- Apr 29, 2024
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Share funny poems here!!!
I might be remembering this one wrong..
Triolet by G. K. Chesterton
I wish I were a jellyfish that cannot fall downstairs.
I wish I was a jellyfish that hadn’t any cares,
And didn’t even have to wish,
‘I wish I were a jellyfish that cannot fall downstairs.’
One of mine:
The Sack by CombNWattles
In the corner by the door,
Taking up so little floor,
Collecting random soiled bits,
My laundry hamper calmly sits.
Satisfying mesh creation,
Your gaping maw an invitation.
Slouching on the bunk bed top,
Weighing in hand a balled up sock,
I calculate the trajectory,
Pray my brain and hand agree,
Lob the missile through the air,
And smile when my aim is square.
I find that I am less enthused
When you are sadly overused.
Your wire sides bend and bow
Under the sagging laundry load,
A leaning tower of draperies,
And questionable integrity.
When at last I haul you down
To the land where lost socks wander round,
As your stratified depths I slowly uncover,
I marvel at what I discover.
A sweatshirt compressed into a cube,
That alarmingly absent toothpaste tube,
Sad flat towels lying prone,
Socks that hold their shape alone,
Shirts I haven’t seen in a while
Something absolutely vile
And lots of other exciting finds;
I’ll spare you any further lines.
I might be remembering this one wrong..
Triolet by G. K. Chesterton
I wish I were a jellyfish that cannot fall downstairs.
I wish I was a jellyfish that hadn’t any cares,
And didn’t even have to wish,
‘I wish I were a jellyfish that cannot fall downstairs.’
One of mine:
The Sack by CombNWattles
In the corner by the door,
Taking up so little floor,
Collecting random soiled bits,
My laundry hamper calmly sits.
Satisfying mesh creation,
Your gaping maw an invitation.
Slouching on the bunk bed top,
Weighing in hand a balled up sock,
I calculate the trajectory,
Pray my brain and hand agree,
Lob the missile through the air,
And smile when my aim is square.
I find that I am less enthused
When you are sadly overused.
Your wire sides bend and bow
Under the sagging laundry load,
A leaning tower of draperies,
And questionable integrity.
When at last I haul you down
To the land where lost socks wander round,
As your stratified depths I slowly uncover,
I marvel at what I discover.
A sweatshirt compressed into a cube,
That alarmingly absent toothpaste tube,
Sad flat towels lying prone,
Socks that hold their shape alone,
Shirts I haven’t seen in a while
Something absolutely vile
And lots of other exciting finds;
I’ll spare you any further lines.
