The once was a poet from D.C. /
Politics wouldn’t let him be. /
So, he finally gave in /
And started rhyming the sin, /
Beginning with orange and swamp and pee.
The once was a poet from D.C. /
Politics wouldn’t let him be. /
So, he finally gave in /
And started rhyming the sin, /
Beginning with orange and swamp and pee.
There once was a writer from NASA
Who knew if aliens could blast ya.
He wrote his memoir
Called, Life from Afar.
His agent said, “The movies have passed ya.”
Filed under 2020, Monday morning writing joke, NASA, Poetry by David E. Booker
There once was a writer from Manhattan
Who wrote all his novels in Latin.
A dead language, he said,
Makes them appear well read.
But for his wallet it did nothing to fatten.
Filed under 2020, Monday morning writing joke
The once was a writer of mystery /
Who had a sordid and checkered history. /
They say in another town /
She let her husband drown /
Because his reviews of her writing were blistery.
There once a writer from Cancun
Who wrote about things way too soon.
It was all in future tense
And made very little sense.
Especially about the spaceman riding a bassoon.
There once was a writer from Schenectady
Whose writing was full of complexity
He plots were convoluted.
His characters quite putrid.
He was left all alone intellectually.
There once was a writer from Charlotte
Whose latest novel featured a protagonist harlot.
Her crime was a sin.
And his sin was where to begin,
So he wound up thinking about it bars a lot.
There once was a writer from St. Paul
Who could only write well in the fall.
With the leaves off the trees
She saw her neighbors with ease.
And then she could record it all.
There once was a writer from Maine
Whom everybody thought was insane.
He wrote big books on evil
and owned pet boll weevil.
No one could cotton to him or complain.
There once was a writer named Stone
Who tried writing on his smart phone.
It started off fine
But then he got behind:
All the apps wouldn’t leave him alone.