These are examples of light verse and nonsense verse that I have written for readers of all ages ...
Ars Brevis, Proofreading Longa
by Michael R. Burch
for Brooke Clark
Poets may labor from sun to sun,
but their editor's work is never done.
***
Dry Hump
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy’s a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
Published by Shot Glass Journal
***
Rallying the Dupes
by Michael R. Burch
after Anaïs Vionet
Houston, we have a problem:
the virus is multiplying;
meanwhile, our Demander-in-Chief
keeps lying, lying, lying.
Houston, we have a problem:
the Astros are now the Nau(gh)ts,
but Tweety will still pack the ’Dome
untroubled by actual thoughts.
Originally published by LIGHT (the first stanza)
***
The Hippopotami
by Michael R. Burch
There’s no seeing eye to eye
with the awesomely huge Hippopotami:
on the bank, you’re much taller;
going under, you’re smaller
and assuredly destined to die!
***
Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch
I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to kill it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.
***
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
***
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
***
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
***
tRUMP is the butt of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Dark Cloud, Silver Lining
from “Love in the Time of the Coronavirus”
by Michael R. Burch
Every corona has a silver lining:
I’m too far away to hear your whining,
and despite my stormy demeanor,
my hands have never been cleaner!
***
Justice may be blind, but does she have to be deaf too?—Michael R. Burch
There is nothing at all supreme, nor anything remotely just, about Clarence Thomas.—Michael R. Burch
***
Crunch
by Michael R. Burch
A cockroach could live nine months on the dried mucous you scrounge from your nose
then fling like seedplants to the slowly greening floor ...
You claim to be the advanced life form, but, mon frere,
sometimes as you snatch encrusted kinks of hair from your Leviathan ass
and muse softly on zits, icebergs snap off the Antarctic.
You’re an evolutionary quandary, in need of a sacral ganglion
to control your enlarged, contradictory hindquarters:
surely the brain should migrate closer to its primary source of information,
in order to ensure the survival of the species.
Cockroaches thrive on eyeboogers and feces;
their exoskeletons expand and gleam like burnished armor in the presence of uranium.
But your cranium
is not nearly so adaptable.
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!
***
Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch
I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.
Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch
I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?
***
Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Ireland’s Ire has Landed
The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.
Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”
The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.
The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.
***
Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Zip It
by Michael R. Burch
Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the butt of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.
***
Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten Ass
by Michael R. Burch
There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest ass (et) wus his rump.
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!
***
On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so horny it lofts her thus?
On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch
A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!
The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch
A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
but then lost it to poachers, sedated.
***
A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch
March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!
This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.
***
Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch
Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!
Love, but don’t fall.
Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!
Love, but don’t fall.
Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.
Love, but don’t fall.
***
Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch
I’m low on jizz,
lost my fizz,
out of biz.
Flabby and horny,
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.
Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a vagina need a beard?
Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?
And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?
Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?
***
This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.
An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made love at speeds faster than light.
She had sex one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!
There was a young porn star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for sex,
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch
Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!
There once was a camel who loved to hump.
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch
I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
—Michael R. Burch
***
Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch
I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!
My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!
I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"
But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!
***
Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch
History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.
I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of *Discover* that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.
***
The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch
It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.
***
WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch
When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?
Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?
Will the porpoises
lack purpose,
the marigolds
fold?
Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?
Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?
***
That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch
for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT
There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.
But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.
***
One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch
Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:
“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”
“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”
“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”
But Robert Horry’s not impressed.
Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.
Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.
Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.
Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.
Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!
***
Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
by Michael R. Burch
1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle dirty),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.
2
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!
3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?
4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!
5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!
6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.
***
Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch
Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.
Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your ass cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.
***
New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch
The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?
I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!
They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!
And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...
So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!
***
Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch
for Tallulah Bankhead
“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a slut.”
“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”
***
a peom in supsport of a dsylexci peot
by michael r. burch, allso a peot
for ken d williams
pay no hede to the saynayers,
the asburd wordslayers,
the splayers and sprayers,
the heartless diecriers,
the liers!
what the hell due ur criticks no?
let them bellow below!
ur every peom has a good haert
and culd allso seerv as an ichart!
There are a number of puns, including ur (my term for original/ancient/first), no/know, pay/due, the critic as both absurd and an as(s)-burd who is he(artless), and the poet as the (seer)v of an (i)-chart for all. Here is an encoded version:
(pay) k(no)w hede to the say(nay)ers,
the as(s)bird word(s*)layers,
the s*(players) and s*(prayers),
the he(artless) (die)(cry)ers,
the (lie)rs!
what the hell (due) ur (cry)(ticks) k(no)w?
let them (be)l(low) below!
(ur) every peom has a good haert
and culd (all)so (seer)ve as an (i)chart!
Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, humorous verse
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