Light Verse - Bestiary

Short Silly Poems About Animals:

Here are some short light verse poems about beasties:

Decapussy

Those ten arms can befuddle fish
Who tango with a cuttlefish:
With more ink than a CPA,
She'll loose a cloud of sepia
And slip away - or, creepia,
She may decide to keepia!
To cuddle with a cuttlefish,
You've got to be a subtle fish.

Hear that screeching rooster?
He's Dawn's greatest booster;
Again he's introduced her
(It SOUNDS like he just goosed her);
HE thinks he's produced her,
With his fanfare (all in "Rooster")
Out of "Thus Spake Zarathooster."

Advice to Comedians

Why tell jokes to a puma
(Who's also called a cougar)?
He has no sense of huma,
Responding, when you're through, "GRRR!"
Tell judges, popes or dumas
Dumb jokes with turds and boogers --
They'll sooner laugh than pumas
(Or, if you'd rather, coogers),
Who're grim as Libya's Muammar
Khadafy. Bring your luger
To entertain a puammar --
Or bring your best bazouger.

Gnus of the Veldt

The lions killed a wildebeest
(Who's also called a gnu);
The herds ignore the lions' feast --
For them it's deja vu.
They part, some moving west, some east,
Then quickly merge anew.

A buzzard, solemn as a priest,
Stands by -- hyenas, too --
To pay respects to the deceased
And clean the avenue,
Each avid for a bone at least,
But O! to have a gnu!

A lioness, her snout well-greased,
Warns off the mangy crew;
A fresh-killed gnu must be well policed:
The greedy parvenu --
Give him an inch of wildebeest,
He'll gobble the whole gnu;

If it were YOU who'd kildebeest,
YOU'D chew the gnu you slew.
Yet...such a long-faced wildebeest!
Who'd WANT to bag a gnu?
That face! How could I think to feast
On Spiro Aganew?

How to Become a Jewish Social Lion

You're Jewish and nouveau riche?
We suggest the perfect diche
For your next party --
Kosher and hearty;
We offer you a gnu
That's molded from tofu!
If you're a kosher parvenu,
Please try our brand new Parve Gnu!

It's Not the Quantas Tea That Counts

Koala nibbles leaves from an old gum tree;
He never sips at what you'd call a tea;
And yet, I'd think you lacking polity,
Should you imply his life lacks koala tea;

And, since he always sits high up a tree
In the flat outback, you'll never see him ski --
Except perhaps in a play by Tennesee
Williams that has a rather brutal fella
Who, in his torn, stained undershirt, screams "STELLA!"
And that's the only place, I think, you'll see
Stanley (for that's his first name) Koala ski.

Sound From A Winter Branch...

No one else can caw so well, crow --
It's the sound of tearing Velcro.

Out of the Closet!

Bad Moth, Bad Moth, whatcha gonna do? --
Whatcha gonna do when they camphor you?

Avian Pissychology

Ptarmigan takes a silent p -
Who'd think a mere bird mannerly,
To urinate so quietly.

Mounted Cats, Mounting Cats and Those
Who Seek A Cat To Mount

Wiping out our rarest species,
White man trashes jungles - oaf he! -
Stuffing every tiger he sees -
What is left? A cat as trophy.

Oh no! Not another kitten!
Let our cats be fixed for no fee.
Even as these words are written,
We approach a catastrophe:
Tomcats vie, all hormone smitten,
Each to win his cat-ass trophy.

On trails with turnings beyond count,
In canyons hymned by Ferde Grofé,
If you should meet a catamount,
It might well mean a catastrophe.
Just stand still - don't run, don't taunt.
Maybe he'll leave his scat as trophy.

"I want one too! Give me a stanza!"
Yawls our tabby from the sofa - he
Knows but one word: MORE! A man's a
Fool to give a cat a strophe.

Perilous Prowl

When puss doth sneak,
The mice do squeak,
For mice feel finnicky
When puss is sinnicky.

BEEZBEEZBEEZBEEZ...

Old tree aseethe with fizziness -
ZIP! ZAP! An antic dizziness:
Bees go about their buzziness,
Air full of golden fuzziness.

