Tuesday, April 10, 2007

There once was a man from Nantucket

These last three weeks of the semester are a veritable whirlwind of poetry and drama and lemme tell ya, I'm addled. Yes, addled. I'm too consumed with the poetry to worry about the drama just yet. I still have a week before I tackle that part. But seriously.....

Iambic pentameter? Trochaic tachometer? Odiferous odometers? Wtf? I was just under the impression that you wrote things that rhymed and called it poetry. Who knew there was a science to it? Well, I guess the poets knew it. Duh.

I am enjoying the fact that we have to write two limericks, though. I've been composing them in my head all day. Hey, it helps with the addling.

Okay, okay. I'll share since you asked so nice.


There once was a man from Nantucket
who wore on his head a blue bucket.
Every time that it rained
his poor head was in pain,
So he took off the pail and said, "F*ck it."


See, this is where my mind goes during times of stress. I go straight to the dirty words. It makes me feel better.


Said that girl to the boy, "I love you."
Said the boy to the girl, "Me, too."
"You love me?" said she.
"I love
me, " said he.
And she smacked his dumb head with a shoe.


But wait! There's one more!


While standing outside one cold night
I found myself shaking with fright.
What I thought was a kitty
turned out to be "Fitty"
And it turns out my momma was right.


(If you're not a regular long-time reader who knows that my mother is convinced that I'm going to end up chopped up in a 55-gallon drum, that last one will make no sense, but I'm fairly certain that Hillbilly Mom will chuckle. "Fitty" the 55-gallon drum maniacal killer was named by her, after all.)

Okay, that's it. I'm limericked out for tonight. Back to studying about scansion and meter. Whoohoo.


Hillbilly Mom said...

EEEEEEEEE! The return of 'Fitty'!!!

Pssstt...poems have FEET. Who knew?

FYI, there was another terrible Ice Baby faux pas here in Hillmomba last week. Not only did we forget Ice Baby in the car...we forgot Ice Baby altogether. We stopped specifically to buy her, and didn't. HH had to pick up an Ice Baby on his way home. The HH Ice Baby was a lesser Ice Baby. He did not even wrap her up, just threw her onto the seat of his truck. She was hardly fit for man or beast by the time he got her home.

LanternLight said...

There once was a man from Nantucket

Well that's a cleaner version than the one I know :-)

Lori - Queen of Dirty Laundry said...

Scathingly brilliant! I think it's only a matter of time before you're published.

Kellyology said...

These are hilarious...especially the last one.

Mrs. E said...

Guess what my seniors are doing here at the last of school. Yep, they get to pick a British poet, write about the poet, write about the time period that influenced the poet, and analyze a poem by the poet. They get to cite from 3 sources, write a thesis and outline, and give me 3 pages of type written information. English teachers the world over are evil at the end of school. These seniors may have been the bane of my existence for 8 months but now revenge is mine...except I will have to read and grade them. Oh well it can't be all fun and games for the teacher either.

Redneck Diva said...

Hillbilly Mom, not only do poems have feet, but they can have more than two! EEEEEEE!! They're like caterpillars!

Tell that husband of yours to watch it - the DIBS (Department of Ice Baby Services) is keeping their eye on him. I don't know who tipped 'em off.

Lanternlight, oh that wasn't the only version of the Nantucket limerick I wrote. *wink*

Lori, it would be just my luck that I'd become famous for ridiculous limericks rather than my scathingly brilliant real writing!

Kelly, aw thanks! I can write oodles of limericks when I'm avoiding the real homework!

Mrs. E, at least you let your students pick a poet. Ours were assigned. I got stuck with "She Walks in Beauty" by George Gordon and Lord Byron.

And have I mentioned I'm not a big fan of the poem anyway? Men don't really believe the things poems make you think they believe. If there were poems written about them scratching their genitals and lighting farts, then I'd be a believer.

Expect a panicky email from me soon asking you HOW to analyze a poem.

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