horse as his lover.
But the mare neighed, of course.
It was rape, and by force.
Then the prick was killed by the nag’s mother.
—Michael R. Burch
A cowboy confessed to his priest
That he’d screwed twenty cattle, at least.
“Father, am I forgiven?”
But the dude died unshriven,
Since the thunderbolt left him deceased.
—Michael R. Burch
The New Year approaches, with goals
Prancing about like wild foals;
But they dodge the damn harness,
Retreat into farness ...
Now I’ll have to walk home, I suppose.
—Michael R. Burch
thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by michael r. burch
GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.
by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:
ah-men!
(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)
Of course there are nonsensical forms other than the limerick:
The Bachelor Spectacular
by Michael R. Burch
One heart? Tossed aside.
The other? A bride’s.
In all his great wisdom, the bachelor decides.
Eeenie, mean-ie, mine-y, mo’,
one gal must stay and one must go.
If she hollers? That’s the show!
No heart can handle such despair!
But hearts get broken, hearts repair.
Next season? The treasoned will rule the air.
Originally published by Light
The Unspectacular Bachelor
by Michael R. Burch
The bachelor is back, he’s black,
and some fair-skinned gals sure want him in the sack!
And, yes, he’s a whole lot smarter
than the previous knights of that peculiar garter.
We can hear the white supremacists stewing:
What the hell are the screenwriters doing?
They know love requires a nice white spark,
and this apprentice is far too dark!
bachelorhoodwinked
by michael r. burch
u
are
charming
& disarming,
but mostly alarming
since all my resolve
dissolved!
u
are
chic
as a sheikh’s
harem girl in the sheets
but my castle’s no longer my own
and my kingdom’s been overthrown!
Untitled Nonsense
There's a bun in auntie's oven;
now soon you'll have a cousin!
―Michael R. Burch
Animal Poems
Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch
A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”
I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.
Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love was a little treble thing—
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Don’t ever hug a lobster!
by Michael R. Burch
Don’t ever hug a lobster, if you meet one on the street!
If you hug a lobster to your breast, you're apt to lose a teat!
If you hug a lobster lower down, it’ll snip away your privates!
If you hug a lobster higher up, it’ll leave your cheeks with wide vents!
So don’t ever hug a lobster, if you meet one on the street,
But run away and hope your frenzied feet are very fleet!
Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch
“Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”
1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.
2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.
3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic—I’ll take such nice long naps!
The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)
4.
I woke to find life teeming all around—
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.
5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online
Nonsense Verse about Writing Nonsense Verse
The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
for Tom Merrill
The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind breeder?"
But almost no one took note.
Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch
It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of
EXAGGERATION.
Less Heroic Couplets: Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
pour Melissa Balmain
Whenever my writing gets rejected,
I always wonder how the rejecter got elected.
Are we exchanging at the same Bourse?
(Excepting present company, of course!)
I consider the term “rejection slip” to be a double entendre. When editors reject my poems, did I slip up, or did they? Is their slip showing, or is mine?
Doggerel about Doggerel
The Board
by Michael R. Burch
Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood—
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.
The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.
Not-So-Heroic Couplets
In an attempt to demonstrate that all couplets need not be heroic, I have created a new poetic form called the “Less Heroic Couplet.” I believe poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws, even in their nonsense verse! The rules for the form are simple and flexible: light verse written in rhyming or near-rhyming couplets, in any meter, with the goal of making readers wince or giggle. Nonsense is preferred, of the wiser variety. Poems about cowardice, not being especially honorable, and/or shirking one’s duty get extra gold stars. I am dedicating the form to my friend and fellow poet Richard Thomas Moore. Here are some examples:
Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
“Murder most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner.
As you fall on my sword,
take it up with the LORD!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online then in Potcake Chapbook #7
Less Heroic Couplets: Meal Deal
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love is a splendid ideal ...
at least till it costs us a meal.
Less Heroic Couplets: Bed Head
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
“Early to bed, early to rise”
makes a man wish some men weren’t so wise
(or at least had the decency to tell pleasing lies).
Less Heroic Couplets: Sex Hex
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
Published by Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online and Poem Today
Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch
"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." — Mark Twain
Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!
Originally published by Lighten Up Online
Less Heroic Couplets: Crop Duster
by Michael R. Burch
We are dust and to dust we must return ...
but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn?
