Best Crotches Poems
As crotches go, mine is up there with the best
I would even classify it as exceptional
One would think it all comes down to size
But size is only part of the equation
Of course size is a very major consideration
But as important is it's appearance of strength
I think you know what I'm getting at
The forward thrusting motion is a major factor
In fact, probably if I had to decide
THE most important attribute is a strong forward thrust
And equally important is the quick recoil
In fact, I have just published a book on the subject
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Dedicated to my dear cyber sister, Jan
© Jack Ellison 2014
There once was a bold prig named Wiener
who had an unsightly demeanor
he took pics of his crotch
after two shots of scotch
"Where's his wife? Well nobodies seen her."
Them dancers, singers there on MTV,
why do they grab their crotches frequently?
I've tried, but I still can't figure it out
just what on earth that dance move's all about.
That crotch-clutching flick of a mannequin
must be a part of hip-hop hand routine
with nothing there that's meant to be obscene,
but which these prudish eyes just now have seen.
But then if it's because of poor hygiene,
it's time to see the doc, to check what's in between;
if they won't wash and scrub themselves real clean,
like chimps with lice, they'll scratch, they'll make a scene.
But sure, they know too well what should be done:
if they don't scrape the itch, it will be gone;
well, Michael Jackson, dance king of all climes,
at fifty, clutches still his crotch fifty times!
My dog is a criminal
A beggar, a thief
She has a rap sheet two miles long
Do we care? No
Will we turn her in? Never.
No one gives us more joy than this felon.
The neighbors can buy their stuff back at our garage sales.
Mrs. McLairty never buys back her panties though
We see them come from her clothes line and we feel badly
By the time they get to our yard, our dog has eaten the crotches out of them.
No one else’s, only Mrs. McLairty’s. No idea why.
Get right with the creator...
Teach your kids how to fish.
Give EVERYBODY a second chance or even a third
(that's if they're not to vicious).
After that you're wasting your-breath- my dirty dime.
Do hire more GOOD police they're quite necessary
To keep the hell hounds off the streets.
Thin out the Neapolitan herd of
STRAWBERRY KNEED race baiting politicians.
BLACK HEARTED MEDIA HEADS.
Billowing out the pale sludge of lie and half-truths.
Thin out the GREEN- EYED OLIGHARCS.
Greasing the souls and crotches of politicians.
Do promote peace within your family.
Don't paint people in your backwash of hate...
The community will bud-cities will bloom...again.
Tend to your teeth -a smile will naturally follow.
A smile can make all the difference.
....and did I mention, get right with God.
We'll all be better off...somewhat.
MIDDLE EARTH
I see the gaping maw approaching
ivory white saliva covered teeth
slobbering over red gums
tongue lolling about
reaching for my face.
Knees!! Dammit!!! Knees!!
God are there some ugly knees
rippled, dimpled, dumpling shaped
sticking through the holes in new jeans
smiling at me.
Butts!! Posteriors!! Cheek-sets!!
Bumping and bouncing
a constant “cha-cha-cha”
rippling tide afloat in yoga pants
spandex containment
seeking release.
Table bottoms….gawd-a-mighty
therapy….yes!!…I’ll need therapy
Don’t let me touch that stuff!!!
Better yet….stop sticking whatever
under the tables.
I see crotches…grabbed
by men….not playing baseball
just …. just….damn….more therapy
and women in spray painted
“body clinging” fashion art.
I see other kids…in strollers
at the edge of shock
unprepared for what awaits them
around the corner
just down the block.
9/1/2015
submitted to – Through the eyes of a child – Poetry Contest
Clubbing it
Once I went to a night- club in Albufeira a dreadful place with
garish colours and a man with a Hammond organ also played
many instruments with a total lack of talent, when he rested
a jukebox took overplayed so loud the windows shook.
Around the dance floor – arena – skeletal women sat crows
that looked at men’s crotches and piercing eyes looked into his
wallet the three ugly sisters had felt at home, their fairy-tale
opulence could have lent this place dignity and humour.
Driftwood from all over Europe men swarmed around them
like bees around a jar of honey, a few caught a bee in time
a dream come true golf lessons swimming pool and garden-
Then they got old eating a lettuce a day, slept the afternoon
away in the evening and hungry they had the nails and hair to
do and still dreaming of the right man to rescue them of this
ennui, prisoners of faded beauty and their former lovers
lived at the old folks home up the hill in the interior of Algarve
Yet I could not help feeling sorry for them helpless old age
stuck on a slow liner and no life raft, as they resignedly
waited to be engulfed by cold green sea and
Albufeira continued its dance around tourism a place for
the “hard working worker,” erasing what once had been
a peaceful fishing village along the coast of romance.
I see that our beliefs in race and profiles, defiles.
Perpetuates hate, stereotypes to our brain matter.
I see corporate greed and pockets get fatter.
I see the will on the eyes, the glass as it shatters.
I see all, everyone all over and round the world.
I see every word is spoken is joking is heard.
I see with eyes that not only see
I see with eyes that both live and breathe,
I see your eyes on the handle that's sheathed,
I see true production with that handles released.
I see in future dictated by present,
I see in our fathers dictating, detectives.
I see guidelines are carefully protected.
I see between lines subliminal messages.
I see the music clearer than clear.
I still see the fear, when people hear
me calling, my voice is honesty fear
calling from behind or the rear.
I see the judgments, assumptions and grudges.
When nobody doesn't.
I see far like days and wider than canyons,
I see hard like maydays, milder than Manson’s.
See every person not one but all people,
I see from churches high up on there steeples.