Wild Dotes

Our cat was sowing her wild oats
When someone tore her fine fur coat -
Her only one, on which she dotes!
Please, Vet, sew our wild symbiote.

...But Can't Far Go

How hardy is the escargot -
His home he carries as cargo!

Scat, Cat!

The scientist collects the scats
Of wolves and bears and dogs and cats,
Then analyzes with CAT-Scans
Scant specimens in his scat-cans.

Seeing the World Through a Dinky Dictionary

(Written after reading in a severely abridged dictionary that a pigeon is a kind of dove and that a dove is a kind of pigeon.)

If one must be Webster,
Oh how they abridge one:
A pigeon's a dove
And a dove is a pigeon!

The dove we all love,
But we all hate the pigeon...
Well, his colors aren't bad,
Mottled mauve (just a smidgeon);

Yet a pigeon's a dove
And a dove is a pigeon --
Ah, poor Noah Webster,
Why must they abridge one!

But pigeons make messes
On statues, hats, cars,
While doves find dry land
And persuade against wars.

"No! A pigeon's a dove
And a dove is a pigeon!"
Asserts Abridged Webster,
"And there IS no widgeon."

Pecking Ardor

With each peck, her bottom bounces.
Quick the horny rooster mounts his
Hen: in-out! No pause for necking...
Whew! She really sends him, pecking.

Parrot Fever

Starving in my garret,
Down to one limp carrot
(What the meek inherit) --
Is this what I merit?
No! But do I dare it?...
YES! I'll stew my parrot --
Garrot him with my ferret!
That tail plume -- I can wear it.
Mock ME! No more! I swear it!
Proud petulant pert parrot,
No more I'll grin and bear it!
I'm going to eat my parrot...
But first I'll have to snare it:
Heeere, Polly...want a carrot?

But Watch Your Step

Having a cow can save you work, it's true. Her
Grazing trims the grass -- she's a lawn mooer.

Call 1-800-SAURIAN

If you simply MUST speak to a crocodile
(SUCH insistence!)
Please don't visit, ring the doorbell, knock -- NO! Dial,
Dial, long distance!

Sad Lady in Plumed Hat...

Regrets
Egrets?

But Here's the Yoke: You've Got More Pull

You might get hitched, if you're an ox,
But only to John Deere.
You're fixed: You can't get off your rocks;
They made you a bum steer.

It could be worse: You're not roast beef;
Your trough is always full;
Yet there's that stab of something -- grief? --
To see a strutting bull.

Hey Down-a-Down

Why do ganders, without cease,
Poke and prod and goose their geese?
They pluck feathers from that site,
Hoping to get down tonight.

Lovely Reader, Meet a Maid

The great white swan said, "Take me to your Leda!"
The rest you know too well, dear Iliad Reada.
Better for Troy had Zeus, on Leda encroachin',
Been courteous enough to don a Trojan.

Having a swan for Dad impressed young Helen,
Who, though she cast a spell, was weak on spellin' –
Craving a swan, she lost her heart to a swain –
A swinish swain at that, of little brain.

Enough with war and laying ladies, Zeus!
Lay golden eggs! Come to us as a goose!

[Note: Zeus, in the form of a swan, had sex with Leda, the offspring including Helen of Troy, whom I call weak on spelling because she fell for a swain (Paris), not a swan.]

He Who Lies Down With A Flea
Arises Doggedly Grammatical

Said a fly to a flea,
"Let us lie on the lea!"

Said the flea to the fly,
"For a fee I will lie
On the lea with thee, Fly."

Said the fly to the flea,
"I say FIE on thy fee!
For ‘tis I who am he
Who will lie with thee, Flea!"

Said the flea to the fly,
"Patently that's a lie:
It's ‘Tis ME, not ‘Tis I –
And I'll flee if you try."

Said the fly to the flea,
"I SHALL try, you will see!"

Said the flea to the fly,
"It should be ‘I WILL try'."

Said the fly to the flea,
"It's ‘Tis I, not Tis me,
Who SHALL lie with thee, flea."

Said the flea to the fly,
"Then ‘tis we, which is why
I shan't be with thee, fly:
I'm so wee, leap so high,
None can see where I hie.
Ghosts of me multiply
multiply in your eye.
Therefore, WHEE! and good byeeeee!"

