Zetato by Joan Bowes
I ate
a zetato.
It tastes
like potato.
But sharp
as a vrabbage.
Desire for a Monument by Christian Morgenstern
Set a monument for me,
built of sugar, in the sea.
It will melt, of course, and make
briefly a sweet-water lake;
meanwhile, fishes by the score
take surprised a sip or more.
They, in various ports, will then
be, in turn, consumed by men.
This way I will join the chain
of humanity again,
while, were I of stone or steel,
just some pigeon ungenteel,
or perhaps a Ph.D.
would discharge his wit on me.
English as She Is Pronounced by J.H. Walton
The wind was rough
And cold and blough,
She kept her hands within her mough.
It chill’d her through,
Her nose grough blough
And still the squall the faster flough.
And yet although
There was nough snough,
The weather was a cruel fough.
It made her cough —
Pray do not scough! —
She coughed until her hat blew ough.
Ah, you may laugh,
You silly caugh!
I’d like to beat you with my staugh.
Her hat she caught,
And saught and faught
To put it on and tie it taught.
Try as she might
To fix it tight
Again it flew off like a kight,
Away up high
Into the skigh.
The poor girl sat her down to crigh.
She cried till eight
P.M., so leight!
Then home she went at a greight reight.
Oh That My Lungs Could Bleat Like Buttered Peas by Anonymous
Oh that my lungs could bleat like buttered peas;
But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch,
And are as mangy as the Irish seas
That offer wary windmills to the rich.
I grant that rainbows being lulled asleep,
Snort like a woodknife in a lady’s eyes;
Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,
For creeping puddings only please the wise.
Not that a hard-roed herring should presume
To swing a tithe-pig in a catskin purse;
For fear the hailstones which did fall at Rome,
By lessening of the fault should make it worse.
For ’tis most certain winter woolsacks grow
From geese to swans if men could keep them so,
Till that the sheep-shorn planets gave the hint
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.
Some men there were that did suppose the skie
Was made of carbonadoed antidotes;
But my opinion is, a whale’s left eye,
Need not be coined all King Harry groats.
The reason’s plain, for Charon’s western barge
Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood,
Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge
To fasten padlocks with Antarctic food.
The end will be the millponds must be laded,
To fish for white pots in a country dance;
So they that suffered wrong and were upbraided
Shall be made friends in a left-handed trance.
A Fine October Morning by Anonymous
It was a fine October morning
In April last July
The Sun lay thick upon the ground
The Snow shone in the Sky
The flowers were sweetly singing
The Birds were in full bloom
When I went down the celler
To sweep the upstairs room
The time was Tuesday morning
On Wednesday just at night
I saw ten thousand miles away
A house just out of sight
The doors they opened inwards
The front was at the back
And it stood alone between two others
And it was whitewashed black
The Pobble who has no toes by Edward Lear
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said, 'Some day you may lose them all;'--
He replied, -- 'Fish fiddle de-dee!'
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink,
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said, 'The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!'
The Pobble who has no toes,
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose,
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said, 'No harm
'Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
'And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
'Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose.'
The Pobble swam fast and well
And when boats or ships came near him
He tinkedly-binkledy-winkled a bell
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side,--
'He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's
'Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!'
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green Porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet
Formerly garnished with toes so neat
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away --
Nobody knew; and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up,
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;--
And she said,-- 'It's a fact the whole world knows,
'That Pobbles are happier without their toes.'
Solomon Grundy by Anonymous
Solomon Grundy,
Born on Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday,
And that was the end of Solomon Grundy.
Freddled Gruntbuggly by Douglas Adams
I suppose the author could be argued to be Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz, but Douglas Adams really deserves the credit.
Warning: Vogon poetry is exceptionally terrible, to such an extent it is sometimes used as a form of torture. Be careful, reader.
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturitions are to me,
As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles,
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer. [drowned out by moaning and screaming]
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and slipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turling dromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't.
I Ate a Lady’s Bun by Ivor Cutler
I got taken to gaol.
I ate a lady’s bun.
On her head.
She got a fright.
It was a surprise.
Do not worry I said.
I am eating your bun.
I am hungry for a bun.
Police she cried a good
neighbour heard her
and phoned the
police.
You must not eat a lady’s bun even
if you are hungry.
And I am in jail.
Old Person of Basing by Edward Lear
There was an Old Person of Basing,
Whose presence of mind was amazing;
He purchased a steed,
Which he rode at full speed,
And escaped from the people of Basing.
Hi!
I'm Joan, an English grad from Manchester, UK.
I fell in love with nonsense poetry when I read The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear and have been trying to write nonsense myself every since.
This is my little space dedicated to the art of nonsense and poetry and nonsense poetry.
I'll try to share some nonsense every week. One day I might subject you to some of my own.