More Humour

Alternative poems
(but for one).




18.  A Little Squeeze

It was only a little squeeze — yes, an affectionate cuddle, if you please, but she was so cute and sweet, five foot nothing in her stocking feet, so “Please take care of me” petite, so adorably packaged and neat, and oh my, how my heart skipped a beat, which saw my legs turn to jelly, and me acting rather silly, 'cause I’m afraid I must confess, that I was somewhat in a mess — yes, a nervous but excited wreck, tingles running up and down my neck, all of which, seemed to throw some switch, which, given this unexpected glitch, or potential hitch, just saw my mind wander away, completely and utterly go astray, amazing feelings readily obey, hence the following observations, which some might consider aberrations, and such could well be so, given I really don’t know, but they did seem so real to me, so please don’t make fun of me, but simply smile sympathetically, or if you must, just giggle rather quietly.
Well, as soon as I was squeezed (which incredibly pleased), a little ladybird sneezed — yes, as if to signal the rest, which suitably impressed, for suddenly a flock of bellbirds appeared, a stadium full of well-wishers cheered, chimneys bellowed furiously, flowers waltzed in harmony, seedlings burst from soil bound beds, raisins popped from oven baked breads, confetti showered from on high, heart shaped balloons filled the sky, spiders bungee jumped in front of me, planets and stars orbited dizzily, musical sonatas filled my head, traffic lights danced between green and red — and I, could only but sigh, oblivious to any passer-by, helplessly enraptured, willingly and romantically captured, somewhat too dazed to think, and barely daring to blink, but believe it or not, hoping she’d say (that very same day), “Will you marry me?”

By Lance Landall


This poem was tweaked 1 March 2020.

19.  Mister Sammy Jones

Mister Sammy (wouldn’t-get-up-in-the-morning and stayed-in-bed-all-day) Jones, alias Mister right old lazy bones, was always stretching and yawning, and not just when he got up in the morning (that's if he did), but all through the day, and even all through the night, they say, for he just couldn’t get off to sleep, despite how often he counted sheep — yes, just lying there in his four poster bed, his body and eyelids feeling like lead, and all his efforts to no avail, and he looking terribly pale, for lack of sleep just leaves one beat, and hence why he’d topple off his seat, leaving half his dinner on the floor, and what’s more, yawning so much he would stumble, and inevitably tumble, and there went more things on the floor.
Yes, Mister Sammy (wouldn’t-get-up-in-the-morning and stayed-in-bed-all-day) Jones, alias Mister right old lazy bones, was always yawning, and as I said, well past morning — in other words, he just couldn’t seem to stop, which was decidedly over the top, and why nobody would stop to chat, and why alone in his home he lay or sat.
Well, there I’m afraid he would have stayed, if someone a visit hadn’t paid, 'cause exercise was what he needed, and though he begged and pleaded, he was soon made to huff and puff, and despite such being pretty tough, he soon began to tire (not to mention perspire), which saw him slump into a chair, only to soon be snoozing there.
Yes, Mister Sammy (wouldn’t-get-up-in-the-morning and stayed-in-bed-all-day) Jones, alias Mister right old lazy bones, simply needed to exercise — surprise, surprise — and despite those initial moans and groans, he was soon up and away, no longer yawning all day, and nor all through the night, but rather, bushytailed and bright — yes, a much happier sight, and no longer gulping flies, I have to say.
Now don’t tell me you’re yawning!

By Lance Landall


This poem was tweaked 1 March 2020.

20.  Gerry Jolly

Gerry Jolly was extremely positive, and thus wouldn't say anything negative, and such wouldn’t have been all that bad, but for the fact that when someone was sad, he’d tell them that such was a state of mind, and that their misfortune they shouldn’t mind, which people found very hard to take, and thus their head were inclined to shake, all of which made Gerry unpopular, and why some would peek with their doors ajar, and should they spot Gerry Jolly, alias jolly Gerry, always frustratingly merry, they would pretend they weren’t home, which soon saw Gerry elsewhere roam, and people sighing with relief, midst dealing with their upset or grief.
Well, one very unfortunate day, though some quite the opposite would say, Gerry met with misfortune too, and rather than him being merry — that is, so jolly cheery, was feeling extremely blue, hence why those he’d afflicted, and as might be expected, quickly paid him a wee call, and midst asking about his heavy fall — that is, his incapacitating sprawl — told him that such he shouldn’t mind, that his blues were a state of mind, which soon saw Gerry fume, and ask them to leave the room, he having got what was long overdue, and why I say, “Mind those platitudes!” to you.

