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Rated: E · Poetry · Satire · #1768956
In honour of Douglas Adams. If you like them, pour yourself a Pangalagicticgargleblaster.

My Little Book
Bad Poems
And Monologues


I’dratha Not’say

Author’s Notice:

The author will not be held responsible for any injury, mental or physical that might be incurred whilst reading these poems
Readers do so at their own risk

Wot a Week

On Monday I woke up with a start
On Tuesday I sat in the bath try hard not to laugh
On Wednesday I lay in bed with my hands on my head
On Thursday I stood in the garden looking at my feet
On Saturday I stood by the door feeling quite poor
On Sunday I went to church, had a pint at my local, walked back home
and then fell down dead


In the Garden of the Grocklespock

In the dead of night there laid a plight
A bit of blight in the dead of the night
Finding a plight in the dead of the night
The Grocklespock peeks at the when it has a fight
When it meets a plight in the dead of the night
It’s a bit of a bugger really

Kay A?
Hay Day?
De Kay?
Wot Say?


Roses are pink
So is my sink
The sky is blue
As is my canoe


The Lord of the Dark

In the beginning there was the light.
Someone had left it on.
Who it was no one knew.
The last person to leave most likely.
But on it was. And it was very annoying.
It was the second time it had happened.
The creator was a bit pissed-off about it.
Perhaps it was time to stop switching it on?
Either that or take the bulb out.

Oh Black shoe

Oh black shoe
What do you do?
In the middle of the night
When the foot is out of sight
Do you lay there at the bottom of the stair?
Thinking how unfair it is just being there?

Clomping Feet

Clomping feet on the path
Although it may sound quite daft
Echoes across the lawn
Breaking the din of the early morn
Big feet stamp on the hearth
Shaking the car that’s trying to park
He’s back from the pub again.


The Dibble Who Did

There once was a Dibble who didn’t know what to do
He lived in a barrel at the bottom of a shoe
He liked beans and custard and button pea stew
And eat rhubarb crumble while sitting on the loo

He played a banjo and also a lute
Although he was never really that astute
He ran a playgroup for a local institute
And kept a cow, a pig and little water newt.

He loved drinking rainbows and often fell asleep
Praying that his soul a god would someday keep
He hated writing poems and would never keep
Paperwork and bills upon a mantelpiece in a great heap

{{center}b}Wife Strife

Met again
Fought again
Caught again
It’s all your fault again
What again?



Oh crinkled sheet of paper
Fluttering in the wind
Why doesn’t somebody
Put in the bin?


Klonk, klonk, klonk
Funny sound...

For Why

I wondered a happy as a pig in a sty
Feet full of shit and wondering why
Cows in the meadow bleated like sheep
And birds in hedgerows barked and cheeped

Bosoms heaved and chests grew
As chefs in the pantry cook their stew
Vicars and bishops danced in the hay
While maidens and ladies played the parlay

Gardeners and boatmen rowed on the grass
But why they did that no one would ask
Teachers and pupils read from a book
While masters and matrons dared not to look

As the night grew longer and days drew short
No one about would do as they were taught
Chickens in the hen clucked in the tray
And dogs in the kennels snored where they lay

Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner

Breakfast at two, lunch at one
When will I get my timing done?
Dinner a six, after the flicks,
I never bother with pick-up sticks,
If this little rhyme makes no sense,
Go back home and count your pence.
So that’s you’re lot my old son
Now I’m done, I’ll go home to mum.

A Bad Poem

I walk through a field with knocking knees
Stamping on flowers and kicking the bees
I jump on the grass and splosh in the river
I really am in a bit of a dither

Hey diddy, didily dum
Watch out now,
Here comes Mum

There’s nothing I’d rather do
Than stand in a pot and stir a stew
Stringing posies into a chain
Don’t blame me if I’m vain

Hey diddy, didily dum
Watch out now,
Here comes Mum

Ten ton Patsy sat on the wall
Eating bun and chips and a bowlful of gruel
Then she fell off and landed in a heap
And the wall fell down and buried a sheep

Hey diddy, didily dum
Watch out now,
Here comes Mum

I wander lonely through a wood
Smelling the air as best I could
While dancing stags pass me by
And fluffy rabbits sit and cry

Hey diddy, didily dum
Watch out now,
Here comes Mum
Hey diddy, didily, didily dum

Ode for a Pint
(I’ll pay later)

Oh pint of nectar, flagon of ale
Nothing matches your amber pale
Cool and refreshing, as a mountain stream
Sadly in my local, seldom seen.

Oh Glass Ball

Oh crystal ball
Do not fall
Onto the floor
Or against the door
You will smash
And go to pieces
And cut my feet

If Can What?

If a man looks at a flower does he see a bee?
When a woman hears a petal, does she need a pee?
If waterfall flows upwards
Does a daughter really need to scream?
Is this all but a bad dream?

Can a boy jump up into a tree?
Even if it is not there
Can a rabbit cook a parsnip under the stair?
These are problems that no one can solve
Not until we all sort of evolve.

Pibble Poo

Flibble, bibble, flobble bobble
I really fancy a dam good gobble!

Higgledy piggledy, ponky poo
I somehow don’t think it will come from you!

Stumpy, dumpy rackaty woo
Boo and foo to stinky you!

Plonkerty dump, shaggerty coo
I you like this you must have a real big poo!

So go away and don’t come back
Until rain runs up your smelly ugly back

Do You?

Does your toggle get tangled
When you wear your big black dress
Do your buttocks hang low
And swing to and fro’
Do your nipples get frosty
When you open the fridge
Or do you just get horny
You randy little titch!


Away in Manger

Away in a manger
In a faraway field
Lay a poor little angel
Who had been dealt a bad deal

He did not have wings
He could unfold to fly
Or feathers big enough
No matter how he tried

He did not have the strength
To climb out of the pen
And when he fell back
He never tried again

So he stayed there
All safe and secure
And pondered on life
While feeling demure

After a Party

After a party ends and the clean-up begins
All that is left is a crateful of tins
And if that’s an example of the night’s pleasure
It’s fair explanation the party’s measure

And when a man is found under a table
It just goes to show what was able
For the party was a good one,
And so was the table.

What shall I do Tomorrow?

What shall I do tomorrow
Stay at home or go for a swim?
I suppose it really doesn’t matter
It depends on what mood I’m in

I could go for a ride on a coo-coo
And then travel on a trolley bus
Or maybe I’ll just go shopping
And pick up a brand new truss

I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow
But in the end I know it’ll be up to me
Weather choose to go to the seaside
Or spend the day hanging about in a tree



Piddle poo
Piddle pum
That’s about me
I’m all done


There, I told you they were bad...
Now go and get yourself a stiff drink!


Latest News:

I am pleased to report I have found a publisher who has agreed to publish my poems. I will finalise the details once he has been released from his padded cell.


I’dratha Not’say
© Domasion Ragor 2011
© Copyright 2011 Domasion Ragor (domasionragor at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1768956