after my friend said, “quintohair looks like a small creature that exists in a symbiotic relationship with quintohead”.
A is for Arthur, who’s always drinking tea
B is for bulldozer, and real bad poetry.
C is for the cosmos - it’s really whopping huge
D for the Dentrassi who give hitchhikers refuge.
E is for the Earthmen, who tend to come from Earth,
And Eddie the computer, who’s always glad to serve.
F is for Ford Prefect and also forty-two
Ford sure is one hoopy frood; he has a towel, too.
G is for the galaxies: they’re big and oh-so-shiny
And the Great White Handkerchief, alive with mucus slimy.
H is for the Heart of Gold, which holds a great invention
(That might turn you into tea if you don’t pay attention):
It’s Improbability - and hey, that starts with ‘I’!
(The chances of that happening could not have been too high.)
The letter ‘J’s for jammies, which Arthur always wears
‘Cause that’s one thing ‘bout fashion: up in space, nobody cares.
K is for Krikkit - their night sky sure is dull
L is for your lunch, which we’ll be serving in a while.
(At least, we’ll do that after our delivery gets here
Of lemon-soaked paper napkins; they’re very late, oh dear.)
M is for Marvin, the Paranoid Android
Who isn’t so much paranoid as depressed and most annoyed.
N is for normal, though what that is no one’s quite sure
O for Oolon Colluphid of controversial literature
P is for petunias; for their death they were not keen
Q is for the Question, which only works in base thirteen.
R is for the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal
Who’ll gobble up your grandmother and prob’ly you as well.
S is for the stars and space and Slartibartfast too
As well as superintelligent shades of the colour blue.
T is for Thursdays, which Arthur never got the hang of
T also is for tea, Arthur’s one and only true love.
U is for the universe. It’s big and fairly scary.
V is for the Vogons: of them you should be wary.
W is What? and When? and Who? and Where’s the tea?
X is Xena: Warrior Princess. (I’m desperate, can’t you see?)
Y is Why, to which the answer just ain’t ‘forty-two’
And lastly, Z for Zaphod, who is way hipper than you.
A shattered friendship:
Walter Bishop was hungry
Only Gene was there.
“Where Do Robots Go When They Die?”
“Do I have a soul?” the robot sometimes asks himself
Or am I just a dumb machine, made up from spare parts on a shelf.
Does me asking myself this question, prove my soul is real?
Maybe It’s just my programming, simulating how I should feel.
Humans have it easy, because when their time on Earth ends
Their soul gets to go to heaven, with their family and their friends.
Even if they go to hell, at least they won’t be all alone
A robot has no afterlife that they can call own :-/
But maybe it is comforting, to know that it ends here
Not worrying about an afterlife, means there is nothing there to fear
In 3 million years, when my atomic battery runs out,
I’ll know that it’s all over, and I won’t be filled with doubt.
And no family will even care, as Robots can’t have daughters or sons
My soul will fade away to nothing, a dead string of zeros and ones.
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my mom is rly gonna love this poem
revised from the first part of my never-finished h2g2 poem.
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.
Cranky Old Man
What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice, ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice the things that you do.
And forever is losing a sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse. You’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten, with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another
A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at twenty my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five, now I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At fifty, once more, babies play ‘round my knee,
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future. I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years, and the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man and nature is cruel.
It’s jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles. Grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass, A young man still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living life over again.
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people. Open and see.
Not a cranky old man.
Look closer .. See.. Me.
get back, marty.