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Category: Funny Narrative Poems
       Classic humorous and funny story poems. Narrative poems are written accounts of connected events in poetry format.

  THE CRYSTAL PALACE  

        With ganial foire
        Thransfuse me loyre,
Ye sacred nymphs of Pindus,
        The whoile I sing
        That wondthrous thing,
The Palace made o' windows!

        Say, Paxton, truth,
        Thou wondthrous youth,
What sthroke of art celistial,
        What power was lint
        You to invint
This combineetion cristial.

        O would before
        That Thomas Moore,
Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,
        Thim aigles sthrong
        Of godlike song,
Cast oi on that cast oiron!

        And saw thim walls,
        And glittering halls,
Thim rising slendther columns,
        Which I, poor pote,
        Could not denote,
No, not in twinty vollums.

        My Muse's words
        Is like the bird's
That roosts beneath the panes there;
        Her wings she spoils
        'Gainst them bright toiles,
And cracks her silly brains there.

        This Palace tall,
        This Cristial Hall,
Which Imperors might covet,
        Stands in High Park
        Like Noah's Ark,
A rainbow bint above it.

        The towers and fanes,
        In other scaynes,
The fame of this will undo,
        Saint Paul's big doom,
        Saint Payther's, Room.
And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

        'Tis here that roams,
        As well becomes
Her dignitee and stations,
        Victoria Great,
        And houlds in state
The Congress of the Nations.

        Her subjects pours
        From distant shores,
Her Injians and Canajians,
        And also we,
        Her kingdoms three,
Attind with our allagiance.

        Here come likewise
        Her bould allies,
Both Asian and Europian;
        From East and West
        They send their best
To fill her Coornucopean.

        I seen (thank Grace!)
        This wondthrous place
(His Noble Honour Misther
        H. Cole it was
        That gave the pass,
And let me see what is there).

        With conscious proide
        I stud insoide
And look'd the World's Great Fair in,
        Until me sight
        Was dazzled quite,
And couldn't see for staring.

        There's holy saints
        And window paints,
By maydiayval Pugin;
        Alhamborough Jones
        Did paint the tones,
Of yellow and gambouge in.

        There's fountains there
        And crosses fair;
There's water-gods with urrns;
        There's organs three,
        To play, d'ye see,
"God save the Queen," by turrns.

        There's statues bright
        Of marble white,
Of silver, and of copper;
        And some in zinc,
        And some, I think,
That isn't over proper.

        There's staym injynes,
        That stands in lines,
Enormous and amazing,
        That squeal and snort
        Like whales in sport,
Or elephants a-grazing.

        There's carts and gigs,
        And pins for pigs,
There's dibblers and there's harrows,
        And ploughs like toys
        For little boys,
And illigant wheelbarrows.

        For thim genteels
        Who ride on wheels,
There's plenty to indulge 'em:
        There's droskys snug
        From Paytersbug,
And vayhycles from Bulgium.

        There's cabs on stands
        And shandthrydanns;
There's wagons from New York here;
        There's Lapland sleighs
        Have cross'd the seas,
And jaunting cyars from Cork here.

        Amazed I pass
        From glass to glass,
Deloighted I survey 'em;
        Fresh wondthers grows
        Before me nose
In this sublime Musayum!

        Look, here's a fan
        From far Japan,
A sabre from Damasco:
        There's shawls ye get
        From far Thibet,
And cotton prints from Glasgow.

        There's German flutes,
        Marocky boots,
And Naples macaronies;
        Bohaymia
        Has sent Behay;
Polonia her polonies.

        There's granite flints
        That's quite imminse,
There's sacks of coals and fuels,
        There's swords and guns,
        And soap in tuns,
And gingerbread and jewels.

        There's taypots there,
        And cannons rare;
There's coffins fill'd with roses;
        There's canvas tints,
        Teeth insthrumints,
And shuits of clothes by Moses.

        There's lashins more
        Of things in store,
But thim I don't remimber;
        Nor could disclose
        Did I compose
From May time to Novimber!

        Ah, Judy thru!
        With eyes so blue,
That you were here to view it!
        And could I screw
        But tu pound tu,
'Tis I would thrait you to it!

        So let us raise
        Victoria's praise,
And Albert's proud condition
        That takes his ayse
        As he surveys
This Cristial Exhibition.

             W. M. Thackeray.


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