Best Fat Chance Poems | Poetry
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Fat Chance Poem
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Pay no mind to man behind the curtain.
You've learned the superficial but his depths are still uncertain.
You tried to plot his course and see that death is lurking.
Look into his eye and you'll see the drugs are working.
It's the sad sad tale of the promise land.
Where you calculate your worth with a cyber hand.
Where you're notified daily that no one understands.
With modern civil rights as false as facebook friends.
They say "We've got to come together; gotta make this right!"
Fat chance of that happening unless you pass that pipe.
On this bureaucratic farm with it's produce ripe.
They cultivate the origins of your foresight.
Playing on your misery as if it were delight.
Still you are convinced you're in a fair fight....
Copyright © Dill Dennison | Year Posted 2016
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Fat Chance Poem
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For flowery words I have no gift
deep thoughts I'm rarely thinking
And when it comes to penmanship
my dear I fear I'm stinking
But none the less amid this mess
I'll sum up for your pleasure
Donations to our mutual fund
you've granted in full measure
In 'sixty-two who knew that you
would be my life-long buddy
We'd both tried once, struck out at love
our crystal ball was muddy
We'll make it work this time we said
but no one thought we meant it
The means it seems for life-long dreams
had not yet been invented
Of course I knew that you were who
I prayed would share my dreaming
Of mountain cabins babbling brooks
blue lakes with rainbows teeming
But you were from a Texas town
and I a guy from Brooklyn
So fat chance you and I would fly
where angels yearn to look in
Now reassessing all those years
of mutual indenture
The motorcycles horses boats
and trips of wild adventure
I know I owe it all to your
intrepid flexibility
That we hold these fond memories
to warm us through senility
Just another warrenpiece
Copyright © Warren Dickman | Year Posted 2015
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Fat Chance Poem
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He hasn't said ten words to me -
for say, two hours and one long half.
I might as well be absentee
except for an off-handed laugh.
He takes football with white hot fun;
if we're behind, he catches fire!
The game is done, I think we won
and we are headed for the car.
So maybe now I'll have his voice?
Fat chance, it's only radio.
He's flipping channels, makes his choice
finding at last - the post-game show.
When in the drive the static stops,
the dog is howling at the door.
He lets her in, and rubs her chops
then play by play tells her the score.
I head for bed and say goodnight
but does he note my lonesome tone?
What’s that I hear? You guessed it right -
a message on the speaker phone.
Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2014
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Fat Chance Poem
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THE MORNING WAS PLEASANT, THE WEATHER WAS FINE,
BREAKFAST OUT OF THE WAY, FISHING WAS ON MY MIND.
I’D WAITED ALL WEEK, BUT IT HAD FINALLY ARRIVED,
GOING FISHING AT LAST, THANK GOODNESS ALIVE.
WITH REEL IN MY HAND, TACKLE BY MY SIDE,
I HEADED ON OUT, NOT TOO LONG A RIDE.
TO THE LAKE I WAS GOING EARLY ON THIS MORN,
BEFORE DAYBREAK, AND BEFORE THE SUN WAS BORN.
WITH COOL DRINKS IN THE ICE CHEST, LISCENCE BY MY SIDE,
I’D BE OUT FISHING BEFORE A BABY BIRD CRIED.
GETTING TO THE LAKE, NO TROUBLE I HAD,
I LEARNED ALL THIS EARLY, STRAIGHT FROM MY DAD.
HE SAID, GO OUT EARLY, BRING THEM ON IN,
THAT’S WHEN YOU CATCH THEM, HE SAID WITH A GRIN.
I SURVEYED THE AREA, ALL GLOOM AND ASLEEP,
I’D CAST TOWARD THE MIDDLE, OUT WHERE IT WAS DEEP.
I PULL BACK MY ARM TO GET A GOOD SHOT,
BUT WHEN I WENT FORWARD’S THAT’S WHEN THINGS GOT HOT.
CAUGHT MY LINE ON A TREE BRANCH, LIKE TO BROKE MY ARM,
THOUGHT I HEARD SOME ONE SAY, NO FOUL NO HARM
WELL THAT MADE ME MAD, THAT’S WHEN THE TROUBLE BEGAN,
I YANKED AND I YANKED AND YANKED ONCE AGAIN.
NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRIED TO GET THE LINE FREE,
THAT DAD BOB BRANCH WOULDN’T GIVE IT BACK TO ME.
WELL, I THREW DOWN MY REEL, AND CLIMBED UP THAT TREE,
I COULD SEE IT WAS GOING TO BE TROUBLE TWEEN THAT BRANCH AND ME.
WELL I FINALLY CRAWLED OUT ON THAT BIG BRANCH.
FIXING TO GET MY WRAPPED UP LINE UNHOOKED, FAT CHANCE.
CAUSE ALL OF A SUDDEN AND MUCH TO MY SUPPRISE,
I WAS ON A HORNETS NEST, RIGHT THERE BEFORE MY EYES.
YOU TALK ABOUT PANIC, I THINK IT WAS TOO LATE,
CAUSE WHEN THEY STARTED UP, SEEMS THEY OPENED THE GATE.
LORD! I HOLLOWED OUT AS MY FEET HIT THE GROUND,
GET ME OUTTA THIS MESS AND MY LIFE I’LL KEEP SOUND.
THEM SUCKERS WAS POPPING ME, POPPING LIKE HECK,
I JUMPED IN THE LAKE, WAY OVER MY NECK.
SEEMED LIKE HOURS, BEFORE I HAD THE NERVE TO COME UP.
LUCKILY THEY WERE GONE, ME I WAS SOAKED LIKE A PUP.
I EASED TO MY TRUCK, GOT IN AND STARTED OUT FAST,
THEY CAN HAVE MY FISHING GEAR AND THEY CAN KISS MY FOOT.
Copyright © will karry | Year Posted 2014
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Fat Chance Poem
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Tribulation Ventication: This selection will be completed in part's. So be patient as I will be running out of space and having to continue and then continue in part's again! This is a true BIO and tend's to be graphic. As not even I as a Poet, can make this stuff up......
Tribulation Vendication From Scratch;**
It started at the Hampton, VA
I was a crack addict
And drank alcohol
Twenty four hours' a day
I stayed in treatment for over
Twenty Year's
My mother was appalled
Fore she didn't know it all
----
For my poor Mother
Their was nothing but tear's
Those sorrrowful tear's lasted
For many year's
They could only but leave
Cool, Cold Chills'
---
I smoked dope
And drank alcohol
Neve did I realize what fate
That was about to be-fall
Hell, Iv'e done it all
---
First come Addison Disease
It came like an avalanch
And then more crack
I got so high that I couldn't
Come back
---
And more alcohol, anemia
And bone's that cracked
Mental condition's which were
To hard to attack
---
I had a vertebrata Fracture
A spine C-5 disaster
I fooled all the doctor's
They were so surprised
It was as though
They couldn't believe
Their eye's
They couldn't tell if I would
Talk
Or ever walk alive
On the earth
With out prostetics or worse
---
I joined the Coast Guard
A young man
But, that Addison Disease
And Viral Syndrome
Just simply got out of hand
---
Then I joined the Army and
Tht was too much
Anti-social Personality
Arthritis and disciplinary problem's
Were just too much
For one man
The temperature in Germany
Were too much to stand
---
I was discharged withou pay
Now, I am at the Veteran's Administration
Known as the "VA'
And it so remain
Even today
---
But now I am OK
---
I was diagnosed with Hiv'
Which completely destroyed me
My life was full of shame
Their was so much pain
And no-one to shed the blame
But, in treatment
I still remained
---
While in Baltimore
The AID's went full blown
Their was a fat chance
That I would ever live
Not for very long
At least I would never
Make it alone
---
This my family didn't know
Because I never told them so
Even if I did
Where could I go
---
Renal failure, kidney failure
Respiratory Arrest
That wasn't the test
I also had pneunmonia
Extreme congeston of
The Chest
---
The grip of the disease
Was nothing that you
Would want to put on a friend
Fore the mortality rate for then
Would get the better of most men
---
Until then
Copyright © Gary Fields | Year Posted 2011
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Fat Chance Poem
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a villanelle
Who has fallen in love with the couch?
