a bit of fun Poetry

capalex65

Anyone need a website done..?
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    copyright to Tom Lehrer

    About a maid I'll sing a song,
    Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
    About a maid I'll sing a song
    Who didn't have her family long.
    Not only did she do them wrong,
    She did ev'ryone of them in, them in,
    She did ev'ryone of them in.

    One morning in a fit of pique,
    Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
    One morning in a fit of pique,
    She drowned her father in the creek.
    The water tasted bad for a week,
    And we had to make do with gin, with gin,
    We had to make do with gin.

    Her mother she could never stand,
    Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
    Her mother she cold never stand,
    And so a cyanide soup she planned.
    The mother died with a spoon in her hand,
    And her face in a hideous grin, a grin,
    Her face in a hideous grin.

    She set her sister's hair on fire,
    Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
    She set her sister's hair on fire,
    And as the smoke and flame rose high'r,
    Danced around the funeral pyre,
    Playin' a violin, -olin,
    Playin' a violin.

    She weighted her brother down with stones,
    Rickety-tickety-tin,
    She weighted her brother down with stones,
    And sent him off to Davy Jones.
    All they ever found were some bones,
    And occasional pieces of skin, of skin,
    Occasional pieces of skin.

    One day when she had nothing to do,
    Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
    One day when she had nothing to do,
    She cut her baby brother in two,
    And served him up as an Irish stew,
    And invited the neighbors in, -bors in,
    Invited the neighbors in.

    And when at last the police came by,
    Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
    And when at last the police came by,
    Her little pranks she did not deny,
    To do so she would have had to lie,
    And lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
    Lying, she knew, was a sin.

    My tragic tale, I won't prolong,
    Rickety-tickety-tin,
    My tragic tale I won't prolong,
    And if you do not enjoy the song,
    You've yourselves to blame if it's too long,
    You should never have let me begin, begin,
    You should never have let me begin.

    fun right i'll post more lyrics from his songs
     
    Spring is here, a-suh-puh-ring is here.
    Life is skittles and life is beer.
    I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring.
    I do, don't you? 'Course you do.
    But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me,
    And makes ev'ry Sunday a treat for me.

    All the world seems in tune
    On a spring afternoon,
    When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
    Ev'ry Sunday you'll see
    My sweetheart and me,
    As we poison the pigeons in the park.

    When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide,
    But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide.
    The sun's shining bright,
    Ev'rything seems all right,
    When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

    Lalaalaalalaladoodiedieedoodoodoo

    We've gained notoriety,
    And caused much anxiety
    In the Audubon Society
    With our games.
    They call it impiety,
    And lack of propriety,
    And quite a variety
    Of unpleasant names.
    But it's not against any religion
    To want to dispose of a pigeon.

    So if Sunday you're free,
    Why don't you come with me,
    And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
    And maybe we'll do
    In a squirrel or two,
    While we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

    We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment.
    Except for the few we take home to experiment.
    My pulse will be quickenin'
    With each drop of strychnine
    We feed to a pigeon.
    It just takes a smidgin!
    To poison a pigeon in the park.

    fun right?
     
    Time was when an American about to go abroad would be warned by his friends or the guidebooks not to drink the water. But times have changed and now a foreigner coming to this country might be offered the following advice.

    If you visit American city,
    You will find it very pretty.
    Just two things of which you must beware:
    Don't drink the water and don't breathe the air.

    Pollution, pollution,
    They got smog and sewage and mud.
    Turn on your tap and get hot and cold running crud.

    See the halibuts and the sturgeons
    Being wiped out by detergents.
    Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly,
    But they don't last long if they try.

    Pollution, pollution,
    You can use the latest toothpaste,
    And then rinse your mouth with industrial waste.

    Just go out for a breath of air,
    And you'll be ready for Medicare.
    The city streets are really quite a thrill.
    If the hoods don't get you, the monoxide will.

    Pollution, pollution,
    Wear a gas mask and a veil.
    Then you can breathe, long as you don't inhale.

    Lots of things there that you can drink,
    But stay away from the kitchen sink.
    The breakfast garbage that you throw in to the Bay,
    They drink at lunch in San Jose.

    So go to the city, see the crazy people there.
    Like lambs to the slaughter,
    They're drinking the water
    And breathing the air.
     
