Best Braying Poems
beautiful
braying voice loud
unhappy soul, no
true contentment
he simply wants attention
and see you
Limerick crochetés: Once a blaring braying bold trumpet
for Nicanor PARRA
Once a blaring braying bold trumpet
Used to serenading mere strumpet
Could not hold back loud fart
While entertaining tart
Now the tart on his fart took a bet
That she'd hold back twittering trumpet
If his strumpet balls bowl in cricket
So great fanfare to start
Nations came to hear fart
Trumpet let down strumpet: tart lost bet
(can be continued…)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
There once was a braying ass
who was so crass
Her head was so thick-
Her owner had to beat her with a stick.
That ass
She brayed day and night-
always ready for a fight.
One day she brayed too loud
Her owner took her in front of a crowd
Shot her right in the head-
Thank Goodness,
that braying ass is now dead.
A. Green
Ironic how most of the wealthy old greenies
pamper their white satin fannies over fancy bidets
behind the walls of butchered Cherrywood trees.
Stuffing RVs and private planes with fracking gasoline,
bashing slave labor while flashing their blood diamond rings.
They cherish furry creatures while BBQing their meats,
wearing hides of bovine while strutting down hypocrisy street.
They believe in diversity but not when it comes to opinions,
they're nothing but naïve-yellow striped Marxist Minions.
Openly playing the flutes of the compassionate- pacifist
while secretly banging the cymbals of a globalist tryst
tearing at the heart and soul of the second amendment.
Wishing for the blue collar ballot to smolder and choke,
butt(sp) willingly bending over for illegals and felons to vote.
Always attacking and tongue trashing of the thinnest blue line,
hiring guards behind gated mansions filled with security eyes.
Playing the race baiting game of re-distribution of wealth,
shanking the middle class, while their accounts continue to swell.
I pray large herds of red pachyderm storm the voting stations,
to stomp out the braying- to salvage the soul of a nation.
She laughs like a donkey braying except it’s more annoying.
She tells tall tales so often, her hideously ugly nose has grown.
Bart had never heard Joey say so many mean things about anyone.
Wait until you meet her, he told him. She will seem nice. Don’t believe.
When they reached Joey’s parents’ house a beautiful blonde ran out.
She grabbed Joey, , twirling him around, as if he was a toy top.
This is sister, Joey said as she reached for Bart and gave him a hug.
Bart was enchanted and instantly smitten.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Why did you tell me all that bad stuff? He asked Joey that evening.
If I had told you the truth about her, would you have believed me?
You mean that your sister is the prettiest,
most enthusiastic girl in the world?
The best friends grinned at each other, feeling closer than ever before.
Hee Haw, I Cried
By Sy Roth
With a mulish hee haw,
I wrap myself in my own divine comedy.
Commedia dell’arte path
For a blind mercenary of his own fate.
An ormolu wonder stood before me--
Trees clad in shimmering gold.
Timidly approached,
I scratched its surface lightly
Find fleshy, dark wood beneath
Where ambitions have been suffocated
And only the braying of asses can hear them.
Below, caterwauling hags,
Along with their sibling troglodytes
Drape themselves in incessant pleas for mercy,
Spilling their guts across nomadic roads
They spin their wheels
To get to nowhere.
An Inferno blazes in the land below,
Waving feet dancing a tarantella.
Above their decaying bodies,
Dull movement of fusty air.
Mesmerized by the undulating feet and the muddled cries,
I sense a shameless overlord who conducts
With sets of atonal rhythms.
It mesmerizes the suffering marchers
Makes them hopeful
As the ashes above
Leave red trails to the crematoria
Afloat on a river of fecal matter,
My raft drifts across a once fecund land.
I cannot hold my nose.
And the haints will not be stilled.
And I, the mule, hee-hawing
Stare ahead, then
Upwards, to the last ebon time
Where soft breezes of the golden trees
Will not sing the Siren’s song
And the soft winds will frolic with the peace --
No more.