Best Dud Poems
6 years ago, I wrote limericks about 5 PS poets. Today, I've posted
about another 5 and will continue to add more... before 6 years.
I tickled funny bones of five Souper men
So, I gave thought to trying it once again
In the order they replied
My sarcasm was applied
As I gently heckled them with ink and pen
First, Tom Cunningham, who "liked my collection"
To femme limericks he had no objection
But now it's his turn
Tom, forgive the burn
I heard you're headed for a house of correction
Jerry T Curtis said to "keep them coming"
But I think that lately he's been slumming
He's all aflutter
And starts to stutter
When his lady friend starts his heart strumming
Then there is the poet of romance, Tim Smith
His sweet words of seduction are not a myth
I know it to be truth
Don't ask me. It's uncouth
I don't kiss and tell so I'm pleading the fifth
John Gondolf said my limericks made him "chuckle"
His comments are always filled with honeysuckle
But if he wants a date
I'll have to castigate
I have a black belt in the use of my knuckles
"I needed smiles and giggles," said Greg Barden
His poems are flowers blooming in a garden
But some words are couture
Fertilized with manure
Now I guess I'll have to beg for Greg's pardon
The new additions...
Like a brother he comes to my defense
This man wears no guise and has no pretense
Mark Koplin, misunderstood
A modern-day Robin Hood
To me he shines with rays of effulgence
There's a man who took me under his wing
Says what he thinks. Doesn't hold back a thing
Danny Turner, my friend
A helping hand he'll lend
For offering kind words, he's a wellspring
David Kavanagh, true friend from the start
Encouraging advice, he does impart
Throws Monoku lines like spears
I raise a glass to him ~ cheers!
Loyal, his word. A man with a good heart
Canadian, Vaso, we don't see oft
Art doesn't come across as being soft
But has a tender heart
For countries torn apart
His poetic words should never be scoffed
His funny thoughts overflow in a Flood
Terry writes humor that's never a dud
Risque, and sometimes not
His stories have a plot
Rumor has it that he's known as 'The Stud'
Gentlemen, I ask forgiveness for this spoof
My humorous parodies should be the proof
That I like all of you
And don't mind if ya do
Get even in your own limericks of reproof
Mom caught her boob in the washer’s wringer
Rotor made Mom an opera singer
Tit for tat, she got redder
Pop struggled with the lever
I pulled the plug, was able to spring ‘er
Wow! Mum is the word on this awful day
We don’t refer to this deed of foul play
“Hah! Your Dad’s a dud," she cried
As with pain pills she was plied
Now under the radar Pop stays away
*Entry for David William’s Palindrome Mad Contest
By Carolyn Devonshire
Palindrome Words:
Mom, boob, rotor, tit, tat, redder, Pop, Wow, Mum, refer, deed, Hah!, Dad, dud, radar
I hated homework - what a bore;
And wanted time to play.
I’d tolerate that stuff at school,
But that was during day.
We didn’t have a dog or cat,
But Teacher didn’t know:
Those creatures chewed my homework up,
And I was full of woe.
I’d lost my bag, my homework too,
And wasn’t it a shame,
That all my work had been in vain.
My teacher knew my game…
One day I gave up fighting it -
I saw I was a dud -
And did my homework on the bus…
Then dropped it in the mud!
9th November, for Sara’s Jobs contest
Violinist
Of all human evils
That happend in history
Bigger than Holocaust
It was not, and it will not be.
One Violinist was there
His life was violin string
He made the bloody nest there
Im telling you everything.
He had to wear the star
Because he was a Jew
That star was like a scar
For bloody nazi crew.
So he was the artist
Who reached the nazi camp
He was the one of the smartest
Anyway, he got a stamp.
At first, he had faith and hope
He fought as he knew and could
But slowly, he melted like soap
And totally surrendered.
The nazi butcher dug his eyes
Just because he looked at him
He felt like he dies
Nazi enjoyed his scream.
After that, he was like a shadow
He didnt look like a human being
He became dark, like a crow
He stoped to feel anything.
They called him once, to play,
The villains wanted it so
Their will was the only way
And only words that slaves know.
They found some old violin
And they gave it to him
Teached by their discipline
Inside that horrible brim.
He took it with his hads bony
His frail hands tremble
And in the depths of his agony
As human he resemble.
Violine on his chin fits
He plays, without eyes
From the empty eye pits
He almost feels like he cries.
Without his eyes, taken
It seems to him like he dreams
Old memories are awaken
Like he is out, it seems.
The butcher suddenly begin to sangs
He smells his horrible breath
Like beast, with sharp and bloody fangs
He sings of blood and death
He cast a violin,
After the verses of blood
He couldnt listen that terrible sin
From mouth of evil dud.
He desired death, and death came
He doesn't want to beg for his head
Every day is awful and same
Without eyes, he feels dead.
