When I am a mother
I wrote this when I was 10, and it is now out there on the vast intermeweb for some reason, I did a google search to find it:

When I am a mother,
I will wear a green hat
And a heavy blue coat to go with.
When I am a mother
I will wear a long skirt
And a scarf with holes like a sieve.
I will say to my daughter,
When she's ready for school,
Stay in bed all the day
And that is a rule!
I will pack up her lunch-box,
And her lunch, well a treat,
Toenail cocktail and lizard's feet.
When she goes out the door,
I will shout after her,
Remember my girl,
To make faces at sir.
And when she has gone,
When I've fixed all the chips,
I will go out on long
expensive shopping trips.
I will race with my sister,
My trolley in hand,
Not really caring,
Where jars and tins land.
If my daughter has homework,
I will tell her soon,
Do not do your homework,
Just do it at school!
I would have a mobile phone
(one trusty, mind you)
So my daughter could ring me
When I wasn't at home.
A normal life I've chosen, you see
For I don't want to act
ABNORMALLY!
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 12:21, Reply)

Well, the only one I can remember from my youth is...
There was a necrophiliac named Jeremy
Who said to his mates, "Will you bury me?
Cos I can't get a wiff
Of a willing young stiff
So I might as well wank in the cemetery."
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 11:49, Reply)

I'm in work
So I don't have any of my teenage poetry and I can't remember any of it, but it would have been like this ...

My orange juice,
Says it's,
'With bits',
I hope that it's,
Not bits,
Of cheese.
(Ted P 8 0 M F G 6 0 1 0 4 7 3 6 5 +, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 10:55, Reply)

Spelling
too
(woohoo, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 9:17, Reply)

Limericks are fun
There was a young lady from Crewe
Who filled her vagina with glue
She said with a grin
If they pay to get in
They can pay to get out again to.



Sorry
(_earwaxuk_, Thu 18 Aug 2005, 7:52, Reply)

Ich spreche eine kleine Deutche....but wot the hell
Ich gibt dir meinen saft du gibst dir meinen.

Du gibst dir meinen saft ich gibt dir meinen.

Thats all the crap poetry i have to offer.

Please correct me on the spellin...cos i know some clever shizer kopf will....and yes...i probably spelt that wrong too u twunt.

Apologies for poor german grammar...eat my bustenhalter.
(Oops....did I say that out loud cos I really bloody want to., Thu 18 Aug 2005, 1:34, Reply)

Filth
There once was a young man named Dave,
Who kept a dead whore in a cave.
They asked "Isn't it odd,
that you screw a dead bod?"
Yes, but think of the money I save.

Apologies to the author.
(Lister, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 23:52, Reply)

Ahhh limericks are great...
There once was a man from Bel Air,
Who was doing his girl on the stair.
When the banister broke,
He doubled his stroke,
And finished her off in mid-air
(Bhougal...hang me upside down from a banana tree and call me BERTTIE BHOUGAL>>>Oh Yeah...!!, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 23:42, Reply)

Please
Please,please,please,please STOP.

Blackadder. And on the same theme...

Boom Boom Boom Boom
Boom Boom Boom Boom
Boom Boom Boom Boom
Boom Boom Boom

Thank fuck it's almost Thursday and a new QOTW. Hopefully something we can write about rather than the drivel we've had to put up with this week.

And, I think that for the first time ever when posting to B3Ta, I really am
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 23:13, Reply)

good old limericks
There was a man called Michael McKinnon,
Who had soggy bedsheets and linen,
all day he would weep,
cos he pissed while asleep,
and if he shat? well I guess he wud bin 'em!
(acharps, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 22:49, Reply)

Mädchenhände
Wenn zarte Mädchenhände auf einer kalten Schiene vom nahenden Hochgeschwindigkeitszug zermatsch werden, dann lacht mein Herz und weint zugleich. Die fleißigen Händchen, immer darauf bedacht den Herrn zu befriedigen und das Häusliche Interieur sauber zu halten... diese Händchen sind dann nicht mehr. Notgedrungen muss der Kopf auch noch die Gleise spüren. Es gibt ja genug Weibsmaterial. Heute ist nicht Morgen.