    Last December 13th, there appeared in the newspapers the juiciest, spiciest, raciest obituary that has ever been my pleasure to read. It was that of a lady name Alma Mahler Gropius Werfel who had, in her lifetime, managed to acquire as lovers practically all of the top creative men in central Europe, and, among these lovers, who were listed in the obituary, by the way, which was what made it so interesting, there were three whom she went so far as to marry.

    One of the leading composers of the day: Gustav Mahler, composer of Das Lied von der Erde and other light classics. One of the leading architects: Walter Gropius of the Bauhaus school of design. And one of the leading writers: Franz Werfel, author of the song of Bernadette and other masterpieces. It's people like that who make you realize how little you've accomplished. It is a sobering thought, for example, that when Mozart was my age he had been dead for two years. It seemed to me, I'm reading this obituary, that the story of Alma was the stuff of which ballads should be made so here is one.

    The loveliest girl in Vienna
    Was Alma, the smartest as well.
    Once you picked her up on your antenna,
    You'd never be free of her spell.

    Her lovers were many and varied,
    From the day she began her -- beguine.
    There were three famous ones whom she married,
    And God knows how many between.

    Alma, tell us!
    All modern women are jealous.
    Which of your magical wands
    Got you Gustav and Walter and Franz?

    The first one she married was Mahler,
    Whose buddies all knew him as Gustav.
    And each time he saw her he'd holler:
    "Ach, that is the fraulein I moost have!"

    Their marriage, however, was murder.
    He'd scream to the heavens above,
    "I'm writing Das Lied von der Erde,
    And she only wants to make love!"

    Alma, tell us!
    All modern women are jealous.
    You should have a statue in bronze
    For bagging Gustav and Walter and Franz.

    While married to Gus, she met Gropius,
    And soon she was swinging with Walter.
    Gus died, and her tear drops were copious.
    She cried all the way to the altar.

    But he would work late at the Bauhaus,
    And only came home now and then.
    She said, "What am I running? A chow house?
    It's time to change parters again."

    Alma, tell us!
    All modern women are jealous.
    Though you didn't even use Ponds,
    You got Gustav and Walter and Franz.

    While married to Walt she'd met Werfel,
    And he too was caught in her net.
    He married her, but he was carefell,
    'Cause Alma was no Bernadette.

    And that is the story of Alma,
    Who knew how to receive and to give.
    The body that reached her embalma'
    Was one that had known how to live.

    Alma, tell us!
    How can they help being jealous?
    Ducks always envy the swans
    Who get Gustav and Walter,
    you never did falter,
    With Gustav and Walter and Franz.
     
    Sleep, baby, sleep, in peace may you slumber,
    No danger lurks, your sleep to encumber,
    We've got the missiles, peace to determine,
    And one of the fingers on the button will be German.

    Why shouldn't they have nuclear warheads?
    England says no, but they are all soreheads.
    I say a bygone should be a bygone,
    Let's make peace the way we did in Stanleyville and Saigon.

    Once all the Germans were warlike and mean,
    But that couldn't happen again.
    We taught them a lesson in nineteen eighteen,
    And they've hardly bothered us since then.

    So sleep well, my darling, the sandman can linger,
    We know our buddies won't give us the finger.
    Heil--hail--the Wehrmacht, I mean the Bundeswehr,
    Hail to our loyal ally!
    MLF
    Will scare Brezhnev,
    I hope he is half as scared as I.
     
    First we got the bomb, and that was good,
    'Cause we love peace and motherhood.
    Then Russia got the bomb, but that's okay,
    'Cause the balance of power's maintained that way.
    Who's next?

    France got the bomb, but don't you grieve,
    'Cause they're on our side (I believe).
    China got the bomb, but have no fears,
    They can't wipe us out for at least five years.
    Who's next?

    Then Indonesia claimed that they
    Were gonna get one any day.
    South Africa wants two, that's right:
    One for the black and one for the white.
    Who's next?

    Egypt's gonna get one too,
    Just to use on you know who.
    So Israel's getting tense.
    Wants one in self defense.
    "The Lord's our shepherd," says the psalm,
    But just in case, we better get a bomb.
    Who's next?

    Luxembourg is next to go,
    And (who knows?) maybe Monaco.
    We'll try to stay serene and calm
    When Alabama gets the bomb.
    Who's next?
    Who's next?
    Who's next?
    Who's next?
     
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