Who remembers the days of sweet romance?
Maybe Miss Piggy and Oscar the Grouch.
Hub spends much time napping, as I can vouch,
more than with me. A date night? fat chance.
Who has fallen in love with the couch?
I think he loves me; if I ask, it’s ouch -
he cannot believe I’d ask in askance.
Yes, I’m Miss Piggy; he’s Oscar the Grouch.
I spend much time nagging him not to slouch.
In public, we smile, hold hands, and dance,
but he’s fallen in love with the couch.
There’s a secret valentine at our house
this February; I know in advance.
Gift for Miss Piggy "from" Oscar the Grouch.
A heart-shaped pillow, a kind of a pouch
to hold my dreams as he snores in a trance.
Now who has fallen in love with the couch?
Miss Piggy who loves her Oscar the Grouch.
written 5 February 2016
Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2016
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Fat Chance Poem
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It was the best cherry-cola that I ever had.
It’s the aftertaste now that’s incredibly bad.
It was 1953, at the corner Five and Dime.
I still think it might have been some sort of crime.
I had saved enough money from mowing some yards,
to buy one more pack of Topps Baseball Cards.
As I peeled back the wrapper, anticipation grew,
hoping to find an all-star, maybe two.
But, treasure doesn’t always appear like one thinks.
“Nothing” I yelled out, “This totally stinks.”
Some rookie named Mantle was all that I found.
“Fat chance of him ever sticking around.”
My buddy there with me was a big Yankees fan,
a sucker, I thought, for my ingenious plan.
With considerable effort, I convinced him to swap,
my “worthless” card for his “priceless” pop.
The bottle’s still worth a nickel at the store,
The “Mick”? I’d guess, just a little bit more.
It sits on my shelf, like a trophy I earned,
A reminder to me of a lesson once learned.
Note: The 1952 Rookie Mickey Mantle card has been
valued at over $50,000 by some price guides. – Wow!
I have lots of old baseball cards I collected as a kid, but
not this one. I wrote this as I watched an old-timer tell
a shop-owner about one that “got-away.”
Copyright © Kevin Pace | Year Posted 2010
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Fat Chance Poem
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flowing-pen
writer of poetry
beautiful
verses
and rhymes that tell stories
that drip from my pen
from the depth of my soul
I will create
picking carefully my words
and then
all my effort adds up to nothing
no way
nada not in this life fat chance
perish the thought
forget it
no prize for you
nil zilch zero nothing
the nothingness
overwhelms me
with sadness
my poem
may seem a trifle thing
that dripped from my pen
from the depth of my soul
I wrote it
picking carefully my words
and then
for a moment and just for a second
I feel
unimportant insignificant nothing
the rejection
overwhelms me with sorrow
worthless
and then
I think not
no way
I refuse I will not be nope I will and I can
NOTHING will stop me
from being the poet
God himself
set into motion nothing will deter my purpose
that is-
to write from the depth of my soul
never for nothing but always
and forever for me
______________________________
September 17, 2015
Free Verse
For the contest, Nothing, sponsor, Anthony Slausen
Seventh Place
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
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Fat Chance Poem
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We're having friends for dinner on Saturday
Well we're not actually having them for dinner!
That statement implies that we're cannibalistic
And our list of friends would get thinner!
We drive on a parkway and park on a driveway
This play on words sure can confuse
If teachers taught, why don't preachers praught?
One moose, two meese, how do we choose?
Make amends always seems to be plural
Can't we make one amend I'd like to know!
One tooth, two teeth, why not one booth two beeth?
And why shouldn't you pick your seat at a show?
A slim chance and a fat chance mean the same
But a wise man and a wise guy are opposites
The weather is either hot as hell or cold as hell
I know it's confusing but don't take a fit!
This English language can be oh so confusing
It can drive you to distraction at times
But try to learn Chinese or Mandarin my friend
You'll realize the English language is divine!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014
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Fat Chance Poem
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An ad campaign for many years
To sell Dos Equis beer
Employed a pitchman, who has now
Appeared to disappear.
They called him “The most interesting
Man in all the world,”
But now he’s been laid off and rumors
Naturally have swirled.