!!!ATTENTION!!!
This is not mine! Its from a good friend who told me to post this here! His Nicname is JCB!
(FoxA / DannyWeinkauf, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 21:26, Reply)

McKinnon salutes you
Thanks for all your McKinnon related poetry. I'm sure Mr McKinnon will be equally delighted should he ever read it (sorry Michael).

The was a man called Michael McKinnon
Who had very soggy bedsheets and linen
His tank had a leak
Which at his peak
Lead to his Mayfair stash getting quite damp.


Dammit, what rhymes with linen??
(Hagis, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 21:17, Reply)

Michael McKinnon mk II
There once was a man called Michael McKinnon
Who had very soggy bedsheets and linen
He mounted a moose
To release some man-juice
But ended up doing his shin in.

Hagis, this game is effing great :D
( The Helpful Bear, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 21:08, Reply)

Michael McKinnon
There once was a man called Michael McKinnon
Who had very soggy bedsheets and linen
The reason for that
Was the shit from his cat
But despite this he carried on grinning.
( The Helpful Bear, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 21:04, Reply)

There once was a man called MichAEL
McKinnon who had very sog,
Gy bedsheets and lin,
En now it's my turn;
One's scanning is very import.
(roysin, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 20:10, Reply)

an attempt
How about...

There once was a man called Michael McKinnon
Who had very soggy bedsheets and linen.
He turned and he tossed, a moanin' and grinnin'
and he said Mrs. Mckinnon, is it in, in?
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 19:51, Reply)

Little Boy Blew
Little Boy Blew
He needed the money.
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 19:44, Reply)

The Lady in a Shoe
I knew an old lady that lived in a shoe
she had so many kids, her uterus fell out.
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 19:44, Reply)

hagis
how about...

there once was a man called michael mckinnon
who had very soggy bedsheets and linen
he knew it was wrong
to play with his dong
but somehow he just kept right on sinnin'

sorry.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 19:37, Reply)

Whilst stuck in an A-Level lecture
When I was doing my A-levels we were taken to an economics lecuture where one of the speakers was a City bigwig called Michael McKinnon. Bored, we tried writing limericks. My friend did the first line and I only managed one more line before collapsing in fits of laugher.

There once was a man called Michael McKinnon
Who had very soggy bedsheets and linen.

It seemed hilarious at the time and I struggled to keep quiet. I'd have loved to have finished it, but couldn't think of anything to add.

Feel free too.
(Hagis, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 19:35, Reply)

Er.....
I clearly missed out on this teenage poetry lark……..


Noooooooooooooooooooooo
(Oops....did I say that out loud cos I really bloody want to., Wed 17 Aug 2005, 18:58, Reply)

A poem i wrote yesterday...
Surplus Angst

I think that when i was born
I fell out of the happy tree.
And was given as a remedy
an large bottle of teenage angst.
When i drank it regularly
i felt a strange efficiency
in writing tortured artist shite
wielding my pen with all my might
And o' it was a pretty flop
i reached the point i had to drop
the grammatical needs of society
all in the name of crap poetry
and thus i reach my twentieth year
and as it was as i still fear
theres plenty angst left in me yet
i think i just might start to fret
And so how will i combat this clause
to drink my surplus angst then pause
and plan to cause as much destruction
while im twenty the deconstruction
of everything that i should have been
why not carry on while im twenteen?

Possibly the last poetry i will ever write as a teenager (unless twenteen counts as a teenager..)
(Salbo_baggins, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 15:56, Reply)

My teenage poems
Hurrah for trees,
Trees are nice,
They don't eat cheese,
They're not like mice.

&

I used to know a little fish,
Who swam through deep blue seas,
But now he lies upon a plate,
With ketchup, chips and peas.

Yay!
(martin_e, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 15:34, Reply)

Yes, yes, its not mine, its by Monty Python, so what....
A Latin Poem

A saila sed tumi vercani baea frog?
Aet oldim via dua nu livdi nava bog.
E sed aedgita peni tu tacem aut again
Buta sae tucis muni aeurdit pulda chain.


