This page is for poems, facts, stories, anything of interest funny or not, to help us over our brick walls or hair pulling times. The Loch Ness Monster 2001 You would think, after fifteen hundred years my dears, That the Loch Ness Monster would be dead, instead there seems to be life in the story still. So Jimmy Gray, photographer, retired tired, While out fishing thought it strange, in range, To see a neck like shape risingin the water. Jimmy once a Royals' snapper then dapper, His camera to snap a big catch did snatch For six foot neck like Conger Eel. It was the start of millennium three, in A.D., May two thousand and one the date, before eight In good light in the morning. But doubters still around are. Even found-a-r Of the Official Loch Ness Monster Fan Club did blub: 'I have no idea what it is!' Hear Investigator, Dick Raynor, much plainer, 'Could be a tree branch or even a tyre', no higher. Biologist David Master says its a log. Now, greater the chances of the monster rising, surprising, Bookie Hill sets the bet odds much shorter, he ought-a For who can say there is nothing there. Still Jimmy with wife Ulrike, and the vicar, Did not name new baby Nessie, nor Bessie. 'We settled for Simone instead.' ©2001 Joseph Harris www.smilepoetryweekly.com
This page is for poems, facts, stories, anything of interest funny or not, to help us over our brick walls or hair pulling times.
You would think, after fifteen hundred years my dears, That the Loch Ness Monster would be dead, instead there seems to be life in the story still. So Jimmy Gray, photographer, retired tired, While out fishing thought it strange, in range, To see a neck like shape risingin the water.
Jimmy once a Royals' snapper then dapper, His camera to snap a big catch did snatch For six foot neck like Conger Eel. It was the start of millennium three, in A.D., May two thousand and one the date, before eight In good light in the morning. But doubters still around are. Even found-a-r Of the Official Loch Ness Monster Fan Club did blub: 'I have no idea what it is!' Hear Investigator, Dick Raynor, much plainer, 'Could be a tree branch or even a tyre', no higher. Biologist David Master says its a log. Now, greater the chances of the monster rising, surprising, Bookie Hill sets the bet odds much shorter, he ought-a For who can say there is nothing there. Still Jimmy with wife Ulrike, and the vicar, Did not name new baby Nessie, nor Bessie. 'We settled for Simone instead.'
©2001 Joseph Harris www.smilepoetryweekly.com
As a little girl, I wet the bed till I was about 4 years old. My dad always said " go get your nappies on and I'll rock you." I grew up thinking nappies were pajamas. Last year, Christine wrote something about nappies being diapers. All my life, I would tell people I was going to get my nappies on and watch t.v. or whatever. When they asked what nappies were, I would tell them it was what Scots called pajamas. For almost 70 years, I have been wearing "nappies" and now I hope no one knows the difference as it is too late for me to call them anything different. Nan
Oor Wullie Fair fa' your rosy-cheekit face, Your muckle buits, wi' broken lace, Although you're always in disgrace, An' get your spanks, In all our hearts ye have your place, Despite your pranks. Your towsy held, your dungarees, Your wee snub nose, your dirty knees, Your knack o' seeming tae displease Your Ma an' Pa. We dinna care a tuppenny sneeze We think you're braw. You're wee, an' nae twa ways aboot it, You're wise, wi' very few tae doot it, You're wild, there's nane that wad dispute it, Around the toon. But maist o a' ye are reputit A lauchin' loon. Weel-kent, weel-liked, you're aye the same, Tae Scots abroad and Scots at hame. North, south, east, west, your weel-won fame Shall never sully. We'll aye salute that couthie name: Oor Wullie. Meaning of unusual words: muckle=large towsy=untidy braw=fine lauchin' loon=laughing boy weel-kent=well known aye=always couthie=friendly Julz
Fair fa' your rosy-cheekit face, Your muckle buits, wi' broken lace, Although you're always in disgrace, An' get your spanks, In all our hearts ye have your place, Despite your pranks.
Your towsy held, your dungarees, Your wee snub nose, your dirty knees, Your knack o' seeming tae displease Your Ma an' Pa. We dinna care a tuppenny sneeze We think you're braw.
You're wee, an' nae twa ways aboot it, You're wise, wi' very few tae doot it, You're wild, there's nane that wad dispute it, Around the toon. But maist o a' ye are reputit A lauchin' loon.
Weel-kent, weel-liked, you're aye the same, Tae Scots abroad and Scots at hame. North, south, east, west, your weel-won fame Shall never sully. We'll aye salute that couthie name: Oor Wullie.
Meaning of unusual words: muckle=large towsy=untidy braw=fine lauchin' loon=laughing boy weel-kent=well known aye=always couthie=friendly
Julz
HAPPY NEW YEAR ! Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? And days of auld lang syne, my dear, And days of auld lang syne Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? We twa hae run aboot the braes And pu'd the gowans fine. We've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. Sin' auld lang syne, my dear, Sin' auld lang syne, We've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld ang syne. We twa hae sported i' the burn, From morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. Sin' auld lang syne, my dear, Sin' auld lang syne. But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. And ther's a hand, my trusty friend, And gie's a hand o' thine; We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.
HAPPY NEW YEAR !
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? And days of auld lang syne, my dear, And days of auld lang syne Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? We twa hae run aboot the braes And pu'd the gowans fine. We've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. Sin' auld lang syne, my dear, Sin' auld lang syne, We've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld ang syne. We twa hae sported i' the burn, From morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. Sin' auld lang syne, my dear, Sin' auld lang syne. But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. And ther's a hand, my trusty friend, And gie's a hand o' thine; We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.