The truth, of course, is no surprise –
They’ve kicked him off the stage
For reasons very Hollywood –
In other words, his age.
The actor, in his seventies,
Has quickly been replaced
By someone forty-one, whose youth
The marketers embraced.
I guess you can’t be interesting
When your years advance,
So if offered a Dos Equis now,
I’d smile and say, “Fat chance!”
Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2016
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Fat Chance Poem
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Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle
of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle.
Louis The Retch poked it into his back.
“The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.”
Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame,
alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name.
She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse,
undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse,
then slipping out of her slip and her hose,
and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those.
He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded.
She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded.
She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab,
but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed.
The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue
and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue.
He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait,
and walked right in to a date with fate.
That darn dame had put him on the spot.
He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught.
The warehouse was full of contraband goods.
They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood --
lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,”
dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling,
a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler,
who played for keeps and went for the jugular.
And now The Retch had gotten the drop.
No chance for Murk to call for the cops.
“It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said,
“The only way out is to go down dead.”
“You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug.
He knew he was beat and waited for the slug.
A bullet in the back was the final payoff.
Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off.
Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer
and waited for death in his taciturn manner.
Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight.
The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate.
The Retch went down with blood on his chest,
then high heels approached; you know the rest.
Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms.
She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed.
And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole,
playing so well the Romeo role.
He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist
and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste!
Then he took her hand and led her out
into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched.
Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops?
Or let love fill his head with mushy slop?
The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you,
but as for me, I haven’t a clue.
Copyright © Stanley Carter | Year Posted 2016
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Fat Chance Poem
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Tea in the afternoon with his wife of many years is usually peaceful, Hubert thinks before he makes his announcement. Then he says it.
"I'm going upstairs," Hubert tells Ruth as he hoists himself out of his old recliner, "and if I don't ever come back down it's because you want to fly to Rome before we die so we can meet Pope Francis. Fat chance of that happening! You think the pope takes walks in St. Peter's Square?"
"Well, why shouldn't we go," Ruth says. "We may be old but we're still healthy and seeing Rome might be nice. Pope Francis seems like a pretty nice guy."
"Getting old is bad enough," Hubert says, "but why complicate matters with a trip to Rome? We'd have to pull out visas and passports and we'd have TSA agents--total strangers--patting us down in nooks reserved for a doctor or spouse. Besides, Pope Francis might be busy."
"Well, I'd still like to go," Ruth mumbles, none too happy with her husband's lack of enthusiasm. "If I wanted to go to Minnesota and fish for northern pike, you'd be packed, sitting in the car and gunning the motor. Why not do something interesting while we still have time? We'll be dead long enough."
Hubert suddenly has another idea, one he hopes Ruth will buy into.
"Why not let me die first and then you and the ladies from the garden club can go to Rome on that certificate of deposit we let sit in the bank all these years, the one I should have cashed in and invested in that electric car company, Tesla.
"That CD is big enough to take you and five ladies to Rome and back home again. They'd probably like to see Pope Francis as well. Fat chance of that. Unless you want to stand with thousands of others on a Wednesday morning when he speaks from the balcony. Better take binoculars."
Hubert is on a roll now, explaining to Ruth that she and the ladies will have a great time touring gothic churches and eating the finest pasta in the world once he's in the ground looking up but unable to see the sky.
"Once I'm dead, Ruth, you won't have to worry about me being grumpy on the trip. I'll be in the family graveyard stretched out between your Uncle Elmer and your Uncle Vince. Right now those two fine farmers are staring at the sky and bookending the plot your father allotted to me once the poor man realized I was actually going to be his son-in-law."
When Hubert first met Ruth's father many decades ago--fresh off the plane from Chicago, in a suit and tie no less--her father had bounced Hubert over many a country road to show him the plot in the family graveyard reserved in case Ruth married someone eventually. She hadn't married young because as a professional photographer working for National Geographic she had traveled all over the world and preferred taking photos to marrying any of the men she had met. Then she met Hubert in Chicago and decided to settle down.
Taking Hubert home to meet her extended family of farmers, however, had not been easy for either of them. And not easy for her family either. They had hoped Ruth would marry one day, preferably a farmer with lots of acreage, not some editor from a big city and certainly not someone like Hubert who couldn't tell a Holstein cow from a Guernsey.
