James's Non-Hamster-Related Poetry
James Paige

A collection of ineffable, alluvial, lactose
intolerant, and non-discombobulating poetry
- James Paige -


Life is a medium sized tropical fish,
flopping and gasping
in the middle of a dirt road
somewhere in Wyoming.

As it twitches, it says to itself,
"How did I get here?"
"Why am I here?"
and "I hope I dont get run over by a truck."


I am so tired of waiting for lunch,
for food to wander near.
I'd like a pig or sheep to munch,
or perhaps a goat or deer.
Buisiness has been slow today,
and none willing to pay the toll,
have wandered over the bridge this way.
Over the bridge of a troll.


Spleens, yes spleens,
most insipid to deride,
if anyone calls spleens useless,
you know that they have lied.
To never use your spleen
is negligent and mean.
A spleen, an odd thing to advocate,
fervor toward the spleen is rare of late.
Just what does a human spleen do?
I do not know, and neither do you.


Dear Mr.Occupant,
whatever is your name,
I write of dreadfull news.
It fills me up with pain.
Your mortgage is foreclosed,
your licence is repealed,
you're being fined fifty dollars,
and your assets have congealed.
This being printed on computer paper,
you might think I dont feel for you.
But every one of our ten billion customers,
wrongly thinks that too.
Oh please do settle your bill,
and sell us all your stocks.
Then perhaps we might not come,
and cart you away in chains and locks.
Then give us all your money,
your firstborn son as well,
and some day we might want more,
you just can never tell.
And we give you thirty days notice,
(thirty days more or less)
In this unique personalized letter,
straight off the printing press.

Our most sincere condolences,
from your lawyers and your friends,
the legal offices of;
Goober, Gulch, and Grends.


Said Wilbur Mahoney to Lumpy Malone,
"Our cashflow is getting quite stale.
I think we should take out a forcible loan,
or engage in a bit of blackmail."

Lumpy agreed, so they set to the task,
of robbing Fifth National Bank.
Each equiped himself with a gun and a mask,
and they called on their driver named Hank.

Hank parked the getaway car by the curb,
and into the bank the thugs rushed.
They pulled their guns on a teller named Herb,
and then the room became hushed.

Wilbur and Lumpy demanded the cash,
and Herb pulled the alarm.
Wilbur's gunbutt on Herb's head did smash,
doing a good bit of harm.

Each robber grabbed a sack of the dough,
and made a break for the door.
The jig was up, and they had to go,
but they wished they could have stole more.

The getaway car, it was gone it seems,
and here came the sirens and lights.
Hank the driver had forgot of their schemes,
and had gone home to watch the fights.


Gravity is our friend
twy on the ground we always end
unless, of course, before was not
the place that wasnt our starting spot

Gravity is very good
Rocks are heavier than wood
Paper weighs more than does slate
Everything has its own weight

Gravity is sine qua non
It separates the pound from ton
If gravity just went away
wed all lift up and drift astray

Gravity is underpaid
It keeps all stuff correctly weighed
So next time you fall on your face
Thank the force that keeps you in place


The scurviest sailor to sail seven seas,
was cruel Captain No-Beard, who never said `please'
He was covered with dirt, and salt, scum and fleas,
a bloodthirsty pirate from his ears to his knees.

No-Beard pillaged and looted and stole all the gold,
Twas said that for riches his soul it was sold.
He fed all his swabbies salt water and mould,
and his victims he sank in seas sharky and cold.

And his first mate was I, Unlucky Bob.
He always suspected that I planned to rob,
him of his life, To lop off his knob!
All cause he though Id inherit his job.

One day in the tavern, quite sloshed in his grog,
No beard had a quarrel with a scurvey sea-dog.
Each said that the other was a stubbley hog,
that sailed his ship like a hollowed out log.

There was nothing to it but to fight a duel,
I tried to convince him he was being a fool,
but as a matter of honor twas an unshakable rule,
they must thrust and parry with steel cold and cruel.

Nathaniel Hyde was the man that he fought,
and poor Captain No-Beard, win he did not.
Upon his gut his foe's sharp blade caught,
and across his shirt grew a bright red spot.

"Capt'n! Capt'n!" Shouted I,
"Its clear to me you soon shall die!
so before you go below to fry,
answer these questions, and do not lie!"

"To whom will you leave your ship and crew?"
"Unlucky Bob, Ill tell you true,
Ill sure not leave my ship to you!
the innkeeper shall have it cause I like his brew!"

"And who will get your peg and hook?"
"To Captain Ahab from that book,
the one whose leg the white whale took,
wearing my peg leg would give him a new look."

"Your golden treasure to who do you will?"
He answered quickly for he was feeling Ill,
"To Nathaniel Hyde whose sword caused this kill,
Cause I admire a pirate who duels with such skill."


The substance of power
the dark Dwarves once sought.
For it's glistening beauty
Great wars the Elves fought.

The hideous Dragons
Treasured it over gold.
The Sylph and the Dryad
sang of it of old.

To them it was power,
to us it is not.
To them it was magic,
to us it is snot.

From Harold the Gnome,
who would clean out his nose,
pick out the boogers
as anyone knows.

And sell them for cash
to the beasts of the land,
then pocket the money,
and wash off his hand.

So the Dwarves and the Elves
and the Dryad and Dragon,
would buy snot from Harold
by cartload and wagon.

The origin of mucus,
before humans roamed the land,
was Harold the Snot Gnome,
who discovered it with his own hand.


Some crave love and some crave wine,
the drunkard drinks while the hearsick pine.

The drunkard shouts across the room,
"My friend, I see youre locked in gloom!"

