Another installment in my ongoing efforts to lose more readers by re-telling old jokes as bad poems.
in the style of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18
In Mexico, an Aussie went to dine
And spied a meal upon another’s plate.
“Some o’ that would do me mighty fine.”
He told the waiter, “Bring it to me, mate.”
Alas, the waiter told him he could not:
Those were the tender privates of a toro —
“Just one a day gets put into our pot
It’s from the bullfight — order for tomorrow!”
He did, and next day ate it skin and all.
Then called the waiter over, just to say:
“ ’Twas fine, but why’s this portion kinda small
Compared to what you served just yesterday?”
The waiter nodded at the modest dinner:
“Some days, señor, el toro is the winner.”
The Lawyer’s Plea,
in the style of “The Village Blacksmith,”
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under the spreading chestnut tree
The city lawyer rants,
His car a mashed-up wreck to see,
And blood upon his pants.
Up pulls a man in uniform
As the lawyer stamps and chants.
“My ride! My car! My Cadillac!”
The lawyer’s plaint doth ooze —
“My Prada suit’s ripped front to back,
My Bruno Magli shoes!”
All this the officer does note
Part sadly, part amused.
“You lawyers,” says the cop in scorn,
“Are scoundrels pure and utter.
It’s just for baubles that you mourn,
As you rage and rail and mutter,
Yet you don’t see your whole left arm
Is lying in the gutter!”
This shut the lawyer’s mouth at last
He stopped and looked about
The cop was right, he saw, aghast
Blood from a stump did spout.
So then he loosed a grieving wail —
“MY ROLEX” he screamed out.
in the style of “Whispers
by T.S. Eliot
Webster was much possessed by death
So Mrs. Webster had to bury him —
“In his brown suit,” she said at once
To the mortician, Mr. Merriam.
But came the hour of the day
The interment was to be
The widow saw he was in blue!
“It must be brown!” said she.
It was too late for such a change
But the mortician merely frown’d,
Took the casket, quick returned,
And the dead man was in brown!
Afterward, the widow asked
How so fast the change was worked.
“I had a corpse in brown out back,
So I just switched heads,” he smirked.
E-mail Gene at firstname.lastname@example.org.