humor
TWO MAGNIFICENT MEN IN A FLYING MACHINE
TWO MAGNIFICENT MEN IN A FLYING MACHINE Two magnificent men in a flying machine, Came passing right over my head, One of them Tony, The other was Fred, They landed in a field not far away, And shouted, anybody want a ride today.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a month ago in Poets
No, Chef
The kitchens are bright with dreams of gourmet fame, Where chefs parade their titles, pompous, grand, A whistle blows—a dish ignites the flame— “Excuse me, sir,” they say with raised hand. The sous-chef’s slicing onions like a pro, While patrons’ palettes waltz on tongues of gold. Yet here I stand—my heart a “no” in tow, As every plate brings forth a tale retold. “Oh chef!” they cry with fervor and delight, “The basil’s fresh; the truffle’s purest bliss!” But must we serve each whim that feels so right? Do dreams turn bland when served upon a dish? The fancier the plate—the less it feeds; With foam and froth, we laugh at simple needs. An artful swirl—a smear that makes you ponder: Is this what life has turned to? A rare squander! Oh joyless feast of fashion's fleeting trend! When shall we dine on warmth from hearth and home? To savor life’s true essence—this should mend— Yet here we are in haute cuisine’s cold dome. So raise your forks and let us digress more! For just one bite of laughter ‘neath the norm. Let flavors clash; let humble hearts restore— And from our plates create our own new form.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Yes, Chef
This is where realm of pots chaos reigns, Stands Chef Supreme with grand disdain. With knife in hand and apron tied tight, He rules the kitchen both day and night. “Chop that onion!” he bellows with glee, As sous-chefs scurry like ants on a spree. “Julienne, dice! No time for mistakes!” A culinary drill sergeant for all our sakes. The garlic’s a soldier; it must obey, While herbs are mere pawns in his gourmet play. The sauce simmers low like his temper at stake— One drop out of line? It’s an epic mistake! Yet behind this façade of chefly finesse, Lies a man who’d rather be free from this stress. For every fine plate is just gilded despair, Where dreams turn to soufflés that float in thin air. His staff fears the wrath of a spoon-wielding king; For under his rule, even vegetables sting. Each meal is a battle fought fiercely and hard— With laughter as scarce as a well-placed shard. But when plates are cleared and silence descends, And tired souls gather like long-lost friends, They toast to the chaos — their love interjects: “In this kitchen of madness, respect earns its checks.” So here’s to our Chef with his tempestuous flair; A tyrant at heart but with seasoning rare! In satire we find truth served up on a dish— That even great leaders might harbor one wish: To swap out the spatula for spoons made of gold— To trade all their battles for stories retold; For once they’ve transformed each vegetable fright, It’s laughter we crave at the end of each night.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Is it Over
This is where dreams are sold, And promises grow strangely cold, I sit amidst the hopeful throng, As each new trend sings out its song. “Is it over?” I ask with glee, As laughter swirls like leaves from a tree. The latest craze fades quicker than light— Last week’s sensation is today’s fright. We chased the fads with fervent zeal, Believed that joy was something real; Yet here we stand in shadowed doubt, Clutching our phones—what's that about? The influencers pose in sunset hues, While filters mask their own life’s blues. With every swipe and double-tap, We drown our woes in an endless trap. Oh glorious age of fleeting fame! Where every loser plays the game! A hashtag here—a meme to share— Yet deep inside we’re stripped and bare. So raise your glass to what we've lost; To hollow hearts at any cost. For all this noise has made us mute— Is it over? Not yet! Let’s recoup! But hark! The clock ticks on so fast— Tomorrow's news is already past. So let us laugh through all this dread: Is it over yet? Perhaps… but not quite dead.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
The Great Egg Hunt
In a world where treasures lie beneath the screen, Where dreams of fortune dance in pixels’ gleam, A marketplace of oddities unfolds its scene, Oh Craigslist, you curio shop—what a strange theme! From sofas worn and weary to cars that wheeze, You’ll find it all—exotic pets or ghostly cheese. An egglist springs from this bizarre bazaar, A listing for each whimsy, no matter how bizarre. One man seeks love in a vintage recliner’s embrace, While another peddles avocados with flair and grace. “Free kittens!” yells the header; “Buy one get one free!” Perhaps that’s just a ploy for some feline jubilee. But lo! What’s this? An egglist born anew! “Fertile duck eggs,” cries a vendor quite askew. “Collect them while you can; they hatch into delight!” What luck awaits the buyer on this fateful night? Yet tread with care through these eccentric lanes— For what if the eggs hold secrets like hidden chains? “The yolks are golden treasure,” says the shifty-eyed seller; Or perhaps they’re just illusions spun by an old feller. So gather ‘round dear buyers of the digital realm, In Craigslist's sea of nonsense let whimsy take the helm. From couches to critters and eggs that might rot, Life’s absurdity shines bright when sold at such a plot!