I see in peoples eyes full, and there pupils, there retinas and defects and
and all they are hiding,
I see a way, to see, its in me there confiding.
I see people as people just people all striding
for seeking with eyes that see fighting and dying.
I see no respect, regret and paychecks providing
money in pockets and sockets, necessities, honest.
I see crotches and chests, members and breasts. Illusions, contests.
I see with eyes that can see farther than many
I see plenty of love and have loved for a penny.
I see the eyes all gathering ideas
my ideas teach my mother,
I see ideas to teach to another, to teach to each-other.
I see with eyes that not only agree
my eyes, like your eyes, have seen things for free...
but I don't forget where I've been
my eyes now see more things
than your eyes have seen.
Trump Is Pompous
Trump is pompous as he will prance
Now has to take a goal line stance
For women he has been abusing
Thought to himself it was amusing
Grabbing crotches and pinching pants.
If I remember correctly the word
in the past was called goosing.
Jim Horn
The night hides stars explode silence waves in malls consumers stare into lights blank
pupils a poet loses his words to rock-stars and rap-stars clutching crotches smiling gold
scarred in oils van gogh rots in his grave his yellow fades fields of grain
Two inept crooks robbed my house while I was on vacation.
They left my water running and they died by strangulation.
Besides robbing me, those idiots also made me have to pay a two hundred dollar water bill.
They were already beaten by my neighbors eight year old son, as crooks, they had no skill.
I decided to go to the Police Station and post their bail.
Before I was through, they wanted to go back to jail.
I shot them in their crotches and burned their heads with my blowtorch.
Those dumbasses were screaming in agony because their heads were scorched.
Before strangling them, I used my shotgun to blow off their kneecaps.
Everybody had better start to learn that I will not take people's crap!
(This poem is based on the 1990 'Home Alone' movie.)
Why do they grab their crotches frequently
those dancers, rappers on MTV?
I've tried, but still can't figure it out
just what on earth that dance move's all about.
Must be a pop or hip-hop hand routine
that crotch-clutching flick of a mannequin
with nothing there that's meant to be obscene,
but which these prudish eyes just now have seen.
But then if it's because of poor hygiene,
the derma-doc must check what's in between;
if they don't wash and scrub themselves real clean,
like chimps with lice, they'll scratch, they'll make a scene.
No worry though, something could still be done:
if they don't scrape the itch, it would be gone.
Well, Michael Jackson, pop king of all climes,
at fifty, still clutches his crotch fifty times!
At the end of another summer day
Rainbow of deflated asses crotches and breasts strung along our deck railing
Flail like a Tibetan prayer flag
Under the smoky umbrella of burgers and brats
Grilling for dinner
Souls adrift from their left behind soaked skin
The sleeves and pantlegs re-begin
Arms and legs jog in place
In the cool lungs of a dry evening breeze
Moon sheen of shoulders and knees
Minutes before dawn
Creased pressed and ready for a new day
They kick and whisper rearrange themselves by order
A titter of
Generations past present and future
Here the people come!
Grandpa and grandma moms and dads sisters brothers
An army of kids teenagers to toddlers
Hurray! One by one
Like rays sprung from the sun
Once again
Off
The dried suits are plucked
Hot bodies slip back into place
Here we go
Body and soul
Made whole for another summer day
Of swimming.
Humble stone was intolerably warm,
That ice block was numbing cold,
Those nails were pining to pierce,
The poisonous worms and snakes in jungle,
Were ready to sink in their stocks,
I was to sit,squat,walkand run in these environs,
I squirmed to think,
What would have happened if,
We as a civilization,
Not invented our present avatar,
Below the waist garments,
Admirably represented by trousers,
In fact the day we developed awareness,
Of our crotches and what is contained therein,
We came to grab something to hide,
That we can now tailor and more,
Shows that we have not only leaped,
A mile in physical security,
But also developed abashed ness with abundant clarity.
I have waited so long to compose a new song; I have waited so long for you to come along. Time is setting fire underneath my feet; time is igniting a motion in the third degree; time is raking up the dust and everyone is getting ready to board the bus.
The sun is setting fire to my mind and the journey from mega peak to California is divine .
I am walking in a straight line and the clouds in Angola are dancing about causing the people to run and shout. What on earth has gone wrong?
The Angolans are chanting a mournful song today they are here tomorrow they are there and the wind is blowing through the trees and moving across the hemisphere littering the avenue and the streets.
They have been waiting for fifteen years underneath the trees on a political promise that had no legs but it came in time when Obama had something to sell and nothing to tell.
Sixty-three thousand of them waited in the bush living in the wilds honey all day with nothing to cook, they survive every day on water and grain to enter America visa free but the promise was not fulfilled.
A new administration came along and everyone was singing a different song and the deal died peacefully in the bushes.
The new administration began to shout and the bush people’s fate was worse than before. They were tossed in different directions, and forced out of the woods to go and fend for themselves.
The sick and destitute start moving around in crotches and long gowns, and the old and feeble trod along praying to Allah in the woods but time propels them in different direction and the Americans watch from the big screen an epitaph of a broken promise lying among the trees and the promise was covered with dirt and those that survived moved boldly with courage to another place.
I have waited so long for you to come along to listen to your story of how you escaped from glory,
I have waited for so long to have a decent shower and walk in the book shops to feast my eyes on new literature.
I want to look at some focused recipe and the ingredients that is mixed with dusts and those that cause you to fuss. A combination of truths will draw a fine line around those terrific boots.
I have waited for so long to compose this song so meet me underneath the tree and sing along with me.