By Lance Landall

21.  That Little Man

Seems to me (just quietly), that there’s a little man in my head (if you please), who, when I’m asleep in my bed, keeps playing movies, and where he gets them from, I’ve no idea, but one thing’s certainly clear, he has very peculiar tastes, and so much of my snooze time wastes, 'cause such mental activity, aside from being lost on me, often bothers and disturbs, upsettingly.
Yes, nightly I’m subjected to some menu, not that I get to choose, mind you, for scenes just suddenly appear, and though some are pleasant, others are unpleasant, even scare, and even to the point that I awake, and in order to count my losses, relieve my turns and tosses, a trip to the bathroom take — yes, still half asleep, having lost count of sheep, and stumbling over cats, or is it ruffled mats? Oh, how lucky I don’t land in a heap!
Yes, call them dreams if you well, even nightmares (hence those raised hairs), though some are too close to tell, but whatever, he’s very clever, 'cause he takes them all (some quite off-the-wall), and as quick as one sneezes, just mixes them up as he pleases, and as for abstract art — well, that’s just the start — say, could he be intoxicated, or simply far too educated, and I, unappreciative of his artistry, or could he simply be acting impishly?
Oh dear, it’s not very clear.
So, should you spot him, could you please let me know, though it’s not until you’re asleep that he’ll probably show.

By Lance Landall


This poem was tweaked 12 March 2020.

22.  Speedy Gonzales Bess

Speedy Gonzales Bess (and some would say motor mouth, I guess), would rattle things off at a rate that thwarted anything she’d state, her sentences half finished before they’d begun, of which, quite a few people would make fun, though others cross at missing what she’d said, and frustration seeing them scratching their head, but what could be done?
She spoke so fast that listeners would gasp, nod their head and then wander off, ignoring her regular “Excuse me?” cough, ’cause asking her to repeat it all, was naught but a double dose call, one still unable to catch it all, and some, none.
Well, one day Speedy Gonzales Bess (alias motor mouth, no less), couldn’t help but say far less, her hammered vocal cords having become hoarse, a most refreshing change, of course, and her voice taking some time to return, over which, only she was seen to yearn, but return it did (or so conveyed Syd), and far less was said (she using her head), and she much slower too (and hopefully you too), cause Motor Mouth Bess was forced to confess, that speaking too much about such an such, and speaking supersonic fast, was something best left in the past.
Hence how Speedy Gonzales Bess (the cause of consternation and stress; and being a motor mouth not nice to confess), learnt a lesson the hard way, and since that very day, has been clearly understood, as everyone one of us should, so please speak slow and clear, I say.

By Lance Landall

23.  Where Are Those Ladybirds?

Ladybirds are rather cute — yes, pretty little things, actually, but I have to say, that one seldom comes my way, unfortunately, unless I’m overlooking them, I guess, 'cause I’m afraid I must confess, that they are extremely tiny, incredibly difficult to see, and if it weren’t for their coat, shiny red I seemed to note, I doubt if I’d see them at all, 'cause like I said, despite them being shiny red, they’re awfully small, and perhaps a little shy, and I, five foot four inches high! — yes, a giant in their eyes, thus is it really a surprise, if when I appear (and to top it off, intently peer), that they scurry for cover, hoping them I won't discover, which though a shame, I guess I can’t complain, nor them blame, 'cause wouldn’t I do the same?

By Lance Landall


This older poem was upgraded on 11 March 2021.