And another one:

A panto-writer, Harry Hyam,
Who was extremely fond of rhyme,
One day said to his comrades: "I'm
Just sick of writing pantomime
For which I get paid half a dime,
I'm going to write a poem sublime,
By which you'll see my fame will climb
Above all others, for this time
I'm only going to use ONE rhyme!"
His friends said he was past his prime
And even working overtime,
They said, he'd never keep ONE rhyme
Right through a poem. But Harry Hyam
Had started off and by noontime
He'd written fifteen lines of rhymes
Each one the same, and by tea-time
He'd written more and more betime.
But listen! Isn't it a crime?
It happened that a small enzyme*
That looked just like a speck of lime
Had landed on his head some time,
And as he heard the midnight chime
This enzyme started making slime
That smelt of matters maritime,
And oozed out through his fingers' grime
And landed on his paper. I'm
Quite sure I don't have to mime
What happened next, but, by bedtime,
The slime and grime has caused a zyme**
Which wholly covered Harry Hyam,
And, as he lived in Hildesheim
Which has a hot and sultry clime
(Especially in the summertime),
This zyme converted into chyme***
And soon digested Harry Hyam
From slimy feet to slimy cyme,****
His hands, his hair, his pen, his rhyme.
And all it left was the half a dime
They'd paid him for the pantomime
They put on once, in Burgwindheim.
His friends came round at breakfast time,
And sighed to find this paradigm
Of poets gone. The half a dime
They took and tied it up in sime*****
And burried it in Gundelsheim.
And on the grave they planted thyme,
- For that's all there was left to rhyme.

*Enzyme: "Any of a class of complex organic substances that cause chemical transformations of material in plants and animals; formerly called ferment."
**Zyme: "The substance causing a zymotic infectious disease." (zymotic="A general epithet for infectious disease, originally because regarded as being caused by a process analogous to fermentation.")
***Chyme: "The semi-fluid pulpy acid matter into which food is converted in the stomach by the action of the gastric secretion."
****Cyme: "A head" (From the French: cyme or cime meaning: "top, summit")
*****Sime: "A rope or cord" (A northern dialect word last recorded in 1899)



Been looking for somewhere to share these for ages. Thanks b3ta!
(whirleygig, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 15:25, Reply)

There was a young lady called Anna
Who was a dab hand with a spanner
She'd use it on nuts
With no ifs or buts
While wearing a stripy bandana

(acknowledgements to my good friend Luke, about whom we have yet to write a limerick)
(spacecowgirl, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 14:50, Reply)

Shared washing machines
Not one I wrote, but after I came down one day to find the dryer full of someone elses' dried washing, I decided to be nice and so folded it all and put it in sorted piled, with socks by the side. A few days later, I had this slipped under my door...

To the Laundry Queen

One day I ventured
Into a place cold and smelly
to get laundry done
so that I could cover my belly

Into the right-hand washing machine
Went the great load
Then into the bottom dryer
12 shekel chadah all together I was told

And when I returned
To get my dry clothes
There was a vision before me
That made me froze (freeze really, but whatever, poetic license)

I had a visit
From the Laundry Queen
And there was the most beautifully folded laundry
I had ever seen!

:D
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 14:11, Reply)

Knights on maneouver
In a follow-up to Barfs post, I remember this one too:

In days of old when knights were bold
and women weren't invented
They drilled a hole in a wooden pole
and they were quite contented
(bigquack, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 13:31, Reply)

Radio profundity....
I think quite highly
of Jo Whiley
Isn't Simon Mayo a slimy cunt though?
(this is a shit username, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 13:25, Reply)

A strange bird is the cuckoo
It sits upon the grass
Its wings folded neatly
Its beak shoved up its arse
In this odd position
It mumbles 'twit twit'
It's had to sing 'cuckoo'
With your beak all full of shit.

You've been a great audience,
I'm Captn Hood-butter...
Good night.
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Wed 17 Aug 2005, 13:24, Reply)

Mumble

Roses are reddish
Violets are blueish
If it wasn't for Jesus
We'd all be Jewish

I thank you

www.livejournal.com/users/legless123/
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 9:33, Reply)