No matter how much Ruth talked about the delights of a trip to Rome, Hubert still didn't have much interest in going, with or without the rare possibility of meeting Pope Francis.
Hubert liked Pope Francis because the media kept hoping the pope would change some things in the Catholic Church but the things the media hoped he would change no pope could ever change. It would be like saying the color red is blue which can never be true.
Pope Francis, Hubert knew, was an old Jesuit, theologically sound and skilled in handling the media. What's more he had the capacity to rile both conservative and liberal Catholics at the same time. And it was always interesting to see him pop up on the nightly news. Anchors not too well acquainted with matters Catholic would sometimes offer commentary far off the mark.
"Ruth, you and I are the only family left, except for the kids and they're doing fine working in the big city, several big cities, in fact, as your father would have called them. And although the grim reaper isn't waving his scythe and ringing our doorbell yet, I still think you should let me die first and then you and the garden gals can go to Rome. When you get back you can plant sunflowers around my headstone to give the squirrels something to gnaw on in the many hot summers to come."
"Well," Ruth said, "if you had a terminal disease, I might not mind the wait. Why don't we go out for dinner now and we can talk about all this later. I'm hungry."
"Okay," Hubert said, "but I hear the pike are hitting the lures pretty hard up in Minnesota. And I think there's a new bishop in charge. We could go to the cathedral for Mass. Maybe you and the new bishop could have a chat. Some day he might become pope. One of these days an American has to get that job. Can you imagine listening to the News at 10 when that happens."
Ruth agreed to go to a Thai restaurant that evening, a place she had never gone to in the past. It was a tiny place where immigrants from Thailand liked to eat. She knew the food would be too spicy for her but that Hubert would love it.
Eating Thai food was the start of her new campaign to win Hubert over to making that trip to Rome--following a fishing trip to Minnesota, of course. Ruth planned on asking that new bishop to drop a note to Pope Francis to let him know she and Hubert would be coming to visit. She thought it was only right to give him time to adjust his schedule. She was planning on giving him a big batch of her fudge--and a small batch to Hubert to eat on the plane.
Donal Mahoney
Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017
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Fat Chance Poem
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One of your relatives sprouted behind my house
Cut it down twice...fat chance
Ended up damaging my half paid for home
I wanted revenge, so I resorted to torture
Dug up and hacked roots; soaked oil and poison
No dice...stripped off all the bark at the base
Well THAT did the trick...dead inside of two months
Fell flat on its ass (I helped a little)
Sucker almost got me on the way down
Guess it was taking one last parting shot...
Then I moved back up to my native state,
out in the woods with no other house in sight
Found you in a perfect spot in the back yard
Basically no trunk...just huge thick branches,
grown out at about forty-five degrees;
perfect for great-grand's to scramble up and sit
("Look paw-paw, look at me!"..."Be careful!" I fume)
In the spring you bloom green-yellow flowers
In summer, assorted butterflies and bees
It's September now...you're growing shiny berries
which will mature, then the walls will peel away
and there you are... tiny white Tallow seeds
used in Asia to make candles and soap
and oil; nature-made vegetable oil
Your leaves are used as herbal medicine;
topical ointment to treat skin ailments
Your American nickname is "Popcorn Tree"
And I'm not going to lay one finger on you...
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2009
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Fat Chance Poem
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We're having friends for dinner on Saturday
Well we're not actually having them for dinner!
That statement implies that we're cannibalistic
And our list of friends would get thinner!
We drive on a parkway and park on a driveway
This play on words sure can confuse
If teachers taught, why don't preachers praught?
One moose, two meese, how do we choose?
Make amends always seems to be plural
Can't we make one amend I'd like to know!
One tooth, two teeth, why not one booth two beeth?
And why shouldn't you pick your seat at a show?
A slim chance and a fat chance mean the same
But a wise man and a wise guy are opposites
The weather is either hot as hell or cold as hell
I know it's confusing but don't take a fit!
This English language can be oh so confusing
It can drive you to distraction at times
But try to learn Chinese or Mandarin my friend
You'll realize the English language is divine!
