In the Doggerel House 5

This time verses suitable for Halloween are offered along with a few quatrains about authors and the writing life.

 Poets like to walk in old graveyards  
And I, too, march to that chorus;
But I’ll give up that habit forever
If one day there I meet Bela or Boris.
A vampire who’s lived for two hundred years  
Still cares for one woman only;
He’s had lots more joy than tears,
But at class reunions feels a bit lonely.
A lucid book should be shot up close for panache; 
On a more murky work, better try a flash;
But as for Joyce’s Wake  (I say this with bravura),
I think I would use a camera obscura.
Good horror stories can cause some people  
To lose weight and tighten their buckles;
The only things these readers take by mouth
Are their fingernails and their first knuckles.
“Her poems are alive” reads the blurb,  
Though all seems still on every page;
Should I keep her book on a shelf
Or put it by itself in a cage?
Scary movies put a man in a panic,  
He would twitch at the softest “Boo!”
He wore a sign that simply read,
“Starting Friday at a theater near you.”
The Plague Dogs is divided into ten fits  
Which may chase some away who can’t bear it;
I think that’s the best thing to do
Because if the fits shoo, ware it.
I once spent a night in a snake pit,  
It was as safe as being with nuns;
I simply put the creatures to sleep
By telling them some of my puns.
Sally Bowles was called a free spirit,  
But there’s no such thing in or out of blouse;
Do you know how much they charge these days
Just to haunt a single house?
The man who went to see a witch  
Didn’t like a word she said;
He finally gave up and said,
“Keep a sibyl tongue in your head!”
“Try this cream and look like a movie star!”  
We’ve heard them sing that familiar tune;
More likely than not, the star we’d resemble
Would be Lon Chaney Jr. on a full moon.
When Jekyll disappeared with his pet,  
Hopes of finding them were slim;
To this day they haven’t been found,
No one has seen Hyde nor hare of him.
I don’t trust my new shower radio
Though it’s handy and looks quite gleaming;
When I turned it on, the first thing I heard
Was the sound of Janet Leigh screaming.
If Stephen King opens a diner,
Pass it up and don’t linger on;
Because inside the hostess will surely ask,
“Do you want to sit in breathing or non?”
I asked the ghost of the poet
What person set him free;
The answer came back like a tune:
“My Mama,” Donne told me.
Authors like to go looking for Dracula
And other creatures both old and new;
But the latest book may end the trend:
In Search of Little Latin Lupe Lu.
There’s one question from the fifties
That still plagues the human race:
What happened to the first eight plans
That came from outer space?
There are villains and there are crooks,
Some of them end up being shot or hanged;
Then there are vampires who work as accountants
Whom I will trust as I will adders fanged.
There are few channel swimmers now,
The reason is not hard to see;
Anyone going out in the foul water
May come back like the Creature in 3-D.
It’s tough to follow the changing trends,
To keep up with the rads and the groovies;
Face-off used to be a hockey term,
Now it’s the plot of horror movies.
A witch’s potion was losing power
And her broom was out of kilter,
But soon things were fine again,
All she did was change the philter.
Some sayings on T-shirts make us laugh,
Others bring us to the edge of weeping;
Maybe we’ll even see one like this:
“Rondo Hatton is alive and creeping.”
What’s with the blackened eyes and grubby clothes?
It’s enough to fill me with the utmost dread;
Since when did it become trendy to look
Like extras from Night of the Living Dead?
A book that’s been an alternate of two book clubs,
That’s enough to rob any author of his vim;
It’s like being told by Zsa Zsa Gabor,
“You were my first choice after him…and him.”
I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen,
They approached the palace from the north;
Her husband made his butler come next
Because he knew that kings go fourth.
Each time I pass the newsstand I wonder,  
“Who is this Us they’re talking about?” It’s strange.
Why don’t they call the mag Them
And malign some big ants for a change?
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Things that will make you cry in your beer:
Said a DJ after giving one song a spin,
“That was the love theme from I Eat Your Skin.”
When twin thugs played the Thing,
They ran around the set like Rover;
To the director a grip complained,
“Toughs are Thing all over.”
Mom wouldn’t touch our Famous Monsters
For a reason any werewolf might fear:
“Why do I need to look at those
When I’m raising four of them right here?”
The stories about mummies and curses are bunk,
I plundered a tomb, yet I live to gloat;
Later I’ll brag to my new friend Kharis
As soon as he takes his hands off my throat.
This entry was posted in Humor, Humorous Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s