Green Eggs and Hamlet

I ask to be, or not to be.
That is the question, I ask of me.
This sullied life, it makes me shudder.
My uncle’s boffing dear, sweet mother.
Would I, could I take my life?
Could I, should I, end this strife?
Should I jump out of a plane?
Or throw myself before a train?
Should I from a cliff just leap?
Could I put myself to sleep?
Shoot myself, or take some poison?
Maybe try self immolation?
To shudder off this mortal coil,
I could stab myself with a fencing foil.
Slash my wrists while in the bath?
Would it end my angst and wrath?
To sleep, to dream, now there’s the rub.
I could drop a toaster in my tub.
Would all be glad, if I were dead?
Could I perhaps kill them instead?
This line of thought takes consideration –
For I’m the king of procrastination.

Twisted Greeting Cards

by Alan Meiss

I must express my gratitude
for such a lovely gift.
Your thoughtfulness and taste is matched
only by your thrift.
It’s clear that you spared all expense,
if you catch my drift.
Remove the anti-theft device
when you again shoplift.

We’re sorry you now mourn the loss
of your beloved cat.
For if we had only braked in time,
it wouldn’t be so flat.

It’s Christmas time, and once again,
the family’s gathered ’round.
Uncles, aunts, and cousins come
to raise a joyful sound.
All that is, except for you,
whom we can only send this mail.
But we’ll save your gifts for fifty years
till you get out of jail.

The frost is on the meadow,
the dew upon the grass.
Here’s your stinking birthday card,
now shove it up your *ahem*.

I’ve tender thoughts and memories
of the special time we shared.
I’d never been so close to you,
for it was more than souls we bared.
But I’ve since come to have regrets
and wonder if we erred,
For now the sores have failed to heal,
and I’m getting really scared.

This Christmas time I give to you
a book that isn’t mine.
So give it back before it’s due
or I’ll have to pay a fine.

Golden fields of daffodils,
sparkling mountain streams,
Crisp clean air and cotton clouds,
vistas from our dreams.
But all throughout our lovely trip,
to thoughts of you we’ve clung,
Because you’ll never see these things
in your iron lung.

The End of the Raven

By Edgar Allen Poe’s Cat

On a night quite unenchanting
When the rain was downward slanting
I awakened to the ranting
Of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven
Poe was talking to a Raven
Perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more.”

Soft upon the rug I treaded,
Calm and carefully I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the Bard and birdie chattered
I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked or snapped, or fell, or shattered
As I crossed the corridor,
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curious and weird decor,
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered,
Standing stock still as he uttered
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered
His two cents worth: “Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up
Oh, so silently I crept up
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up,
Pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, plus a little blood and gore —
Only this and nothing more.

“Ah!” my pickled poet cried out,
“Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout
Talking to a bird before!
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity
While my gallant, noble kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty!”
Then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped — and smashed it on the floor.

Dust If You Must

Dust if you must.
But wouldn’t it be better
to paint a picture, or write a letter,
bake a cake, or plant a seed.
Ponder the difference between want and need.

Dust if you must.
But there is not much time,
with rivers to swim and mountains to climb!
Music to hear, and books to read,
friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must.
But the world’s out there
with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
a flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come round again.

Dust if you must.
But bear in mind,
old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go, and go you must,
you, yourself, will make more dust.

Remember, a house becomes a home when you can
write “I love you” on the furniture.


by Tony Hendra for the National Lampoon

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Deteriorata, Deteriorata)

Go placidly amidst the noise and waste,
And remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof.
Avoid quiet and passive persons, unless you are in need of sleep.
Rotate your tires.
Speak glowingly of those greater than yourself;
And heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys.
Know what to kiss – and when.
Consider that two wrongs never make a right,
But that three do.
Wherever possible, put people on hold.
Be comforted, that in the face of all irridity and disillusionment,
And despite the changing fortunes of time,
There is always a big future in computer maintenance.

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Whether you can hear it or not,
The universe is laughing behind your back.)

