The Fisherman and the Voice
A man of simple mind went out to fish
And in the ice he drilled a great big hole.
With hook and line he sought to catch a dish
To eat that night for supper — maybe sole.
From overhead there came a basso sound:
“No fish are there beneath the ice!” it boomed.
Now terrified, the guy looked sharp around
But saw no man. So, fishing he resumed.
Again that voice, so deep and loud and grave:
“No fish you’ll find beneath the ice, I say!”
The guy was trembling now, no longer brave.
He drop’d down to his knees, as though to pray.
“Are you the Lord?” he asked, too scared to think.
“I’m not,” it roared. “I run this hockey rink.”
Yo Mama So Stinky
Regarding your mom, I’ve a sad diagnosis —
The lady’s afflicted with bad halitosis.
The smell is so foul, sources say, ipse dixit
That even machines try to urge her to fix it.
When she’s in the room, the clocks go out of whack
They no longer ticktock, but instead, they Tic Tac.
The Sainted Sinner
The brothers Finn were rich as sin
But evil as The Beast.
When cancer did the older in
His bro visited the priest:
“I see your church is in the lurch,
The roof’s nearly falling down.
I’ll have it fixed with slate and birch,
The best materials in town!”
“It’s all on me,” Finn said, with glee.
“Why, the walls I’ll even paint!
My only fee? In your eulogy ...
Say my brother was a saint.”
The priest, he let his palm be greased.
Took the bribe — tuck’d it away!
Then wrote a speech for the deceased,
The words he spake on fun’ral day:
“This dead man, Finn, was weak of chin
And still weaker in his soul.
His character was base and thin
He cheated, lied and stole.”
“But with God near, let’s find some cheer
And judge Finn with restraint —
Why, compared to his kid brother here,
He was a &%$*! saint.”
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