Da 23rd Psalm Shetland Scotland Style Da Loards my hird, I sanna want; He fins me bols athin Green modoo girse, an ledds me whaar Da burns sae saftly rin. He lukks my wilt an wanless sowl, Stravigin far fae hame, Back ta da nairoo, windin gact, Fir sake o His ain name. Toh I sood geng doon Daeth's dark gyill, Nae ill sail come my wye, Fir He will gaird me wi His staff, An Comfort me forbye. My table He has coosed wi maet, Whin fantin god da fremd; My cup wi hansels lippers ower, My head wi oil is sained. Noo shorly aa my livin days, God's love sall hap me ower, until I win ta His ain hoose Ta bide fir evermore.
Elusive Ancestor I went searching for an ancestor. I cannot find him still. He moved around from placeto place and did not leave a will. He married where a courthouse burned. He mended all his fences. He avoided any man who came to take the Census. He always kept his luggage packed, this man who had no fame. And every 20 years or so, this rascal changed his name. His parents came from Europe. They should be on some list Of passengers to the U.S., but somehow they got missed. And no one else in this world is searching for this man. So, I play genea-solitaire to find him if I can. I'm told he's buried in a plot, with a tombstone he was blessed; but the weather took engraving, and some vandals took the rest. He died before the county clerks decided to keep records. No Family Bible has emerged, in spite of all my efforts. To top it off this ancestor, who caused me many groans, Just to give me one more pain, betrothed a girl named JONES! --Merrell Kenworthy
I'd Rather Do Genealogy! Cooking? Cleaning? I'd Rather do Genealogy!They think that I should cook and clean, andbe a model wife. I tell them it's more interesting to study Grandpa's life.They simply do not understand why I hate to go to bed . . . I'd rather do two hundred years of research work instead.Why waste the time we have on earth just snoring and asleep? When we can learn of ancestors that sailed upon the deep? We have priests, Rabbis, lawmen, soldiers, more than just a few. And yes, there's many scoundrels, and a bootlegger or two.How can a person find this life an awful drudge or bore? When we can live the lives of all those folks who came before? A hundred years from now of course, no one will ever know Whether I did laundry, but they'll see our Tree and glow . . . 'Cause their dear old granny left for them, for all posterity, not clean hankies and the like, but a finished family tree.My home may be untidy, 'cause I've better things to do . . . I'm checking all the records to provide us with a clue.Old great granny's pulling roots and branches out with glee,Her clothes ain't hanging out to dry, she's hung up on The Tree. --Mel Oshins
I'd Rather Do Genealogy!
Cooking? Cleaning? I'd Rather do Genealogy!They think that I should cook and clean, andbe a model wife. I tell them it's more interesting to study Grandpa's life.They simply do not understand why I hate to go to bed . . . I'd rather do two hundred years of research work instead.Why waste the time we have on earth just snoring and asleep? When we can learn of ancestors that sailed upon the deep? We have priests, Rabbis, lawmen, soldiers, more than just a few. And yes, there's many scoundrels, and a bootlegger or two.How can a person find this life an awful drudge or bore? When we can live the lives of all those folks who came before? A hundred years from now of course, no one will ever know Whether I did laundry, but they'll see our Tree and glow . . . 'Cause their dear old granny left for them, for all posterity, not clean hankies and the like, but a finished family tree.My home may be untidy, 'cause I've better things to do . . . I'm checking all the records to provide us with a clue.Old great granny's pulling roots and branches out with glee,Her clothes ain't hanging out to dry, she's hung up on The Tree.
--Mel Oshins
The Laws of Genealogy The documentcontaining evidence of the missing link in your research invariably will be lost due to fire, flood, or war. The keeper of the vital records you need will just have been insulted by another genealogist. Your great, great grandfather's obituary states that he died leaving no issue of record. The town clerk you wrote in desperation, and finally convinced to give to you the information you need, can't write legibly, and doesn't have a copying machine. The will you need is in the safe on board the "Titanic." The spelling of your European ancestor's name bears no relationship to its current spelling or pronunciation. That ancient photograph of four relatives, one of whom is your progenitor, carries the names of the other three. Copies of old newspapers have holes which only occur on last names. No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, always rented property, was never sued, and was never named in wills. You learned that great aunt Matilda's executor just sold her life's collection of family genealogical materials to a flea market dealer "somewhere in New York City." Yours is the ONLY last name not found among the three billion in the world-famous Mormon archives in Salt Lake City. Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded. The 37-volume, sixteen-thousand-page history of your county of origin isn't indexed. The critical link in your family tree is named "Smith." --Author Unknown
The Laws of Genealogy
The documentcontaining evidence of the missing link in your research invariably will be lost due to fire, flood, or war.
The keeper of the vital records you need will just have been insulted by another genealogist.
Your great, great grandfather's obituary states that he died leaving no issue of record.
The town clerk you wrote in desperation, and finally convinced to give to you the information you need, can't write legibly, and doesn't have a copying machine.
The will you need is in the safe on board the "Titanic."
The spelling of your European ancestor's name bears no relationship to its current spelling or pronunciation.
That ancient photograph of four relatives, one of whom is your progenitor, carries the names of the other three.
Copies of old newspapers have holes which only occur on last names.
No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, always rented property, was never sued, and was never named in wills.
You learned that great aunt Matilda's executor just sold her life's collection of family genealogical materials to a flea market dealer "somewhere in New York City."
Yours is the ONLY last name not found among the three billion in the world-famous Mormon archives in Salt Lake City.
Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded.
The 37-volume, sixteen-thousand-page history of your county of origin isn't indexed.
The critical link in your family tree is named "Smith."
--Author Unknown
