I hope to one day be recognized as the beet poet of our generation!
I ode her that much.
But I’m not very good at poultry.
I hit a Homer.
Time to learn haiku Syllables? Five seven five? Fuck it i give up
He said to me "what rhymes with orange?" I said "No it doesn't",
"Ode no!" I thought.
Poor Red,
Poor Red whines,
Pour red wine,
Pour red wine to mend Red's mind.
Mind the wine that ends Red's whine.
Find the time to send more wine.
For poor Red's whine, we pour more wine.
We dread the time when poor Red whines.
I dig,
you dig,
he digs,
she digs,
it digs,
we dig,
they dig.
Not a very nice poem, but a really deep one.
It’s been oolong time since my mum was born,
About Six-tea years to date,
Chai as you might, you can’t possible list,
her cupious amazing traits
Her balanced demeanour
Her Kindness and (earl) grace,
rooibost sense of humour,
too many to name in this teany space,
to pekoe out just a few does not do her justice,
let’s not stir things up and cause more of a ruckus,
While this ode may be (chamo)miles away from a Maya Angelou,
It’s just an obnoxious way to say how very matcha I love you.
There once was a singer of old
Who then broke away from the fold
He won't give you up
He won't let you down
In short, you have been limeRick Rolled
Ladies and gentleman, Hoboes and tramps, Cross-eyed beetles, And bow-legged ants. Pull up a seat, And sit on the floor.
I'm going to tell you a story I know nothing about.
One dark day, In the middle of the night. Two dead boys, They stood up to fight.
Back to back They faced each other. Drew their swords, And shot each other. The deaf policeman heard it all, She came to shoot those two dead boys.
Don't believe this lie is true? Go ahead, ask the blind man. He saw it, too.
//Don't know who to credit this, it's a poem my parents taught me at a young age.
He was dissed by the prose at a rave.
2B or not 2B
It's an E I E I Ode
It was deep.
A haiQ test
because it is just beta.
It can only be read if you scan it first.
It's a bark ode.
Alas, I'm not a very good poet.
In fact, my manager told me he's never seen such a wretched scribe of scrum and villanelle.
he took it the wrong way.
If you're dancing with your honey, And your nose gets runny, Don't think it's funny, Because it's snot.
The English professor went first. He thought for a minute, then stepped up to the mic and said:
Slowly across the desert sand, Marched a lonely caravan, Men on camel, two by two, Destination; Timbuktu.
The audience applauded. Then it was the Native American's turn. He stepped up to the mic and said:
Me and Tim a huntin' went. Met three gals in a pop-up tent. They were three, we were two, I bucked one, Tim bucked two.
Iambic Sprintameter
I had to share it with the class
I have a theory
That you must tell no one,
About the way
That dads make a pun.
It all starts out
With an underground meeting:
7:30 on Mondays,
With limited seating.
They talk and converse
To say their new jokes,
Like
"I'm all out of whites,
But got plenty of yokes!"
From there they spread
To dads far and wide,
For use on their kids,
All mercy aside.
There's no way to stop it,
Believe me, I've tried.
The only thing that can help
Is to plug your ears, and hide.
So pull thay baby closer
Like that kid in your enclosure
That Harambe call his home
Shoot a bullet through his shoulder
Pull the sheets right of the corner
Of the haystack that he stole
From his brother back in jungle
Harambe's never getting older!
My uncle says...How are you going to read a poem that hasn't been written yet?
If you're running in the woods and your nose is kind of runny you may think it's funny but it's snot.
I dig, You dig, She Digs, He digs, We dig, They Dig, Now this poem isn't pretty, But it sure is deep.
I dig. You dig. We dig. He digs. She digs. They dig.
I know its not a nice poem, but its pretty deep
I dig You dig We dig She dig He dig They did
Not a great poem but its really deep
I dig,
You dig,
We dig,
He dig,
She dig,
They dig,
Now it's not a beautiful poem, but it's quite deep.
Not really a joke, but my dad would say this poem all the time.
One bright day in the middle of the night Two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, Drew their swords, and shot one another. A deaf policeman heard the noise And came to the rescue of the two dead boys If you don't believe this lie is true, Ask the blind man, he saw it too.
I dig, you dig, he digs, she digs, they dig, we dig, it's not a beautiful poem but it's very deep.
