This place needs more nonsense

[Luigi]

 

[Not A Mallard]

​

 

 

[HopefulHeart]

Whenever this commercial aired, I said the voiceover along with the narrator. I eventually could recite it from memory. Such a productive use of brain cells.

 

[Not A Mallard]

A FEW YEARS AGO A MAN WAS WALKING DOWN A ROAD BECAUSE HIS CAR BROKE DOWN AND HE SAW A CAR COMING UP BEHIND HIM SO HE STUCK OUT HIS THUMB TO HITCH HIKE AND THE CAR STOPPED AHEAD OF HIM. HE RAN UP TO THE PASSENGER SIDE AND OPENED THE DOOR. WHEN HE OPENED THE DOOR A SKELETON POPPED OUT

[HopefulHeart]

I came across this poem (?) I wrote when I was six. It is definitely worthy of this thread.

"Gin Gin"

Come to the bin if Kin.

If you don't I'll give you a bin,

Gin Gin Gin Gin it's a bin.

the end

[Ancilla Domini]

I came across this poem (?) I wrote when I was six. It is definitely worthy of this thread.

"Gin Gin"

Come to the bin if Kin.

If you don't I'll give you a bin,

Gin Gin Gin Gin it's a bin.

the end

​This was beautiful.

[HopefulHeart]

​This was beautiful.

​*sophisticated British accent* A remarkable example of modern Engish verse. Note the alliterative repetition of the word "Gin" in the third line, and the symbolic sense of finality conveyed by the words "the end."

[Nihil Obstat]

Almost sounds like it was written in Modern Scots.

 

 

Some hae meat an

canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it;

But we hae meat, and we can eat,

And sae let the Lord be thankit.

[Nihil Obstat]

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

[Nihil Obstat]

 

[Not A Mallard]

 

 

[HopefulHeart]

 

[Not A Mallard]