24.  Badly Bitten

Some people get badly bitten by the love bug — no, not those little mites that are found in bed (hanging around  some old sleepyhead), or under someone's rug, but something more affecting, something that some aren’t expecting, which once it bites, terribly excites, or leaves the bitten one in a daze, one that can last for days and days, though some just call this a phase, for once its bite has eased, and the victim’s less diseased (or should I say, not as strongly seized), its back to those humdrum days.
But oh my, midst its beguiling spell, its emotionally charged churning mill, what a sight to see, for those who get bitten (some folk call it smitten), act quite amazingly — in fact, it’s like they’re on another planet, so take care that you don’t fan it, for encouraging these worrying effects, simply worsens rather than corrects, leaving the victim ecstatic, even erratic, or seemingly paralysed (some might say, anesthetized), which is really quite worrying, for from such, anything can spring, leaving the observer scratching their head, and rather than greeting, and who knows what meeting, crossing the road instead.
Yes, those daring love bugs pack quite a punch, and rather than just bite, some seem to avidly munch — dine, lunch — but whether they munch or bite, controlling them requires a fight, for they’re so tenacious, overwhelmingly voracious — yes, they’ve quite an appetite.

By Lance Landall

25.  Oh, I Don't Know!

“Would you like to take a look,” you say, but they haven’t got time today — in fact, “I must be on my way”, they say, and then, be they women or men, somewhat ironically, even surprisingly, they let a chatty ten minutes go by, until they suddenly up and cry, “Oh me oh my, I'm afraid I must fly!” and this time they actually do, whilst the following occurs to you, that they could’ve taken a look, but oddly, your invitation never took, not having the time, they said, which has you scratching your head, and thinking (midst pinching yourself and blinking), “Aren’t folk amusing, terribly confusing?” and you place the teapot in the fridge, (that’s right!), and the milk? — now that wasn’t very bright, but I guess you’ve been distracted, given the odd way your visitor acted — oh dear, isn’t life a mystery, or is it some conspiracy, an attempt to drive us all insane, short-circuit and frizzle our brain? Oh, I don’t know!

By Lance Landall

26.  Seeing Things

Oh dear, I must be seeing things, I fear — yes, I must be, completely and utterly — that is, given those things I thought I just saw, which, though totally outrageous, imaginatively contagious, are incredibly hard to ignore — and yes, rather worrying, what’s more.
Did I hear you say, “What were they?” Well now, it’s kind of hard to say — yes, very hard indeed, and is there really any need?
Okay, okay, I’ll do my best, and thereby, get such off my chest, but don’t get alarmed over what you hear, for things aren’t always as they appear, and that could well be the case here — oh dear, should I really such share?
No, look, I really shouldn't say, I really mustn't — no, I can't such things convey.
I’m sorry, I've strung you along thoughtlessly, not that I meant to intentionally, but the more I think about it, the more I’m forced to admit, that revealing such things here, might not only create fear, but have folk giggle and jeer, assume that I’m not all there, that I’m cuckoo, potty, unhinged, deranged, as mad as a hatter — and yes, it does matter, for I’m trying to keep that quiet, you know — oh dear, I hope it doesn’t show.

By Lance Landall

27. That Soggy Moggy

Oh, what a silly soggy moggy, seems you’re acting more like a doggy, and even they aren’t that keen on rain, and inside prefer to remain, but you, unlike any other moggy, are often coming in soggy, and very inconveniently too, giving me so much more work to do, and just when I’m wanting a rest, am expecting a friendly guest, who those puddles won’t want to view.
Yes, it’s all very well for you, Mister Dirty Paws, whose muddy prints mess up clean floors, for you’re not the one who such has to scrub, you messy little grub — no, that’s one of my less pleasant chores.
And tell me, what’s with that donation in the litter box, that you deposit each night straight after the door locks? Weren’t you just outside? But no, now you decide.
Oh dear, if it’s not muddy paw prints everywhere, or that smelly parcel sitting there, it’s a soggy moggy hairy patch, where you, forty winks here and there snatch, and all because of your outdoors domain, strolled and patrolled come sunshine or rain — yes, you silly soggy moggy, you should’ve been a doggy, though even then, I guess I’d still have cause to complain.