Less Heroic Couplets: Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves sex, but her horse neighs she’s shady.
The couplet above is based on the limerick below:
Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves sex, but in forms fancied shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she’s no lady!)
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
NOTE: The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
Humorous Haiku
Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I toss in my sleep,
so watch out,
cricket!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In a better world
I'd leave you my rice bowl,
little fly!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All's well with the world:
another fly's sharing our rice!
―Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cries of the wild geese—
spreading rumors about me?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wake up, old tomcat,
then with elaborate yawns and stretchings
prepare to pursue love
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
An enormous frog!
We stare at each other,
both petrified.
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Skinny frog,
hang on ...
Issa to the rescue!
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Explosion!
The frog returns
to its lily pad.
—Michael R. Burch
The Artful Science of the Limerick
The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:
There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
—Arthur Henry Reginald Buller
I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:
Ass-Tronomical I
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my ass declared!
Ass-tronomical II
by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)ass grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
Relative to Whom?
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein’s theory, incredibly silly,
says a relative grows willy-nilly
at speeds close to light.
Well, his relatives might,
but mine grow their (m)asses more stilly!
Time Out
by Michael R. Burch
Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
Time Back In
by Michael R. Burch
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother's eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch
The universe is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?
Neil deGrasse Tyson told Stephen Colbert that what keeps him awake at night is the fear that expansion will cause most of the universe to become invisible to us.
Subversive Poems
These are "sub-versive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to Kill and Plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
Willy Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch
When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.
As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:
what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.
“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.
Whips! Chains! Domination!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.
Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.
Untitled
There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
—Michael R. Burch
Double Dactyls
Officious Notice: I have invented a nonce nonsense form: the "dabble dactyl." A dabble dactyl starts out like a double dactyl, but forgets the rules and changes horses midstream. Anyone who prefers order to chaos should give the dabble dactyl a wide berth and also not sow any wild oats. Otherwise, “A little dabble’ll do ya.” — Michael R. Burch
Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch
Sniggledy-Wriggledy
Jesus Christ’s enterprise
leaves me in awe of
the rich men he loathed!
But why should a Sadducee
settle for trifles?
His disciples now rip off
the Lord they betrothed.
This was my first-ever dabble dactyl.
Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch
Piggledy-Wiggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump,
his least favorite clown:
"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs
claiming upside is down!"
Donald Dabble Dactyls must begin with "Piggledy-Wiggledy" in homage to The Donald's oinkerishness and his 'do. References to clowns, gold-plated toilets and/or diapers are a plus but not required.
Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch
Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”
“Why should I try to be
funny as Donnie? He
gets all the laughs
from marks who should frown!”
I see that I violated my prime directive, so "never mind."
Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch
Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne
of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?
Children's Poems
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes. I wonder how
he learned at all ...
He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates’ necks.
He played with pasty Elmer’s glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname “teacher’s PEST.”
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.
But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer’s glue ...
and you’ll outgrow this old desk, too.
Originally published by TALESetc
A True Story
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)
Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across our neighbor’s yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty “THWACK!”
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
Originally published by TALESetc
Picturebook Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!
With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira’s a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!
The Aery Faery Princess
by Michael R. Burch
for Keira
There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff—
the down of a thistle, butterflies’ wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair ...
I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air!
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks ...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass sucks!
On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy
Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.
Amen
Maya's Beddy-Bye Poem
by Michael R. Burch
for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy
With a hatful of stars
and a stylish umbrella
and her hand in her Papa’s
(that remarkable fella!)
and with Winnie the Pooh
and Eeyore in tow,
may she dance in the rain
cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe
till each number’s rehearsed ...
My, that last step’s a leap! —
the high flight into bed
when it’s past time to sleep!
Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper.
First Steps
by Michael R. Burch
for Caitlin Shea Murphy
To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
She has no concept of time,
but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.
I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day ...
time to learn the Truth
and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..."
But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
She is just certain
that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!
Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
through childhood to adolescence,
and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
Keep Up
by Michael R. Burch
Keep Up!
Daddy, I’m walking as fast as I can;
I’ll move much faster when I’m a man . . .
Time unwinds
as the heart reels,
as cares and loss and grief plummet,
as faith unfailing ascends the summit
and heartache wheels
like a leaf in the wind.
