Book man stout* had this paronomasia feel;
book man cracked wise about this form of humour [sic] when he made his spiel:
he didn’t like it as we have seen; said punning just wasn’t fun.
I do not care; I’m punning now, I’m just punning on.

Punning on, punning a-plenty,
punning on—punning’s fine,
punning on—punning “sun” into “son.”
In work, getting behind:

I’m a butcher; backed into the machine that does meat-grind;
got more than a contusion, and after that I repined.
In fixing my den, when I was done, I’d repined part of my home:
naughty pine’s what you’d find—walls with skin pix in my dom’.

Punning on, punning a-plenty,
punning on—punning time,
punning on—punning “tun” into “ton”;
hill’s hot. . .can’t stand the clime.

The doctor said, “Oh, that humour’s so low!”
If he found such wordplay, he would grieve—
wasn’t only gout that made him grumpy.
It’s a form that’s light—that is true alright.
I’ve heard he hung around docks to adore Steve.

Book man stout had this paronomasia feel,
though I don’t know just how strong was his pun punishment zeal.
Until now I have focused on homonymic puns. . .other kinds, too,
like if your refrigerator is running, you
must be gone: gotta go catch it.
Punning on—punning tried,
punning on—punning “done” into “dun,”
finished running the ride.

Punning frequently tempts me—
OK, so it ain’t too refined
I love to shtik around, ’cause I’m punning-inclined.
You know, Doc pegged it as low, but he was too unkind.
Punning “putts” into “putz” is how Doc I’ve defined.


*Dr. Samuel Johnson