Remember the Pueblo.
Strive at all times to bend, fold, spindle, and mutilate.
Know yourself.
If you need help, call the FBI.
Exercise caution in your daily affairs,
Especially with those persons closest to you.
That lemon on your left, for instance.
Be assured that a walk through the seas of most souls
Would scarcely get your feet wet.
Fall not in love therefore, it will stick to your face.
Gracefully surrender the things of youth: the birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan –
And let not the sands of time get in your lunch.
Hire people with hooks.
For a good time, call 606-4311, ask for Ken.
Take heart in the deepening gloom
That your dog is finally getting enough cheese.
And reflect that whatever misfortune may be your lot,
It could only be worse in Milwaukee.

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Whether you can hear it or not,
The universe is laughing behind your back.)

Therefore, make peace with your god,
Whatever you perceive him to be:
Hairy thunderer or cosmic muffin.
With all its hopes, dreams, promises, and urban renewal,
The world continues to deteriorate. GIVE UP!

(You are a fluke of the universe.
You have no right to be here.
Whether you can hear it or not,
The universe is laughing behind your back.)


(With Apologies to Lewis Carroll)

‘Twas e-mail, and the ftp
Did route and telnet to the node.
All rlogin to Xterms free
To let gopher download.

“Beware the Internet, my son!
The posts that spam, the speech that’s free!
Beware the Netscape cache, and shun
The AOL mail id!'”

He took his HP mouse in hand.
Long time a higher bandwidth sought —
And wished had he for his old PC
A faster modem bought.

And, as that wistful thought he gripped,
The Internet, with bait of flame,
Ran applets through the Javascript,
And mailbombed as it came!

The war he waged! As on each page
The HP mouse he double-clicked!
And ’twas absurd, the hype he’d heard
‘Bout sites that he had picked.

“And, hast thou surfed the Internet?
Come link my page, my newbie bud!
O Lycos night! Yahoo! Excite!”
He messaged on his MUD.

‘Twas e-mail, and the ftp
Did route and telnet to the node.
All rlogin to Xterms free
To let gopher download.

by Mike “Hammerwocky” Hammond

Cyber Nursery Rhymes

Mother McGee went to drive C:
to find her poor Windows a byte
But, when she enquired, all drive space expired
And not even Stacker would put it right.

Little Miss Muffet opened her notebook
and called on WordPerfect to write
Along came a spider, who sat down beside her,
and explained how the function keys worked.

Jack and Jill are married still
but things look kinda scary
He loves a PC; she’s fond of a Mac
and RISC makes both of them wary.

Mary had a little Lan
Then, she wanted more
First she bought a lot of RAM
Then part interest in a computer store.


Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was slightly grey.
It didn’t have a father,
Just some borrowed DNA.

It sort of had a mother,
Though the ovum was on loan.
It was not so much a lambkin
As a little lamby clone.

And soon it had a fellow clone,
And soon it had some more.
It made the children laugh and sing,
The teachers found it droll;
There were too many lamby clones
For Mary to control.

No other could control the sheep
Since their programs didn’t vary,
So the scientists resolved it all
By simply cloning Mary.

But now they feel quite sheepish,
Those scientists unwary.
One problem solved, but what to do
With Mary, Mary, Mary?

Poor Clement Moore

‘Twas the night before Thursday
And poor Clement Moore
Had his poem being copied
By many a bore

His “Night Before Christmas”
Is perfect in rhyme
His rhythm and cadence
Are wonderfully fine.

But then come the wise guys
With internet cool
Who use Clement’s rhyme
As sort of a tool

They pick up the style
From this poem of “that night”
And they hitch up their sled
to whatever’s their gripe.

Now I’m not even saying
That there’s something not right
By using Moore’s poem
To carry a fight.

I guess my complaint
Is not in their chore
But the number of times
they steal from Clem Moore.

So I say to you all
As I close down this gripe
“Merry Christmas to All
And to All a Good Night!”