By Lance Landall

28. The Soggy Moggy Strikes Again

The trouble with rainy days and a cat like ours, is that one ends up with a soggy moggy,
One whose muddy paws aren’t fussy where they go, nor he fussed where he places his sopping body.
Yes, he more like a doggy, 'cause what cat likes being a soggy moggy, which owners have to clean,
They reaching for the tissue box as soon as he is spotted, and who on Earth knows where he’s been?

Oh, how he meanders back and forth come rainy days, he unhappy to be cooped up inside,
And finally heading through the well used cat flap, or back out again, after having been dried.
So much for the tissues, not to mention his being rubbed down, as if we’re mere servants who provide
A valet service for Siamese cats who after having got thoroughly wet, head back inside.

Now before you complain, let me make very plain, that we’re well aware that sometimes nature calls,
Hence that little tray with its parcels by this owner’s back door, on whom the removal job falls.
Yes, not a pleasant task, but hey, there’s only one thing I ask, and that is that he stay inside,
Rather than becoming a soggy moggy with muddy paws, that how many times have I dried?

Yes, it seems it’s a case of the soggy moggy strikes again, the evidence from room to room,
Hence not only that soggy moggy, puddles and muddy prints, but freshly mown grass — where’s the broom!?
Oh, how exasperating, even aggravating, but what can a Siamese cat owner do?
And there is something else that I must convey here: It’s definitely far worse when there are two!

By Lance Landall

29.  Bye Snow

Snow! Snow! Glorious snow! — never seen it before, you know — and here it is, falling from the sky, and here in my winter woollies am I, no longer looking out the window, but outside watching those flakes, that everywhere everything cakes, and a very pretty picture makes — oh, how I’m beguiled by those fluttering flakes.
Yes, how exciting, and hence why I’m mesmerised, and also pleasantly surprised, for such has never happened before, and I’m hoping never again, what’s more, for though snow truly enchants, it’s far too heavy for my plants, and perhaps for my tin shed roof — oh, I hope I don’t see the proof, and there’ll soon be that slushy mushy meltdown, not just here, but no doubt all around town, I fear, which will have us all slipping and sliding, and very embarrassingly gliding, not to mention thoroughly wet and sore, and looking like a fallen snowman, what's more — and little old me, no longer in awe.
No, once is quite enough, thank you.
Bye snow.

By Lance Landall

30.  Those Thoughts

I’ve been thinking too much, far too much, and my head is rather sore — thus, I think it needs a rest — yes, I’m sure that such would be best, and thus further thoughts will try to ignore.
Oh no, here they come again, never say when, just bowl on in as if they own the place — my brain, that is, which resides above my anxious face, and which there, despite my explaining, alias bitterly complaining, still allows some thoughts to appear, which is terribly unfair, and just why it does so, isn’t quite clear, for after all, that grey matter belongs to me, and thus should respond accordingly, but oh no, it does as it pleases, which sometimes really displeases, and worries, quite frankly.
Say, that thought wasn’t too bad. A poem? Yes, a poem. Now there’s a thought I’m glad I had.

By Lance Landall

31.  Bagpipes

Oh, the bagpipes, the bagpipes, a plot if ever there was one, for how they assault one’s delicate ears, whenever that disturbing sound one hears, and hence why one is inclined to run, and their visible presence shun, for tell me, seriously, are there other things half as alarming, and quite the opposite to charming? No, there are none!
Yes, they’re the product of a sleepless night (when someone wasn’t feeling too bright), and ever since, a tormentor’s delight, for oh, how they whine, howl, screech and groan, excruciatingly moan, and irritatingly drone, and as if that isn’t enough (and boy, you should see those pipers puff), they also look like something that’s accident prone.
Oh yes, they’re a reason to exit quickly, an effrontery that makes one prickly, for pleasantry just isn’t their aim, and why on Earth they were invented, or somehow not prevented — well, I mean to say, somebody must be to blame.