"Ive got my vintage purple pearl,
but you still havent got the girl!"

Replied sober man with drunken heart,
"Upon my woes you shouldnt start."

"Youll empty your bottle within an hour,
Leaving you with naught but stomach sour,"

"But I have nothing, Ill have nothing then,
So whos lost more? I ask, my friend."


Step closer my son
and Ill tell you a tale,
That will turn your blood cold
and make your heart wail

The foul necromancer
who lurks in the gloom,
Ronald McDonald
who seeks all men's doom.

The minds of our children
he steals with his lies,
he promises them each
a happymeal surprise.

Human life he crushes
by any evil means,
all of his hamburgers
are made of ground soybeans.

Do you believe in magic?
For if you really do,
there will always be a fiend
wearing a big red shoe.


Does this poem ryme?
I dont think it does.
do you think the lines are even?
or is the number of
sylables right?

Some how it doesnt seem rythmic
or is it more monotone?
and look at the speling erors!!!
this looks like I finished it in the
last fifteen minuites.
perhaps I should have taken
my time, written neatly, and made this
sound more poetic, but

perhaps its better if i didnt
because if I had
done it right
then the words wouldnt
fit anymore
and I would have to
wright new ones...

DEATH (in an optimistic sort of way)

Lifeblood cold and marrow chill.
My body could the reaper kill,
but I am laughing at him still

His sickle struck me from the sky,
fate has forced me now to die,
but in my grave I do not lie.

My shell is buried in the ground,
and other shells are buried round
naught but dust beneath each mound.

Dead I am, but I feel great,
And I need nothing but to wait,
behind the open pearly gate.

So keep dry eye and shed not tear.
Death is nothing you should fear,
for all is truly better here!

But afore you follow me, my friend,
listen, this advice I lend:
All souls do not in this place end.


`I think Im insane are you?
Have you heard the voices too?'
`Just shut up and go away.
I dont care what you have to say!'
`Do they speak to you at night?
Taunt you with the speed of light?'
`Who are you, you crazy loon!
Dont follow me like a pet baboon!'
`Have they danced upon your head?
Have they screamed that fish are dead?'
`If you get hit your bones will pop!
One step closer and I call a cop!'
`Will they sing of dryer lint?
Will they feed you chocolate mint?'
`Okay! I hear them too you pain!
Youre perfectly normal! not insane!
Now go away and dont come back!
Or Ill stuff you in a burlap sack!'
`Oh thank you! I am not a fool!
Now the whole world I will rule!
And when, of earth, I am the king,
Ill make you a duke or earl of something.'


Dont get in the water or quickly get out.
The venomous luminous dire deep sea trout-
-is here to ingest you skin bones and all,
Itd be better if on you a comet did fall!
Run if you can or just swim or just fly,
the gut of a sea trout is a bad place to die!
Dont try to hide, it can smell your fear.
Somehow it senses when humans are near.
if a grenade isnt handy, the best way of all
to defend from the trout is a wood cutting maul.
give him a whack, or two, three, four, or five
but dont just assume then that hes not alive.
The fish is undead, I couldve told you that.
A giant couldnt kill it with a with a spiked baseball bat.
If you wanna stay safe, just feed him some cheese.
More that human flesh, cheese, a fish will please.


It is the dank moldish odor of a llama in the dew
It is the twitching of your skin when the rhinos run you through
Dont think you havnt felt this feel for a simple feel it is
When stepping on the granite field breaks a sparking hissing fizz
It is the feeling you are get when bad things you are find
And in one breath you stand and say, `Im ruined',`I dont mind.'
It is the way the sun can rise four hundred times a year
It is the way to laugh the louder with dark doom drawing near
Dont try to see what I am say this speak is not for you
But try to feel the feel it will or ask again anew.


In the midst of the city
in a seat made of gold,

Sits the Grand Monk of Poot,
in whom's beard there grows mold.

His seat it is carryed by six burly goons.
They carry him over the rolling sand dunes.

He contemplates his navel, he cleans out both his ears.
He hasnt even stood up, in twice as many years.

And when hes found himself, as few monks ever do,
he'll stand on his head until he is dead,
and he'll comtemplate that too!


I am thankfull for my nose.
I can breathe when my mouth I close.
I am thankfull for dead trout.
They fill the floodplain during drought.
I am thankfull for fixed dice.
They won me two albino mice.
I am thankfull for the day
the men in white took me away.
Now I am thankfull while I wake.
Or sleep and snore and dream of cake.

Poet's note: I am also thankfull for SPAM, but did not see fit to mention it at this moment.


Old MacLeary, face quite dreary,
sat with me in thought.
`I rue the day they went away;
the folk beneath the cot.'

MacLeary huffed and puffed awhile-
He missed the Leprechauns.
They used to live beneath his bed,
He missed them tons and tons.

The bearded chap loud bespoke;
`I have no company!
The grandkid never pay a call,
and the little folk left me!'

`We used to deal a round o gin
sipping the same the while.
A joke from the wee green folk
could always turn a smile.'

`Its all my fault, my ick and woe
my greed has put me here.
Their gold is what I coveted,
I must admit, I fear.'

`Half a dosen little guys
a pot of wealth for each.
How could they ever spend it all?
And it was in my reach!'

`One fistfull be all that I nipped
I didnt mean no harm!
I could have asked for all good luck,
a very shamrock farm!'

`They would have shared a sea of ale,
or made my house a rook,
but the thing theyd never give me,
is the one thing that I took!'

`My magic midget friends are gone,
who lived beneath my bed.
And if you doubt MacLeary, boy,
Ill Whack you on the head!'