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Category: Funny Burlesque Poems
       Classic humorous and funny poems using comic imitation and exaggeration in an absurd way.


                    I. RONDEAU

"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses.
        "Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges.
Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!
For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she,
        "I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."

Was it not prime--I leave you all to guess
How prime!--to have a Jude in love's distress
        Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,
                                                                        "O crikey, Bill!"
For in such rorty wise doth Love express
His blooming views, and asks for your address,
    And makes it right, and does the gay and free.
    I kissed her--I did so! And her and me
Was pals. And if that ain't good business,
        "O crikey, Bill!"

                    II. VILLANELLE

Now ain't they utterly too-too
    (She ses, my Missus mine, ses she),
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em--nice and skew
    Upon our old meogginee,
Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw,
    They're equal to a Sunday spree,
Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue,
    And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.
Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.
    Joe, I'm consummate; and I see
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which Joe, is why I ses ter you--
    Asthetic-like, and limp, and free--
Now ain't they utterly too-too,
Them flymy little bits of Blue?

                 III. BALLADE

I often does a quiet read
    At Booty Shelly's poetry;
I thinks that Swinburne at a screed
    Is really almost too too fly;
    At Signor Vagna's harmony
I likes a merry little flutter;
    I've had at Pater many a shy;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

My mark's a tidy little feed,
    And 'Enery Irving's gallery,
To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,
    And Ellen Terry on the die,
    Or Frankey's ghostes at hi-spy,
And parties carried on a shutter.
    Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!
In fact my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

The Grosvenor's nuts--it is, indeed!
    I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.
It's equal to a friendly lead
    To see B. Jones's judes go by.
    Stanhope he make me fit to cry.
Whistler he makes me melt like butter.
    Strudwick he makes me flash my cly--
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.


    I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh;
I talks as quiet as I can splutter;
    I keeps a Dado on the sly;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

                            William Ernest Henley.

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