Elfi's Garden of Verses

Dear readers,

Welcome to my garden of cheesy verses, truly Vogon poetry for the masses. I hope you enjoy!

I get tired of Hallmark style poetry, and decided to come up with some witty but weird doggerel for y'all.


The Cinematic Grave-Robber

The script was perfect, the lighting was gold,

A story for ages, or so we were told.

But a man in a suit with a spreadsheet in hand,

Decided that "Old" is a thing we should ban.

"Let’s polish the grit! Let’s brighten the gloom!

Let’s give the protagonist’s budget more room!

We’ll cast a TikToker who’s handsome and thin,

And toss the original script in the bin."

They added some lasers, a chase in the sky,

And a back-story nobody wanted to buy.

The villain’s a hologram, the hero’s a bore,

And the heart of the movie is kicked out the door.

"It’s a 're-imagining'!" the director declares,

While the fan-base is pulling out handfuls of hairs.

It’s shinier now, and it’s loud as a jet,

With all of the pixels that money can get.

But the magic is missing, the punchline is flat,

Like a carbonated drink that’s gone horribly splat.

They dug up the corpse just to dress it in neon,

A plastic-wrapped ghost for the masses to pee on.

So save your ten dollars and stay on the couch,

Watch the original, you grumpy old grouch.

For Hollywood’s engine is fueled by the view,

That nothing is sacred if it can be "new."

The Beautiful Jumble

A polka-dot soul in a pinstriped world,

With a banner of "everything" proudly unfurled.

They’ve jazz in their pockets and punk in their hair,

And a collection of spoons that would make a man stare.

They study the stars then they bake a lime pie,

With a "Why the fuck not?" as their primary cry.

Their bookshelf is chaos, a marvelous sight,

Where Darwin and Dr. Seuss argue all night.

One day they are painting a mural in blue,

The next they are learning to tie a shoe.

They’re a bit of a wizard, a bit of a clown,

In a bright purple hat and a green velvet gown.

They don't fit a box and they don't fit a shelf,

They’re busy just being their magnificent self.

An "Eclectic Freak" is a rare, dizzying jewel,

Who breaks every boring and standardized rule.

So here’s to the muddle, the mix, and the zest,

Of the person who likes every thing at its best.

They aren't just one flavor, they’re the whole candy store,

And once you have met one, you’ll want to meet more.

The Finger’s Fang

A tiny speck, a microscopic fray,

Has come to ruin my entire day.

It’s just a sliver, a hangnail small,

But it’s the meanest beast of all.

It snags upon my woolen sleeve,

A jagged hook that won't take leave.

It catches on the velvet chair,

And pulls until I want to swear.

It feels like I’ve been stabbed by glass,

Or bitten by a snake in grass.

One little tug—a grave mistake—

And now my soul begins to quake.

I try to clip it, neat and trim,

But the odds of peace are looking slim.

It’s just a millimeter of skin,

So why does it feel like a mortal sin?

I’m walking wounded, brave and bold,

With a bandage worth its weight in gold.

The world has wars and giant gales,

But I’ve been conquered by my nails.

The Buttered Betrayal

I held the crust, I held the crumb,
Between my finger and my thumb.
The bread was toasted, golden brown,
The finest slice in all the town.

I spread the butter, thick and sweet,
A masterpiece for me to eat,
But then my grip began to slip, And then the plate began to tip.

It did a somersault in air,
While I could only stand and stare.
It didn't land upon its back,
Or give the floor a gentle thwack.

With physics as its cruelest guide,
It landed on the buttered side.
A furry carpet, gray and old,
Now wears my toast and all its gold.

The dog is happy, I am not,
As I survey the sticky spot.
A law of nature, harsh and mean,
The floor is where the jam is seen.

The Azure Omen

I typed a line, I felt so grand, 
With grander projects closely planned, 
When suddenly the screen turned bright, 
With a shocking shade of neon light.

No warning bell, no polite beep, 
Just sapphire sea, cold and deep. 
The cursor froze, the fan went still, 
I felt a sudden, icy chill.

"An error has occurred," it said,
As if my laptop’s soul had fled.
It talked of "Dumps" and "Memory Stacks,"
And things that never quite come back.

I stared into the cobalt glow,
At work I’ll never truly know,
A digital void, a square of doom,
That cast a shadow ‘cross the room.

I pressed the buttons, one and all,
But blue stayed stuck upon the wall.
The only time a shade of blue,
Can break a human heart in two.

The Prince of the Inbox

I got an email, bright and bold, 

From a man with too much gold. 

A Prince who lives in lands afar, 

Who's gifting me a fancy car.

His father left him quite a haul, 

But he can't touch the cash at all! 

Unless I send a tiny fee, 

To set his millions finally free.

He calls me "Dearest Trusted Friend," 

And says our luck will never end. 

If I just share my routing code, 

He’ll drop a treasure on my road.

The grammar's weird, the logic's thin, 

But he’s determined that he’ll win. 

I told him, "Prince, I’d love to help, 

But I'm as broke as a piece of kelp!"

He didn't care, he wrote again, 

With ten exclamation points in his pen. 

He’s waiting there in my "Spam" folder, 

Getting richer as he gets older.

The 3 AM Aria

The moon is high, the house is still, 

Except for shadows on the sill, 

Where midnight maestros take the stage, 

To vent their tiny, feline rage.

It starts with just a lonely "Mew," 

As if to say, "I’m looking at you," 

But soon it grows to a mournful wail, 

Like someone stepped upon a tail.

They sing of bowls only half-full, 

And gravity’s relentless pull, 

They gallop like a herd of goats, 

With sandpaper songs inside their throats.

"The bottom of the dish is clear! 

The end of days is surely near!" 

They shriek at doors and dusty floors, 

Until the weary human snores.

They practice every trill and leap, 

While honest folk are trying to sleep, 

Then curl into a quiet ball, 

And act like nothing happened at all.

The Backyard Philharmonic

Four furry tenors gathered round,

To search for any slighted sound.

The leader is a tiny mite,

With lungs that pack a ton of might.

A squirrel blinked? "How dare he sit!"

A leaf fell down? "We’re losing it!"

The mailman walked three blocks away,

But that’s a crime they’ll fight all day.

One starts a trill, a sharp "yip-yip,"

The others give the "woof" some zip.

A symphony of barks and howls,

Accompanied by canine scowls.

They yap at shadows on the wall,

They yap at nothingness at all.

They’re guarders of the porch and rug,

Who’ll trade a "hush" for one more hug

The Midnight Trombone

My husband starts to slumber, 

And the walls begin to shake, 

The neighbors think a tectonic plate 

Is surely bound to break.

He starts with just a whistle, 

Like a kettle boiling tea, 

But turns into a foghorn 

Lost on a stormy sea.

It’s rhythmic and it’s rumbly, 

Like a motor in a shed, 

I’m tempted to put earmuffs 

On the pillows of the bed.

He woke the cat in Houston, 

And a hibernating bear, 

But when I nudge him gently, 

He says, "What? I’m breathing air!"

The Soup Mistake

I tried to eat my alphabet,

Within a bowl of stew,

But every time I found an "L,"

The "Q" would stick like glue.

The "S" was far too slippery,

The "B" was much too round,

And when I tried to swallow "P,"

It made a squeaking sound.

I’ve learned a vital lesson now,

That fills my heart with dread:

It’s hard to eat a sentence,

When the grammar’s in your head.