The wicked man fired at him
Brutally, without shame
He fell into mud, by the violin
His blessed End came.
But than, a miracle happened,
The miracle happen to chosen one
He saw his last sunset, blind
And to the Heaven his soul gone.
Zlatko Bato Zivkovic
Original limerick written by Jan Allison
A petite ballerina named Tina
Seemed serene but she couldn’t be meaner
When she got in the sack
She was on the attack
At the size and the shape of his ‘wiener’
Her suitors would then try to dodge her
After insults on their little todger
But listen up guys
I have a surprise
She’s transgender and she was once Rodger!
Continuation poem written by Sonny Roper
Tina wanted a special honeymoon night
She wanted everything to be just right
Into his drink she slipped two little blue pills
It was to enhance their midnight thrills
Into the bed she jumped with her stud
But the night suddenly turn into a dud
Fred was in the land of dreams! As a joke it seems
Someone had slipped Novocain into her Vaseline!
Original Limerick by Jan Allison - the story of Tina continued by Sonny Roper
25th March 2016
maudlin
maudlin Monday's mostly mud
halts the weekend with woeful thud
laughs and sillies
get the willies
on maudlin Monday, what a dud
tintinnabulous
tintinnabulous Tuesday
is the second paying-dues day
we head uphill
but it’s no thrill
'cause we’re not there, but we’re on our way
wadd'lin
wadd'lin Wednesday straddles the hump
wiggles and shakes like a wide-angle rump
it’s a little too slow
with way too much show
wadd’lin Wednesday makes us “harumph”
thoracic
thoracic Thursday we’d like to send west
we want to get Thursday off of our chest
we’re not so sure
we can endure
thoracic Thursday'd be a good day to rest
finally
finally Friday, when it gets here
makes one take a look in the mirror
to practice a smile
to reclaim a style
time to get ready for giggles and beer!
sleep in
sleep-in Saturday comes with the blues
has way too many of those chore-ing to-do’s
so get outta bed
with hung-over head
and put off whatever you choose
shuff'lin
shuff'lin Sunday saunters along
changing tempo, just like a song
pretty soon then
it’s time again
for Monday and that is just wrong!
elusive
elusive, the eighth day hides from the rest
we like to think we’d like it the best
but we’d probably waste it
and then we’d lambast it.
an eight day week the Beatles addressed
8/27/18
"Big"
You're a puppy, I'm a big dog
You're a guppy, I'm a big cod
You're a tadpole, I'm a big frog,
You're a piglet, I'm a big hog
You're a shrimp, I'm a big prawn
You're a baby, I am King Kong
You got a twig, I got a big rod
You're a dud, I'm a big bomb
You're in a puddle, I'm in a big pond
You're weak, I'm big and strong
You're a pawn, talking to your king wrong
You're too unsteady, I'm ready for anything this life brings on
You're still unemployed, I'm working at a big job
You're smoking out a little pipe, I'm using big bongs
You're giving up, I continue to dig on
I'm the truth, you're a big fraud
I'm as real as it gets, you hide behind a big facade
I got not a single piece of bling on
I'm part Klingon
You like it diluted, I like my drinks strong
No time to go back and forth like ping pong
You have no idea about what we on
So you best begone
And take off in your Dodge Neon
She asked if I listened to Big Sean
I said barely, soon followed a big yawn
She said, you're not like all these ding dongs
She just really wanted to see if I had big dong
Then said it's big, oh my god!
By: Dalton Ogletree
Me: Say Charlotte, is your story true?
C: It’s fictional, now are we through?
Me: So are you rich from telling yarns?
C: I’ve got nice threads, but live in barns.
Me: Are you a speedster in disguise?
C: I took a spin; I won a prize.
Me: So what’s your sport now, with your size?
C: Baseball, I guess, ‘cuz I catch flies.
Me: Do you take trips by ground or air?
C: I went by truck, seemed pretty fair.
Me: I hear your love of school is big?
C: I learned to spell and saved a pig!
Me: I hear you were a diplomat?
C: I once coerced a nasty rat.
Me: At this point, what’s your great concern?
C: I’m losing it; I talk to ferns.
Me: So is your life now on the skids?
C: You ever kept a thousand kids?
Me: Surely your life’s not been a dud?
C: You’ve clearly never sucked fly’s blood.
Me: So you’re concened with mental health?
C: I often try to hang myself.
Me: What helps most with life's flow and ebb?
C: I sit a lot and surf the web.
—————
(Inspired by Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White)
FIRST PLACE WINNER
for ‘a conversation with a fictional character’ Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
Submitted 2/4/22
We all need a Savior
In this world today
Because to enter Heaven
There is no other way.
So a Savior God did send
Jesus His own Son
For He is salvation's gift,
Gift for every one.
So why don't you take this gift
Which money cannot buy
And receive from Him that ticket
For the banquet in the sky.
