If Only Betty White Wrote Poetry

She’d be like Secretariat of the Muses,
fastest woman to ever set foot
over the longest period of time.
I believe Grandma Moses once
painted her likeness on
a soup can
running in a tight circle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dead Poets are a hoot. Well, these dead poets anyway. I can’t wait till I’m dead. I’ll sure be funny then.

On that note here’s some stuff I hope you enjoy.

The Dragon of Grindly Grun by Shel Silverstein

I’m the Dragon of Grindly Grun,
I breathe fire as hot as the sun.
When a knight comes to fight
I just toast him on sight,
Like a hot crispy cinnamon bun.

When I see a fair damsel go by,
I just sigh a fiery sigh,
And she’d baked like a ‘tater-
I think of her later
With a romantic tear in my eye.

I’m the Dragon of Grindly Grun,
But my lunches aren’t very much fun,
For I like my damsels medium rare,
and they always come out well done.

Asparagus by Marriot Edgar

Mr. Ramsbottom went to the races,
A thing as he’d ne’er done before,
And as luck always follers beginners,
Won five pounds, no-less and no-more.
He felt himself suddenly tempted
To indulge in some reckless orgee,
So he went to a caffy-a-teerer
And had a dressed crab with his tea.

He were crunching the claws at the finish
And wondering what next he would do,
Then his thoughts turned to home and to Mother,
And what she would say when she knew.

For Mother were dead against racing
And said as she thought ’twere a sin
For people to gamble their money
Unless they were certain to win.

These homely domestic reflections
Seemed to cast quite a gloom on Pa’s day
He thought he’d best take home a present
And square up the matter that way.

‘ Twere a bit ofa job to decide on
What best to select for this ‘ere,
So he started to look in shop winders
In hopes as he’d get some idea.

He saw some strange stuff in a fruit shop
Like leeks with their nobby ends gone,
It were done up in bundles like firewood-
Said Pa to the Shopman, “What’s yon?”

“That’s Ass-paragus-what the Toffs eat”
Were the answer; said Pa “That ‘ll suit,
I’d best take a couple of bundles,
For Mother’s a bobby for fruit.”

He started off home with his purchase
And pictured Ma all the next week
Eating sparagus fried with her bacon
Or mashed up in bubble-and-squeak.

He knew when she heard he’d been racing
She’d very nigh talk him to death,
So he thought as he’d call in the ‘ Local’
To strengthen his nerve and his breath.

He had hardly got up to the counter
When a friend of his walked in the bar,
He said “What ye got in the bundle?”
“A present for Mother,” said Pa.

It’s ‘sparagus stuff what the Toffs eat ”
His friend said “It’s a rum-looking plant,
Can I have the green ends for my rabbits?”
said Pa “Aye, cut off what you want.

He cut all the tips off one bundle,
Then some more friends arrived one by one,
And all of them seemed to keep rabbits
Pa had no green ends left when they’d done.

When he got home the ‘ouse were in dark ness,
So he slipped in as sly as a fox,
Laid the ‘sparagus on kitchen table
And crept up to bed in his socks.

He got in without waking Mother,
A truly remarkable feat,
And pictured her telling the neighbours
As ’twere ‘sparagus-what the toffs eat.

But when he woke up in the morning
It were nigh on a quarter to ten,
There were no signs of Mother, or breakfast
Said Pa, “What’s she done with her-sen?”

He shouted “What’s up theer in t’ kitchen?”
She replied, “You do well to enquire,
Them bundles of chips as you brought home
Is so damp… I can’t light the fire.”

A Warning on Spontaneous Combustion by Stuart McLean

O whisky is the king of drinks,
Renowned the world o’er,
But here’s a word o’ caution,
Tae think of when ye pour.
There’s a certain combination,
That tastes so very good,
But when it hits your tummy,
And mixes with your food.
That’s when the trouble starts,
For yer pleasure hits overload,
And half an hour later,
Ye’ll suddenly explode.
So there ye are in the pub,
Completely engulfed in flames,
And yer good wife’s dashing home,
Tae lodge insurance claims.
Well now that I have told ye,
Don’t say ye’ve no’ been warned,
So don’t try it oot yersel’,
Or ye’ll soon be bein’ mourned.

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