Like a rickety cart wheel
time revolves through the yellow dust,
its creakiness revoking trust,
its years emblazoned in cold hard steel.
Keep Up!
Son, I’m walking as fast as I can;
take it easy on an old man.
Poems for Older Children
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad)
by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Doggerel about Dogs
Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch
Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.
I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.
Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch
I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope
We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)
They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.
But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.
The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew
who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.
But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter
and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery balls
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.
Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch
When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”
Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.
Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron balls ginormous!
Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron balls ginormous!
When reading the second version of the poem, the reader can select “chased” or “chaste” or read them together, quickly.
Donald Trump Limericks
Viral Donald
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.
Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?
Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: please do what he sez!
'Cause if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!
Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"
Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch
Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.
15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
Our president’s sex life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!
Trump’s Golden Rule
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
Donald Trump is the victim of leaks!
Golden showers are NOT things he seeks!
Though he dearly loves soaking
the women he’s groping,
get real, 'cause he pees ON the meek!
Is Trump the ANTICHRIST? When the Hebrew prophets spoke of "the Trump of Doom" and a "little horn" were they speaking literally? (For a YUGE slew of 666 connections, see Is Donald Trump the Antichrist?)
Political Limericks
As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed sexual humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a bawdy one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking limericks of mine:
Baked Alaskan
There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes whores seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"—
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
Going Rogue in Rouge
It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
Pls refudiate
“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!—
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.
You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.
Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’—
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.
Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved
I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
—"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch
Grab Bag
Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch
Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.
Ding Dong ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Fliss
An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!
The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch
A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to kill it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch
We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!
They’ll hump before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even screw in public. Eek, so awful!
And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even hump your leg!
Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college
or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “Pee here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”
And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .
which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”
Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch
At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;
cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;
the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;
pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.
But ...
Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?
Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch
Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!
Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch
after Keats
Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...
Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...
It’s time to make hay!
I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.
How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch
My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!
My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!
My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!
Grave Thoughts
by Michael R. Burch
as a poet i’m rather subVerse-ive;
as a writer i much prefer Curse-ive.
and why not be brave
on my way to the grave
since i doubt that i’ll end up reHearse-ive?
NOTE: “Subversive,” “cursive” and “rehearse-ive” are double entendres: subversive/below verse, cursive/curse, rehearsed/recited and re-hearsed (reincarnated to end up in a hearse again).
A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch
Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.
A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
felt for the stiletto in her purse.
Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!
A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”
No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.
Exeunt stage left.
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
Untitled
tRUMP is the butt of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
X-Rated Limericks
There was a lewd whore from Nantucket
who intended to pee in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the damn can
and her rattled johns fled, crying: "Fuck it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch
Here are three "linked" Nantucket limericks of mine:
There was a coarse whore of Nantucket
whose bush needed someone to pluck it
’cause it looked like a chimp’s
and her johns were limp gimps
too timid to touch, suck it or fuck it.
So that coarse, canny whore of Nantucket,
once muff-shaved, decided to shuck it
—that thick, wiry pelt
that smelled like wet felt—
and made it a toupee for Luckett.
Now Luckett, once bald as an eagle,
like Samson stands handsome and regal
with hair to his ass
that smells like his lass,
yet still comes when she calls, like a beagle.
—a triple limerick by Michael R. Burch
There once was a girl with small boobs
who would only go out with young rubes,
but their dicks were too small
so she sentenced them all
to kissing her fallopian tubes.
—Michael R. Burch
Newer Limericks and other Light Verse added 5/26/2023
This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.
An incestuous physicist, Bright,
fellated far faster than light.
She gave head one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!
There was a young porn star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for sex,
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch
Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch
Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!
—Michael R. Burch
Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch
There once was a camel who loved to hump.
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch
Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch
I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?
Harem Scare'm
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch
I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.
Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Ireland’s Ire has Landed
The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.
Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”
The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.
The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.
Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch
Zip It
by Michael R. Burch
Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the butt of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.
Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten Ass
by Michael R. Burch
There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest ass (et) wus his rump.
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!
Odes to an Enormous Ass
by Michael R. Burch
1.
Trump talks through
his rump
at the stump.
His ass is a gas;
it’s as sassy
as an Elephant’s crevasse!
2.
If you see him in a Speedo,
bifocals you will need, oh,
and wide-screen television
to correct eyes’ imprecision.