By Lance Landall

32.  I'm Such A Silly-Billy

Yes, I’m such a silly-billy, the things I do drive me dilly, and if I didn’t know better, true to the letter, I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on — hang on — phew! — for a moment there I thought it had gone.
See what I mean?
Oh, those crazy thoughts that come to me, not just now and again, but regularly, and those rather odd things that I do, which have other folk wondering too, for they're really quite over the top, and things that I can’t seem to stop, for they seem to come so naturally, just as if second nature to me, which is really quite concerning, for it’s as if I’m never learning, and hence all those nutty things, you see.
Yes, I’m such a silly-billy, the things I do drive me dilly, and if it wasn’t for a bit of sense (not that I’m implying I’m dense), those silly things would fill a book, and hence why I’m glad I don’t cook, for who knows what might happen to me, or unfortunate guests, actually?

By Lance Landall

33.  Excuse My Sigh

I would love to bake some cookies (not scones or muffins topped with cheese), for I have a sweet tooth, you see, and naughty taste buds, just quietly, but I just don’t have the expertise, and therefore, I can’t do as I please, and besides, cooking just isn’t for me, and could prove disastrous, you see.
No, I wouldn’t know a pot from a pan (yes, I’m sure you’ve guessed I’m a man), a mere taster of food, be such fried, boiled, baked or stewed, for that’s where my ability lies, and why to the challenge I rise, when yummy things are set before me, preferably gooey and sugary — oh, how I wish those pimples wouldn’t chastise!

By Lance Landall

34.  Handy Glow Worms

Greetings little glow worm — no, there’s no need to squirm, I’m really quite friendly, and I’ve a thought you see, for you could prove helpful to me — that is, come a power cut, and me in the middle of my tea — dinner, that is, actually.
Well, you do glow, you know, and there you go, for such could prove helpful indeed, given that I’m often in need — yes, we’re talking light, and usually night, but not always though, for other times I could do with your glow, and maybe your mates as well, for your wattage I’m unable to tell.
So, hang about little glow worm, and a time we’ll confirm — that is, if you’re happy to, for I could certainly do with you, and at times rather pronto, like midst those power cuts, and when light bulbs blow, or if you like, when I’m on my bike — at night I mean, for I’ve no beam, just my balding sheen — say, I guess we’re talking on call, so if you’ve the wherewithal, I’ll holler when I’ve the need — that is, if we’re agreed, or even better still, and depending on your goodwill, you could hang around my place — yes, make that your other base, and to be honest, I’m hoping you well.

By Lance Landall

35.  What Do You Think?

I find it rather funny, that when I fill my tummy, and haven’t any room for more (and teases of further ignore), that when my hosts come out with dessert, I suddenly find space and “Yes” blurt, and grabbing a spoon and plate, happily co-operate, buttons straining on my shirt.
Yes, it’s really quite puzzling, and more discomfort can bring, but though such is so, I can’t seem to say “No,” and emptying my plate, my appreciation state, for one always should, you know.
Perhaps I’ve an extra tummy, one that’s for things extra yummy, and hence that extra room I find, which automatically changes my mind, though I suspect I’ve only one, and that when all’s said and done, I just can’t leave sweet food behind.

By Lance Landall

36.  Hammers And Thumbs

Have you ever hit your thumb with a hammer? Such oddly linked to grammar. Oh dear, I hope you didn’t swear, for I know it really pains, thunderstorms and rains — in other words, cheeriness drains — and given it’s so sore, a hundred and one things more, and all because of inaccuracy, a common thing, admittedly, which leaves many thumbs red, and some things better not said.
And to add insult to injury, it’s not long before we see, those very same thumbs struck again, and believe it or not, even again, which seems to suggest to me, that hammers and thumbs don’t agree, and that metal gloves might be best, or soft rubber hammers, may I suggest, though the latter may very well fail, given the hardness of a nail, unless of course (given this discourse), they were rubberized too, though I suspect such wouldn’t do, and that at the end of the day, if I may rather boldly say, folk need to take more care, for one thing’s very clear: It all comes down to accuracy, and concentration, undoubtedly.
Ouch!

By Lance Landall