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Best Matthew Boyd-Howey Poems

Below are the all-time best Matthew Boyd-Howey poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem


I can put things together
Sometimes I'm on what you wear
Sometimes on things
Sometimes I get stuck and you get mad at me
Its not often for me to break 
I'm made out of metal

I'm a zipper

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem

Basketball limerick

A basket ball player with bounce
Said, “All my opponents I'll trounce.”
But thanks to a gale
He fell on his tail,
And off in a huff he'd to flounce!

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem

Baseball limerick

A big baseball player on pitch
Developed a strange kind of itch:
The ball flew up straight
Then down on his pate,
So he blamed the whole thing on a witch!

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem

Hunger Games

The Victor
Their cheers,
Your tears,
Blood drips from your hands,
Their lies,
Your cries,
You stand where the victor stands.
Was it worth it, worth the death,
Destruction, to your right and left?
Would you have, rather died?
Left someone else to bathe in pride?
Do you need the luxery,
Raid the Capitol's treasury?
A web they span to hide their lies.
A trick of the light in ways.
Jewels on your clothes stained red,
The blood of the childrens drained lives.
You must gt up in the morning,
Their haunting faces in your eyes.
You are the victor but you haven't won.

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem

The Gold

I’m not a big San Francisco 49ers fan even though I live in the bay area, but I get to read all about them in the local papers. After their latest dismal loss the coach described their offense as still in a ‘process’ of learning. A little to optimistic me thinks. I still blame the owning York family who have demonstrated over the years their complete inability to build a winning franchise. It will be a long time before the 49ers strike gold again.
This year thought the team might be bucking
 Their losing trend but now they’re ducking
 The fact it’s not turning
 With a ‘process’ of learning 
That’s more like a ‘process’ for sucking.

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem


What a name called? 
Football a game called, 
To known arena called stadium, 
Played eleven to eleven side to side each, 
Formations of it kinds, 
Aims of a two goal post net, 
Aims of a trophy, 
Aims of winning, 
In a color Jersey of its kinds, 
In a color booths of it kinds, 
Side to side balls picking sons round, 
Spectators sat rounding pitch watching, 
Centered with a nominated referee officiating, 
Lined with a two lines men flagged, 
Officials of substitutions in questions, 
Pronounced by named commentators, 
Red and yellow cards rules in question, 
Supported keys of volunteers, 
Supported with all sorts of supporters, 
Declared a stadium manager jobs, 
Declared a team manager jobs, 
Host the nations, Host the world, 
At moment of a country designated! 
At moment of a country authorized! 
Called for all practitioners....
Photographers, Cinematography, Press, Medias, Adverts, Sponsors, critics, etc. centred. 

What a name called? 
Football! football! ! football! ! ! 
A rounded leather circled! 
Circled in its color of its choices, 
Declared fifa authorities, 
Declared statistical over all game, 
Respect covered face to face, 
Stretchers officials in uniforms of its officials medications, 
Football a game called, 
With boots of its kinds worn, 
Saddled a whole lot supporters, 
Saddled a whole lot analysts, 
Presumption for a nation's glory, 
Preemptive individuals' desirably for survival, 
Football a game called, 
Called to the passionate in spirit, 
Football a game called, 
Embrace understanding to unnamed, 
Embrace love to unloved, 
Embrace unity to diversities, 
Embrace creativity to un-creativity, 
Football a game called, 
Adore a nature, 
Football a game called, 
Called to a glorious home, 
Football a game called, 
A rounded leather circled! 
With boots of its played, 
With jersey of its kinds, 
With choices of many kinds, 
Football a game called. 

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem


Six is perfect because its even 
Six is the number of cheeseburges my dad gets at Mcdonalds
Without six we would no have sixth birthday 
Six sounds like sick
Six is like how many pecues of hair my uncle has
Six is like how many words are in orange without them we would noy have orange

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem

Santa's Sleigh limerick

We're singing the song of the sleigh 
As Santa gets his underway. 
The bells are a-jingle, 
Our tummies a-tingle, 

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem


gotta go to work
work work work wok work work work work work work work
gotta go to work
work work work work work work work work work work work
work work work work work
gotta go to work
work work work work wok work 
gotta go to work 
repeatedly, until u want to stop

Details | Matthew Boyd-Howey Poem


When Mothering Day comes on Sunday
We all want to make it a fun day.
We all love our mum,
She's who we came from,
Though she sends us to school on a Monday!