3.
If you’re ogled by Trump’s hiney,
you’ll be blinded ’cause it’s shiny.
If you’re mooned by his huge buttocks,
best to run before he rut-hops. [*]
4.
On earth there’re weighty things
that can’t take flight with wings:
mountains, seas and giant asses
like Trump’s, though full of gasses.
[*] “rut-hops” is, of course, the scientific term for the mating advances of kangaroos in heat.
Post-Nashville Covenant
by Michael R. Burch
We love our God.
We love our guns.
We despise the weak.
Don’t call us Huns!
We love our kids.
We love our schools.
We love our guns.
Don’t call us fools!
We pledge ourselves
to the strong defense
of the Constitution
and our Mensch.
Once re-elected,
Trump will rule
with God and guns
and safer schools.
Untitled
Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch
Zip It
Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the butt of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.
On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so horny it lofts her thus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch
A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!
The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch
A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!
A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch
March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!
This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.
Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch
Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!
Love, but don’t fall.
Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!
Love, but don’t fall.
Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.
Love, but don’t fall.
Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch
I’m low on jizz,
lost my fizz,
out of biz.
Flabby and horny,
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.
Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!
Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a vagina need a beard?
Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?
And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?
Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?
Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch
I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!
My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!
I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"
But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!
NOTE: I prefer the English spelling "mould" for this poem.
Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch
History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.
I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.
The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch
It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.
WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch
When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?
Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?
Will the porpoises
lack purpose,
the marigolds
fold?
Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?
Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?
That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch
for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT
There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.
But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.
One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch
Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:
“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”
“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”
“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”
But Robert Horry’s not impressed.
Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.
Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.
Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.
Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.
Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!
Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
by Michael R. Burch
1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle dirty),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.
2
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!
3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?
4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!
5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!
6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.
Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch
Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.
Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your ass cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.
New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch
The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?
I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!
They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!
And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...
So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!
Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch
for Tallulah Bankhead
“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a slut.”
“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”
A Further Farewell to Dentistry
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Moore, from whom I absconded the title, after being initially inspired by a Facebook exchange between Sam Gwynn and Alicia Stallings
Lately I've been eschewing
ice chewing
and my indentured dentist’s been boo-hooing.
Time Out
by Michael R. Burch
Time is running out,
no doubt.
Time is running out.
I don’t know what the LORD’s about,
since Time is running out, the Lout!,
and leaving me with gas and gout.
I don’t know what the LORD’s about;
still, it does no good to grouse or pout,
since Time is merely running out,
like quail before a native scout.
’Twill do no good to shout or flout:
Time’s running out,
I have no doubt,
though who knows what the LORD’s about?
No need for faith or even doubt,
since Time is merely running out,
like water from a rusty spout
or mucous from a leaky snout.
Yes, Time is merely running out,
and yet I feel inclined to pout
and truth be told, sometimes to doubt
just what the hell the LORD’s about.
Less Heroic Couplets: Clover
by Michael R. Burch
It’ll soon be over
(clover?)
Less Heroic Couplets: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief poem, a short song.
Tr(end)y
by Michael R. Burch
Ain’t it funny how trendy
becomes so dead-endy?
Lava lamps and bell bottoms
soon became “never bought ‘ems.”
While that teenage tattoo
soon’ll have wrinkles too.
In a Stolen Moment
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub
In a stolen moment,
when the clock’s hands complete their inevitable course
and sleep is the night’s dark spell,
I call it a curse,
seeking the force,
the font of candescent words, the electric thrill
tingling from brain to spine
to incessant quill—
the fever, the chill.
I know it as well as I know myself.
Time’s second hand stirs; not I; in my cell,
words spill.
Invitation to a Spoon
by Michael R. Burch
My kingdom for a spoon!
My kingdom for a spoon!
I love to spoon
as I love to croon
in early June
by the light of the moon
when it's getting as hot as a horse's shoon
while he's shoein' 'n' shooin'!
But why tempt fate,
or procrastinate?
Let’s spoon real soon!
Canada's Response
by Michael R. Burch
Michael Juster
is all bluster.
First release
the geese,
THEN sue for peace!
Norm's Abnormal Norm
by Michael R. Burch
Norm MacDonald had a farm
E-I-E-I-O
And on his farm there was no norm
Except to laugh, ho-ho!
