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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide, Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside… But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine, When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine. If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke, Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke, Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait, With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate. But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign, If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline, There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load, And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road. I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more, Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store, Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips, And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips. But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain, Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again, For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory, There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently. I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border, And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order. The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell, While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well. And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy, But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye, The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack, Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black. So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot, I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,” As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say… I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way. I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old, The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold, I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high, A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry. I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice, With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse, I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase, Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise. The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat, And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!” I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek, I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”

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The Hamburger

For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide, Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside… But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine, When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine. If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke, Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke, Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait, With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate. But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign, If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline, There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load, And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road. I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more, Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store, Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips, And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips. But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain, Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again, For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory, There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently. I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border, And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order. The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell, While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well. And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy, But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye, The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack, Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black. So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot, I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,” As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say… I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way. I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old, The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold, I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high, A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry. I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice, With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse, I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase, Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise. The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat, And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!” I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek, I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”