Tag Archives: humorous verse

Stapelia

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Stapelia, Stapelia, your beauty makes me sigh,
yet I fear precipitation might be drawing nigh.
Stapelia, Stapelia, how marvellous your bloom,
but a sickly stench of carrion invades my living room.
Stapelia, Stapelia, do you have no shame?
I sense I’m going to vomit, and your flower must take the blame.

Stapelia Variegata bears lovely blooms – but they stink like rotting meat. My plant has lots of buds. I can’t help admiring her… from a distance.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Miscalculation

Or

bad-idea-words

Inebriation
Flirtation
Assignation
Sensation
Titillation
Lubrication
Elation
Vibration
Gyration
Deflation
Cessation
Frustration
Castration
Prostration
Hospitalisation
Recrimination
Investigation
Litigation
Mitigation?
Erectile emigration vexation

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Written for the Word of the Day Challenge: Investigation

Inspired by Nestle Five Boys Chocolate

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Games with Names

W

Within wildest Wales,
Will will walk with warm, wilting Welsh women,
Wayland will wail with whales.
Warner’s warning whispers will waken wary Wade;
Wade won’t wade – will wonder why Wally wildly wallows.
Watching wistfully, Wiston will wait
while Willow weaves wet withering willow.
Wanda will wander,
Woody will whittle wood, wishing Walter wouldn’t waste water.
Wan will wanly wave wands, wasting wishes.
Warren will waft weak warrants,
Winnie will whinny, wearily watching,
Wayne will whine woefully.
Wendy will wend westward
while Wallace will wince and writhe in shame,
since Jane is tired of playing alliterative name games.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Fiction Planet

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Fiction Planet is a crazy place
unknowingly created by the human race;
with it’s ever increasing wish for fiction,
there’s never the risk of dereliction.

It’s a world that never fills to overflowing,
constantly stretching, endlessly growing,
while every writer throughout age and time;
in tales long and short, in prose and rhyme,
creates more protagonists to join the throng
of fictional characters, both weak and strong;
carelessly scribbled or seamlessly drawn,
old as the hills or recently born.

Every character in every tale
is instantly despatched, without fail,
to a rocket-ship, soon to be hurled
onto the surface of a far-flung world,
complete with their views, their histories and lives,
the secondary characters; friends, foes and wives.

Thin personalities with watery expression,
written with no talent in a hurried session,
travel with oddballs whose unlikely obsession;
unusual habits and peculiar repression,
are fascinating foibles to make them more real,
your interest to excite, your faith to seal.

Misfortune and cruelty, joy and pleasure;
every kind of fiction is here by the measure
There are ‘orrible murders by the score,
ghosts, fiends and zombies, blood, guts and gore.
Stories intermingle, tangling inextricably;
they change and distort and whirl inexplicably.

Sex scenes steam on rain-speckled streets.
Car chase leaves tyre marks on black satin sheets.
Oldies cry “Ahoy!” as their creaky hips
limp across storybook pirate ships.

Oily business men stroke local cheese,
cheesemakers in markets sell secretaries knees.
Spaceship doors open and wives appear,
husbands break rules that their aliens hold dear.

Alice is trapped in Arabian nights,
little boy blue is winning fisticuff fights.
Tommy Tucker bravely climbs up the spout
when along with Bo-peep he gets washed out.

Baa-baa-black sheep is pulling out its thumb
and finding a spider as big as a plum.
Flower fairies wander in the city of angels,
Jack and Jill have fallen into Aesop’s fables.

A dragon has eaten the princess with the pea,
and the mad hatter’s buddies aren’t coming to tea;
they’re sitting in rows in a Dickensian school,
while Peter Rabbit rolls out the golden rule.

The whole mad planet should be overflowing
since hoards are arriving and not a soul is going,
but day by day, the planet keeps growing
and there’s no indication that activity is slowing.

When the last living writer has ceased to breathe,
there’ll be no new arrivals, and nobody will leave;
no joy of birth on that planet in the sky –
and no final grief; storybook folk can never die.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Narcissism

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A narcissist?
That isn’t a nice thing to say
to one who is perfect in every way.
I don’t wish to sound vain,
but the truth is quite plain;
I’m top of the A list,
on everyone’s play list.
There’s no-one can match my magnetic attraction,
my beauty’s undimmed by dark and refraction,
even my mirror’s in love with me.
Why, if I could find someone as winsome as I,
I’d wed them today and whisk them away,
but no matter how hard I try,
this sweet face is all I can see –
I can love no-one but me.

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Written for The Daily Post Word Prompt: Narcissism

©Jane Paterson Basil

Candid Camera.

This is just a quickie, if you’ll pardon the pun…

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She couldn’t resist what she saw
when she gazed at her brother-in-law.
He slipped her a key
thinking no-one would see
through a solid wood bedroom door.

But sometimes walls contain eyes
that record our deceit and our lies.
Their passion was brief
and their randy relief
preceded a nasty surprise.

A candid camera had caught ‘er
doing what she didn’t aughta.
her behaviour so lewd
was what started the feud
with her mother’s other daughter.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

What’s That Word?

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Every day I rouse myself to almost write a rhyme,
it almost works almost well, almost every time.
I almost have an idea, I almost have a theme,
I almost have the words to fit into a tidy scheme.
It drives me almost crazy that I can’t finish it,
and almost every word I write looks to me like…

I’m searching for an epithet to end my little rhyme,
but now my mind is empty; it happens every time.
A goblin must have gobbled up every clever phrase
and perfect words have been mislaid within a foggy haze.
I search my mind for useful nouns as in this chair I sit,
but everything I come up with, turns out to be…

armpit?
counterfeit?
Split?
ill-writ?
Unfit?

Am I missing something obvious…?

©Jane Paterson Basil