With a sly joke here
And a sly joke there
Here a joke, there a joke
Everywhere a crude joke
Norm MacDonald had a farm
E-I-E-I-O
Bowl-less Fans’ Dilemma
by Michael R. Burch
So much talent,
yet so many losses!
Do we blame the damned players
or fire their bosses?
Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch
The world’s first antinatalist limerick?
Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?
Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch
Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!
Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch
Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.
Nipples' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch
Men are scared of nipples:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.
Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch
A billion men saw your pink undies.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your panties were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.
A Prude Goes Nude
by Michael R. Burch
She wore near-invisible panties
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!
MVP!
by Michael R. Burch
Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?
Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?
Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?
Mercedes Benz
by Michael R. Burch
I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this:
Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends screw in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I fucked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?
Oh Donnie, won't you sell me a sexy import?
You need to pay your lawyers: a tart for a tort!
I’ll await her delivery each day until three.
And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free!
Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?
I'm counting on you, Don, so don't let me down!
Oh, prove you're a playboy and bring them around.
Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?
Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends screw in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I fucked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?
Ode to a Pismire
by Michael R. Burch
Drumpf is a sissy:
his hair’s in a Fritz.
Drumpf is a missy:
he won’t drink Schlitz.
Drumpf’s cobra-hissy
though he lives in the Ritz.
Drumpf is so pissy
his diaper’s the Shitz.
The Ballade of Large Marge Greene
by Michael R. Burch
Marge
is large
and in charge,
like a barge.
Yes, our Marge
is quite large,
like a hefty surcharge.
Like a sarge,
say LaFarge,
apt to over-enlarge
creating dissent before the final discharge.
Trump Limericks aka Slimericks
The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch
Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to grope unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch
Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch
I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!
the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch
ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!
where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.
My Sin-cere Endorsement of a Trump Cultist
by Michael R. Burch
If you choose to be an idiot, who can prevent you?
If you love to do evil, why then, by all means,
go serve the con who sent you!
Bird’s Eye View
Michael R. Burch
So many fantasical inventions,
but what are man’s intentions?
I don’t trust their scooty cars.
And what about their plans for Mars?
Their landfills’ high retentions?
The dodos they fail to mention?
I don’t trust Trump’s “clean coal” cars,
and what the hell are his plans for Mars?
Untitled
Don't disturb him in his inner sanctum
Or he’ll have another Trumper Tantrum.
—Michael R. Burch
It turns out the term was prophetic, since "conservatives" now serve a con. — Michael R. Burch
To live among you — ah! — as among vipers, coldblooded creatures not knowing right from wrong, adoring Trump, hissing and spitting venom.
Trump rhymes with chump
grump
frump
lifelong slump
illogical jump
garbage dump
sewage clump
sump pump
dry hump
cancerous lump
malignant bump
unpleasingly plump
slovenly schlump
yuge enormous diaper-clad rump
and someone we voters are going to thump and whump
—Michael R. Burch
Putin's Lootin's
by Michael R. Burch
They’re dropping like flies:
Putin’s “allies.”
Ah, but who gets their funny
money?
Two birds with one stone:
no dissent, buy a drone.
For tyrants the darkest day’s sunny!
Preempted
by Michael R. Burch
Friends, I admit that I’m often tempted
to say what I think about Trump,
but all such thought’s been preempted
by the sight of that Yuge Orange Rump!
Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch
The editorial board of the Washington Post is “very worried that American women don’t want to marry Trump supporters.”
Supporting Trump puts a crimp in dating
(not to mention mating).
So, horny dudes, if you’d like to bed
intelligent gals, and possibly wed,
it’s time to jettison that red MAGA cap
and tweet “farewell” to an orange sap.
Squid on the Skids
by Michael R. Burch
Sidney Powell howled in 2020:
“The Kraken will roar through the land of plenty!”
But she recalled the Terror in 2023
with a slippery, slimy, squid-like plea.
The Kraken Cracked
by Michael R. Burch
She’s singing like a canary.
Who says krakens are scary?
Squidney said the election was hacked,
but when all her lies were unpacked,
the crackpot kraken cracked.
Now, with a shrill, high-pitched squeal,
The kraken has cut a deal.
Oh, tell it with jubilation:
the kraken is on probation!
Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch
My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.
May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?
Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.
Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!
The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.
Forget the damned Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.