Funny Poetry Novels & Stories

“YEAH ! LET THE UNINVITED MOTHERFVCKER GET A TASTE OF ALL OUR ATTENTION AND LOVE” “KILL ! KILL ! KILL !” “BARBECUE HIS ASS, FVCKERS !!” “EVERYONE SHUT THE “HELL” UP ! SEE ? SEE ? WHAT I DID THERE ?” “YEAH SUCKER. YOU USED A PUN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YOUR LIFE” “HELL NO ! I AM PUN LORD” “NO YOU ARE POOP LORD. THAT’S IT” “SHUT UP, GUYS ! YOU ARE BEING SO UNCOOL”

I guess now, I didn't do a weird thing(did I? And, I gotta say, you're going to be fun to talk to. Your letter was equally nice to read. You got a really good sense of humor, and that's nice to know. I won't have to explain my (terrible) jokes to you, I hate doing that shit. It ruins everything for me. I'm not gonna tell you how I got to know your Instagram. That's something that you'll have to live with. Closet writer, huh? Do you specialise in poetry or something, because the second line ( I think it was the second) of your letter actually rhymed. I can't rhyme to save my life, no matter how hard I try.

She then started laughing like crazy. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall All the king’s horses and all the king’s men Couldn’t put Humpty together again. ” My body shaked as I heard the nursery rhyme. The way she sang it is so creepy that it made us shiver.

The class was quiet before Leonard raised his hands and Lillian told him to go ahead and answer the question since he was the only one ready to answer the question. " in my simplest definition of pun,pun is like playing with words, but in its joke,there's an important meaning. For my example,.." He walks to the board and writes "Leonard likes colouring clothes,he dies everyday." He underlines the dies and told the class that because "dyes" and "dies" sound similar, he played with both words. Other students gave their examples too,they were actually waiting for one person to answer first and it was Leonard who didn't speak to anyone in class that answered first. His example seems disturbing t

And, if I’m being honest, a little conflicted. “Do you write poetry?” he asks, casually. I blink. “No. Why?” “It’s calming. I do it all the time. You should try. It’s like therapy.” My brows arch as I turn toward him. “You write poetry? Like modern day Shakespeare?” He shrugs, lounging deeper. “When you put it that way, not really .Just... whatever pops into my head. I mean, anything can be poetry.” I lean forward. “What kind of poems do you even write? It’s kind of hard to picture you doing something so... artistic.”

At his words, Jewel could not help but spit the candy in her mouth out before smiling and said, “Haha! Mister, this man’s poem is interesting. He just did doggerel! Haha!” At the same moment, the crowd roared with laughter. “Haha! I’m dying of laughter. What bad poetry, haha!” “He wants to win? He must still be hungover.” Penny also lightly smiled before saying to the fat man, “Sir, please go back and sober up.” At the same time, two burly men rushed up to the stage and kicked the fat man off-stage. This Poetry League was no child’s play. This man was a troublemaker for sure. The two verses he recited just moments ago could not even be considered doggerel.

The table erupts in laughter, but I’m already vibrating, whiskey sloshing in the bottle as I slam it down hard enough to crack the glass. “Oh, that’s poetry,” I crow, voice pitching high and wild, bunny helmet spinning faster on my finger like a propeller. “I want that stitched on a goddamn patch—‘Left in a ditch with his own chain.’ Hell, I’ll mail their prez a bunny helmet engraved ‘Hop along, asshole, love, the Fallen Gods.’” I throw my head back and cackle, the sound bouncing off the rafters, and Caleb nearly chokes on his beer while King just shakes his head, grinning like he’s proud of the lunatic he’s allied with.

Life’s so unfair, man. “What does a spoon matter when we’re literally stuck in the middle of the woods with invisible monsters, shady, bad men and whatever else creeps around here? Can you please, for once, use your brain and kick some sense in the gear?” He whisper-hisses, so red in the face, he reminds me of a tomato. “You could join a casting for vegetable commercials looking like this,” I remark and laugh at the brilliant joke my brain just reacted. Shit, am I not the funniest guy out there? Look at me - sense of humor, looks, body and an impressive spoon collection, I have it all, damn it. No wonder my little vixen couldn’t deny me.

It doesn't go easy; it goes fighting to curve the tips of my lips, every step of the way. "So you are one of these "O thy flowers are blue, O thy bum-bum is brown people" ". I laugh myself silly. "What was that? Please tell me you were trying joking. Please!" I beg. "Like it or not that's what you poets sound like to me." He smirks. "You poets? Seriously? So I am now part of "you poets". Heartbreaking." I say clutching my chest in mock horror. "Don't take it personal." He chuckles. Then he goes back to squinting at the next scrawl. It's a wonder he can even comprehend my handwriting. Aunty Seedy jokes that my writing is "fowl scratch". You should see hers.

It sort of was. “But it’s poetry,” Brown-hair whined. “Poetry’s gay.” It was long practice at keeping my face still that kept me from raising my eyebrows. Poetry was anything but gay, but it was something straight men were apparently allergic to. Ridiculous. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Blonde said darkly. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay—but there is something wrong with being an asshole.” From the blink Brown-hair gave her, he didn’t get it. “Of course it’s okay to be gay,” he said, clearly missing the point. “But poetry is—ouch!”