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Gourmet Boot
In a quaint little bistro, where laughter does bloom, I ordered a dish that would surely consume; The menu proclaimed it a savory treat— A fried boot, golden-crisped, daintily neat. With a flourish they served it on porcelain white, My heart raced with hunger—oh what pure delight! But the waiter just chuckled, his eyes full of glee, "A culinary wonder; it's boot à la me!" Each bite was absurd—a crunch like old leather, With flavors reminiscent of storms and bad weather. Garlic and salt danced on tongues in dismay, While patrons around me just stared in dismay. For who could have thought that this shoe-sole delight? Would spark such reflections on appetite's blight? That taste buds so fickle can lead us astray— To dine on a sole when one's craving soufflé. Yet here I am feasting on irony’s plate, A dish made for jesters at destiny's gate. So I'll raise my glass high to this strange little feast— A boot of all things—a most curious beast! In laughter we gather 'round tables adorned, For life’s truest pleasures are often well-worn. And though I might savor this gastronomic ruse, It’s love for the absurd that I choose to peruse.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
When Laughter Blooms
In the garden where our laughter grows, Amidst the roses' blush and daisies’ cheer, I fell funny, in the way love shows— A playful spark igniting what is dear. You caught my gaze like sunbeams on a stream, With every chuckle twinkling in your eyes; We danced through moments stitched with joy's bright seam, As whispers of affection filled the skies. Each jest we shared became a secret song, A melody that wrapped around my heart; In silly games where we both felt so strong, Our souls entwined, never meant to part. Your laughter weaves a tapestry of light, A symphony that fills the darkest night. When clouds loom close and shadows start to creep, I find your smile still guiding me like dawn; In this sweet dance of humor, deep and steep, I fell funny—lost but lovingly drawn. So here I stand beneath this sky so wide, With you beside me in our merry plight; For in each laugh shared with you as my guide, I found true love—a heart's most pure delight.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Confusion's Conundrum
In a town where whispers twist and twirl, Lived a man named Confusion, quite the pearl. With socks mismatched and hair all askew, He’d mix up his morning, like cereal with stew. “Good day!” he would greet, then trip on a cat, A sprightly young fellow, but where was he at? He’d aim for the door but end up in a booth, His compass was broken; he sought out the truth. At breakfast one morn’, with toast piled so high, He pondered if butter could fly to the sky. “A flapping delight!” he'd say with a grin— Then laugh at himself for such nonsense within. The postman came by with letters galore, But Confusion thought they were gifts from the store! He opened them wide, expecting some treats— Found bills that informed him of overdue feats. His friends would all chuckle when he'd take a stand: “Just tell us your plan! Give us something quite grand!” Yet he'd scratch his head and reply in good cheer, “My plan is to plan… oh dear! What’s so clear?” At dances he'd spin like a leaf in the breeze, And step on toes often—oh please! More than these! But laughter erupted as each footwork blundered; Confusion just grinned while everyone thundered. Yet deep down inside this chaotic parade, Was wisdom unwritten—his charm never swayed. For even amidst jumble and muddled pursuits, Confusion found joy in his quirky roots.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Ride Them Fast
There once was a horse, quite brash, Who loved to strut with flair and flash. With a kick and a snort, He’d cause quite the sort, Leaving riders to laugh in a clash. In fields where the daisies would sway, He'd gallop around for the play. But his stubborn old heart, Would often depart, When asked for a trot on the way. With his mane like a wild golden crown, He'd prance with pride all over town. But alas! What’s the cost? To be deemed just an ass? As he strutted around wearing frown.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