©Jack Ellison 2012
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2012
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Fat Chance Poem
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Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.
Copyright © MATTHEW harris | Year Posted 2017
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Fat Chance Poem
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sweet young lady,
love does grip,
will she look at me,
decrepid,
fat chance charlie,
could be i've slipped:)
cos i'm a spotless Leopard,
methinks,
brain grips,
whatever...
Don
Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2012
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Fat Chance Poem
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MRS. COLUMBUS SPEAKS
“Hi, honey pie..... just got back from America.”
Wipe your feet. Returned from where?
“Just seen Statue of Liberty and Wall Street.”
You been away for two years and
That’s all you’ve done? Saw a statue and a wall?
We thought you’d be back sooner, but
Mum thought you’d fallen off the edge of the world.
(One of her private wishes come true.)
“Oh, your mother’s off her hinges..... She’s crazy.”
By the way, ’Lumbo, that front door hinge still isn’t fixed:
When you’ve had a cup of tea you can get off your tush and fix it.
“Don’t tell me they’ve got tea from Cathay so soon! Oh no”
That Queen What’s-her-name was here every week asking
For you, thought you’d skipped town
With her three ships or something.
Wanted to know if you’d phoned or emailed me.
I said gimme a break, lady, they aren’t invented yet.
“Well, honey pie, I was in a great city with yellow cabs and subways and.....”
Oh yeah, I’ve heard all these stories about how advanced America is -
Got any photos of the place?
Oh, by the way that mapmaker you got to draw your maps for the trip needs paying.
“Fat chance! The maps were all to hell -
I’m telling you, honey pie, there’s a freakin’ big continent
Blocking the way to Cathay.”
Aw get real, ‘Lumbo, it’s called People’s Republic of China now -
And everybody knows you go east like Polo to get there, you dummy.
“Aw shucks yeah. You know, I kinda thought their
Eyes in America were a bit too round -
And it didn’t sound like Chinese to me ; more like Brooklynese.”
If I was you, ‘Lumby, I would get round to her and give her the ships back pronto.
And don’t give her any of that crapola about “America” -
Just tell her you found a new way to Cathay.
“But I thought you said it was called the People’s Republic of China ?”
Yeah yeah, listen : don’t think, ‘Lumbkins. Just tell her what I said and
Give her the ships back, and get the
Hell back here fast........and you’re not playing cards with
That Da Gama and that crazy Vespucci tonight.
Them filling your head full of spices-and-Indies and god knows what.
You can stay home and fix the door hinge like I told you.
“Ok, where’s the tea? Got any Earl Grey?”
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
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Fat Chance Poem
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The Underchook
no escape for the momma chile,
of cuddles no directions,
but you bring a healthy smile,
no seduction no erection ....ooops
the mind of foolish Doves ,
expound the myth of sin,
how n when n get sweet love,
upon the verdant green.
a chook’s chance at the meat block,
fat chance old chook for him,
old fowl you better lock n load,
Duck shot by Bantam Tim.
That’s support for the Underchook
Don Johnson 30-may-11
Yes Anthony N
savage nightmare it does grip,
with pounding heart me fingers slip
don't sniff the burning sulphur, it...
can kill you just a tiny bit :)
when i sniffed burning sulphur,
it punched me lung blinking out,
n Cassius wasna there aboutsss
almost a coffin fit:)
Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011
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Fat Chance Poem
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Have you ever found your mind
drifting into that dark place
that secret and dense absence of light
look into the mirror and say
"There is beauty in destruction"
running your fingertips down your spine
collarbone wrists hips ankles
only to feel numb
your heart imploding
as the gravitational pull
plays tug-o-war
with your passion
10 versus 1
your heartbeat slows
leaving behind a shell
the exquisite mask your sold your soul to construct
was it worth it
did all of your dreams come true
are you happy
pure
untouched
perfect
no
just the 3rd degree burn of deception
fall to your knees
beg for the last five years of your life back
thin chance
slim chance
anything but fat chance
click your heels 3 times
all that glitters is long gone
follow the yellow brick road back to your heart
grab hold of yourself
time waits for no one
not even you
Copyright © shoshannah langlois | Year Posted 2005