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Dr.Bob, you started
An unhealthy trend
As you know this chatter
Started, will not end
Nor am I completely
Writing to be seen
More a like to scare you
On this Halloween
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tlip tlip tlip tlip tlip (that's the sound of one hand clapping) |
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[tc] tried continuing
What [phundug] sadly missed
So [Bubba] duly wanders in
To carry on the list
Who will pick the baton up?
The States is trick-or-treating
[egbert]'s scoffing candy treats
And [po]'s most likely sleeping |
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Amid the darkened streets of night,
Aware of goblin's keening,
This Halloween's spent @ this site,
Engaged in search for meaning.
Instead of tossing trick-or-treats,
While neither drunk nor sober,
What ho! Thank God for devil's play,
This last day of October!
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Perhaps the annotator
Who had a busy hand
Could not have imitated
Or didn't understand?
Or possibly, the subject
Who hadn't said a boo
Was drumming up a couplet
But ended in haiku?
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I'd wished to be
an annotee
but, stood in awe and silent
[csea]'s relay
made me replay
worth of words I'd lent
On paper scratched
In OK box matched
but how can one compete? |
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[Zimmy], mate, it's good to see
The poetry keep flowing...
Though we all know an MFD
For writing lists is owing. |
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For some of us it's just as well
This is no competition;
Our scansion just gets shot to hell
Right at the point when we'd almost finished but then couldn't think of a good rhyme either. |
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The Owl and the Pussycat went to see
if the halfbakery needed a vote.
They wrote something funny, with plenty of punnery,
Wrapped up in a troll-baiting note.
The owl looked up to the score above,
And thought this was really bizarre.
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a miserable lot they are,
They are,
They are!
What a miserable lot they are.'
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Pussy smacked the owl with a soaking wet towel,
'What terrible tweets you sing,
How long have we parried and harried and carried
on blaming results on this thing?'
They typed away, for a year and a day,
To improve their halbakery prose,
And then they were good, like they bloody well should,
With croissants all stacked up in rows,
In rows,
In rows,
With croissants all stacked up in rows.
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Thank you for your annos.
As usual I’m inspired
To write you a response at work.
I hope I don’t get fired!
My inclination is, of course,
To write another verse
By using long and complex words;
To wander from the terse.
Though multi-syllabolic prose
is difficult to scan
I like to take a challenge
‘twould defeat a lesser man
I really want to do it
And the urge is overwhelming
But finding rhymes for words like that
Is really rather difficult. |
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I really want to do it
And the urge is overwhelming
But the rhymes I'd pick to make it work
would have my readers belming. |
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Guelph? Or Ghibelline?
They’re hard to tell apart.
Go ask the Pope about it
I suggest would be a start
But please don’t fall for ‘belming’
It’s belov-ed of the Scots.
But really it’s a made-up word
And trust me they’ve got lots! |
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"Made up words"'s the English claim,
Its repetition makes us yawn,
You know that there's no truth in it,
You just being michty thrawn. |
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Your constant sniping at we Scots,
To self-congratulation rapturous,
Is tiresome in its endlessness,
And makes proud Scots carnaptious. |
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Our Scottish words are not made up,
And the sneering it can rankle,
But so baseless are your haverings,
They've gone and got you in a fankle. |
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(I don't do verse, but I thought I'd mention that [UnaBubba] might be confusing King Henry VII of England - Henry Tudor, the first Tudor monarch - with King Henry VII of Germany, Holy Roman Emperor 200 years previously. If not, my bad.) |
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I think he means our Henry Eight
But he'll soon shout if I mis-state. |
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There go those Ghoblins and Uelves again. |
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Ah! Again, so sadly missed
An opportunity to rhyme!
If you have not got the gist
The game takes no time;
It's to write a piece of poetry
To speak with everyone
It needn't be a soliloquy
(But to do so would gain you a bun.) |
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(What you should've said was:) |
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"Avaunt all talk of Ghoblin and Uelf
For the point has begun to peeve
The finer points on it - for my elf
Are only thought on All Hallow's Eve" |
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<pedantic historical accuracy>Henry VIII didn't get divorced - his marriages were anulled, i.e. it was ruled that they had never happened. It's probably harder to find a rhyme for 'annulment' though</pedantic historical accuracy> |
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Not so hard to find rhymes for "Died" or "Beheaded", though. The new menemonic device poem would be:
"Annulled, Beheaded, Died;
Annulled, Beheaded, Survived." |
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Call it divorce or call it annulment
Neither word is a consolement
For those on the receiving end
Of Henry's seperation trend.
But though they had to leave his bed
At least they got to keep their head. |
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My pedantometer just croaked
It only goes up to eleven
With all this talk of marriages broke,
Annulled, or stopped with axes' stroke,
My pedantometer's now in Heaven
this is it's epitaph I'm givin'.
Oh brave device! Your warning beep,
Has often saved my fractured sleep,
And let me rest, safe knowing that,
I nearly looked an utter prat,
But your beep saved me from that fate
While others rush into debate
It's only inexactitude
There's no need for us to get rude
(Although we very rarely do
But truth's an oversold virtue)
(IMHO) |
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[DrBob]'s fine little rhyme
Appears to appeal to all of us
And yes, it's true, to me too -
So from me, [DrBob], you get a [+]
Let's just hope it stays that way
For surely it's only fools and whiners
(or the moaning autobone)
Who'd want to give this idea a [-]
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