Go ahead book your seat
And take that party ticket
Don't let this pass you by
I would hate it if you miss it.
Let me warn you before I go
And let this thought sink in
Not all tickets that's out there
Are true and genuine.
So take this ticket God's own Son
This one's not a dud
Look closely and you will see
It's stamped with His own blood.
To put an end to the myth that Santa lives in Lapland
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
People just say he's from Lapland, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whiskey, washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody in Yorkshire knows that
You say the Lapland Santa, glows warm and are red, and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor barh t at.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swap gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Yorkshire folk are know for being down to earth and saying what they see, ie a spade is a spade and not an earth moving device.
Ilky Moor Bar tat a famous Yorkshire Folk song where lovers meet and she chides him for not wearing a hat. The winds of the moor causing death and he will be eaten by worms and so on (google it)
Repost fromLast year.
~GG~ 2011 ©
To stop the myth going around that Santa is a Scotsman, a huge hit on the radio here. So fo those that believe this is the truth.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
You just say he is Scottish, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whisky
Washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody here knows that
You say your Scottish Santa’s Glow warm, red and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor bar tat.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swop gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Roger was an humble man,
who dreamed of being a stud;
for when it came to pleasure,
poor Roger was a dud!
He created a little tool,
powered by electricity;
guaranteed for pleasure,
a boost to virility
A simple strap around his waist,
electrodes taped to his rear;
a remote control for comfort,
to the one he loved so dear
Late one Saturday evening,
his girl was dressed in red;
after a scrumptious dinner,
they hurried off to bed!
Roger was lean and ready,
he strapped on his device,
when the passion heated up,
she was reaching paradise!
That's when he pushed the button,
increasing his sexual speed;
"I'm the man!!"...he boldly cried,
a mistake he made indeed
His ego began to trip,
with a goal to last an hour;
Behold, the sex machine!!
he was now a super power!
Sparks began to fill the room,
followed by a burst of flame;
the sheets began to crackle,
Roger was all to blame!
Volts passed through their bodies,
their hair stood up on ends;
what started out as pleasure,
was painful for our friends!
A hole burned through the mattress,
as they crashed onto the floor;
she grabbed him by his hairy ear,
and tossed him out the door!
Standing naked in her view,
his butt severely scorched;
he begged his girl for mercy,
as he wept out on the porch!
To all you "stud creatures",
stupidity's often bred;
machismo's for the dreamer,
and so is an empty bed!
Lazy Cow
Dr. James E. Martin
©May, 2013
The cow loved to chew her cud
As she lay in the cooling mud.
She was lazy you see,
As lazy as could be,
Some would even say she was a dud.
Florida Mosquitoes
A boy stayed with his grandma one summer.
Mosquitoes loved him; it was a bummer!
They liked to drink his blood.
It never was a dud.
They lined up to slurp him for dinner.
Co-written by Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen and her 6-year-old grandson who said that the mosquitoes lined up to
eat him.
There has always been an inter-outer over-under tender balance of loveless socio-equations as they super fit the psychosocial sexe-endices in this modern garner of pluses/minuses/bytes and scribbles mostly incommunicado inexperience and parental impreciseness as to, "anything planned", which in tomb leaves us doth a deranged desperate captive of that all inbibed prisoner **** of nun conformist adventurerers and that really, that there are just too many organic integers making for really bad math.intuitations/attributes and all of the familio do's and don'ts that creep bastardy across the years to inculcate, interfere, incase all of the hoped, promised integrity of just 2 people in love? with all that makes it their potential, not all of the hopeless, ne'r do wells, dead driven dud marriages that hoped to promulgate their failures onto the newbies totally unprepared, but willfully negative implicit on that new, and should be uninterrupted, all naked, seeing alter intense emoexplosive journeys to that wait waits, some supposes, everybody entices, everyone enthralls, quired questions, problem perplexes, initiates initiated, complexes complete, duty deforms, eerily exacts a viscous value, on properties promised a forever coexistance, but not at the expense of selfish selfness; can it be to an us award of a faceoff fervent fever, that WE, can coincide an opposite internal presence that allows us to be a universal component undeluded, underived, unpolluted by the natural wonders that are our genetic cohesions, so they can further their total promise to lead a connected life of copious love, desire and plentitudes of us-ness, disavowing all else in a socioinvasive parental wake of them vs us in all things blood/emo crass cursive? Leave them, the future lovers of us alone, let it flow and keep your, non orgasmic, loveless failures to yourself, old/tainted people of relations, lovers of social inhibitions it plays to an ill-at-ease, stubborn Igor-ignocompliance. Yes, we had Summer Love/Woodstock, but then we grew to be livestock, waiting for the senior-socioseniorslaughter pill mill. You must have some small, tinder, macromolecule of what it was to be standing in the bliss of universal underware; a long time ago in a universe far, far, away. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! the neighbors.