Said the fly, "Where IS she?"
And then, "Sigh! I can't see,
Can't descry where she'd be.
Don't be shy! Hear my plea!
Please reply, little flea!
Why deny you love me?
Must I sigh for a flea?
Will I die, lacking thee?..."

"SHALL I die," said the flea,

And the fly laughed: "Tee Hee!
You reply, silly flea?"
Now I'll lie down with thee!
KISS! ‘Tis I! SMOOCH! ‘Tis me!"

Said the flea with a sigh,
"Woe is me! Woe is I!"

Accursed

The old gray mare –
She ain't what she used to be:
An old she-bear
Devoured her voraciously.
The bear's sick too –
A giant ball of hair in her.
Between me and you,
It is the ancient mare in her.

[That is, the Coleridge line, "It is an ancient mariner...".]

Aardvark If You Can Get It

AArdvarks do not bound or
aBound
aCtually, which is one reason poets don't
aDdress them as, e.g., "O Aardvark," but also maybe they aren't
aEsthetic, hardly works of art, the haard aard nor the carking
vark, nor are they exotic, though
AFrican; after all, less animal than dictionary fragment, so the
aGony of the unaddressed aardvark is hard to get
aHold of, hard to grok, because there's no Thou there, we say with
aIrs of I-ness, your Highness, for what's a (Dutch) "earth" or
"ground pig" to I, so utterly I! but
a Joke, sodden raw red jumble on
a Kitchen counter, mere Kitsch, not even ground pork, but ground
PIG -- the indignity! -- and, strictly speaking, it
aLliterates only with Aaron and maybe AA (Aardvarks Anonymous)
or AAA (African Aardvark Assoc.), merely
aMusing, if that, unless delicate tapered snout and long sticky
tongue for snarfling up termites and
aNts turn you on, but if not, that's
A-OK with me, I just wanted to start a poem with aardvark (this
is hard work) though to me it's
a Pig in a poke, unapostrophizable, merely
a Quaintness, no acquaintance of mine or yours or
aRt's nor do its antsy piggy eyes twinkle with termite dreams (do
they?)
aS mine with yours or with seeing the next line coming
aT me at warp speed like a Star Wars credit out of the starry
haze in which I, any I, is lost,
aUtistic if I am only I and nothing of you, every you, I with my
aVarice for all the you's I can be, no vessel, however abstract, but a vessel of
aWare, not that I have any awesome
aXe to grind for the ground pig -- not groundhog, but we live in
the shadow of
a You: Any you (even those in dictionaries) points to I as
aZimuth to star, and I am diminished if I cannot address you, O
Aardvark.

[Note: The poem above has a simple form: The first letter of each line is A, and the second letter of each line is the letter of the alphabet corresponding to the number of the line, so that the poem begins with the double A of Aardvark, and in the lines that follow, the second letter moves through the alphabet.]

Seventeen-Year Itch

All the summer night long: Cicada
and Fugue in EEEEEEE...

Golden night fills my ears
with the lunatic drone
of the Moonlight Cicada.

Tomayto or tomahto, cicayda or cicahda?
All night long the cicadas bicker:
"CiCAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY...."
"No! CiCAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH...."
How we long for a discreet
"CRICKet...CRICKet..."!

Is it a ringing in my ears?
Useless to clean them or pound my head:
The whole world is my head.
The night whines on, sleepless, endless:
Tonight is tonight is tinnitus.

We are weary, Lord; free us from Cicada Mundi!

An honest song, nothing held back:
Frank Cicada doing it his way
(but with connections to a mob).

What is the locus of all points
that approach a given point
from any direction, bump into it,
flop to the ground on their backs,
squeak and whirr?
A seventeen-year locus.

With my foot, gently,
I nudge a whirring cicada
back onto his feet. He squeaks,
outraged, like Donald Duck
with the tape sped up.

Detailed transparent shells stick
to leaves, bark, phone poles, car tires,
drying to a crisp. Each one
is a mystery: The Case
Of The Missing Cicada.

No more cicadas,
front yard full of tiny holes.
Who will finger them
to fill this silence
with music?