Tag Archives: #funny

Better Off Dead

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My head’s been set on fire,
My weary bones do ache,
I’m sizzlin’ hot to touch,
Still, I shiver and I shake.
With a scratch in my throat and,
A faucet for a nose,
That gets redder and more raw,
Every time it has to blows.

I’ve got blotches on my torso,
Itchy, scratchy and the such,
My palatine uvula is so swollen,
It’s becoming a little much.
I’ve burst blood vessels in my eye,
From coughing up a lung,
Don’t get me started on the back end,
Just get me a bloody bung.

My insides twisted up in knots,
Cramps eating at my gut,
Pressure building deep within,
Gases exploding from my butt.
I kneel before the Ivory throne,
Paying respect to the porcelain King,
I’ve eaten nothing in three days,
Still, I’m going to fill the thing.

I bolt awake at 2 a.m.,
Sweat streaming from my pores,
I’ve been lying here so bloody long,
I’m developing bedsores.
Not Tylenol or Advil or a combo of the two
Can soothe this pounding head,
Don’t know how much more I can take
I think I’d be better off dead!

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Pocket Lint

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This poem was inspired by Joanne Fisher and her “What’s In Your Pocket?” prompt for Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. The poem was to be written as a Tanka and you can find my official entry here. I also wrote this little ditty that strayed way too far from the rules and really should never have seen the light of day. I admit, I thought about burying it forever for just the briefest of moments and then said bleep it and published it anyway. Sorry in advance…

I know it’s here someplace,
Where, oh where did it go,
‘neath lint covered bubble gum
That’s long lost its blow.

That feels like a skittle,
Or a raisin left to grow,
If entered in the science fair,
It’s guaranteed best in show.

Bottomless it seems,
My T in up to the sleeve,
Dear Lord, a used rubber,
Sans baby batter, I beg, please.

Is that the telly remote,
I’d wondered where it had gone,
Of course, the dang replacement,
Just arrived from Amazon.

Down deeper I dig,
how much further, O-M-Gee,
a fusty festering tissue,
may hold a cure for SARS CoVee.

An apple that’s sprouted,
And the hamster I’d set free,
One thing’s for damned certain,
There’s no sign of my key.

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