Best Fryer Poems
Let me tell you the story of the pie piper
Had a flute he played so said the flyer
The town we lived in was on fire
Our situation was grave and dire
That is why we needed to hire
This one and the only pie piper
With his flute through the mirk and mire
He conjured pies from the sky and higher
We needed them to sell enough to retire
In fact we were set we already had a buyer
What happened next was unforeseen John Dryer
Although he did show up it was in two nights not the prior
We agreed to his terms...he was preaching to the choir
Then the pies happened all kinds right out of the fryer
What I tell is true I am not a liar
Don't believe me just ask my sire
Fruit Pies of all kinds
Meat Pies great finds
Pizza Pies blew minds
Weird Pies with rinds
But then
Just then
The tide turned
We got burned
Trust unearned
Yuck he churned...
Quickly they began to really fall
Then all the children started to bawl
It was a disaster all in all
We tried to leave but moved at a crawl
Who would think of such a thing
We could hear the town bells ring
All others knew to stay in with this warning
This turned out to be a terrible morning
Actually changed into a kind of mourning
The sky was now brown in color
You could smell the wretched odor
We had not considered cow pies
Nor all the pests mostly black flies
Literally the **** had hit the fan
So much for our supposed brilliant plan
12~10~2014
Rhyme Scheme: aa aaaa aaaa aaaa aa
bbbb cc dddd eeeee ff gg hh.
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Contest Name: Plentitude of Pies
Iran is playing with fire
If Israel gets hot ~
Tehran will burn in her fryer
A small chicken more like a fryer
One with all its innards
When the pack was opened
Out came two necks, three livers, two gizzards
No hearts?
There has got to be a poem in here somewhere____
There once was a mad-man with an ax.
Well known for some very shocking acts.
He runs down a church aisle
Chops the altar to a pile,
He hacks until their preacher reacts.
This mad-man went to a church Bazaar.
His bizarre shouts were heard from afar.
He walked in standing tall.
Waved his awl at them all,
Then, sped off in a get-away car -
One Sunday while wolfing a hot fryer,
The ax-man thought the Friar should retire.
He went to the Cathedral
I’ll say he was not cheerful
Town folks locked him away in the spire.
He stayed in that spire for awhile.
Hoping for a very speedy trial,
He sat on a bale
Then, cried out for bail.
He was exiled to a far away isle.
Copyright April 7, 2015
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Only Homo's Allowed
Sponsored by: Jerry T Curtis
Hotdogs without the skin is like unrequited love,
all sorts with no where to put it.
Bravery pig with no city to save,
chopped liver makes it the same.
Beef tenderloin
and it followed the stretch to the fryer.
Medium rare
like it should be
but still not what it requires.
Inspired by and dedicated to
Sara Kendrick and her poem "Chicken"
I once had a chicken
Came out of his egg kick-in'
He was the strangest thing , I've ever seen
This chicken had two necks but he only had one head
I'm guess-in' that's why he was so mean
I wasn't 'till much later
That a Chef asked the waiter
To go buy some chickens, at my farm
So I told him, as far as chickens
HE, should do the pick-in'
So he grabbed-up the fryer, in his arms
Although it was some trouble
He saw his profits double
Figure-in' to buy one and get one free
The Chef was really please
As he took that bird with ease
Then turned-up the stove a few degrees
He gave the bird a whack,
And there was a sudden thwack
As that little fryer's head, hit the floor
He thought he had struck gold
When he started to unfold
Seeing that the bird, had offered more
Two gizzards and three livers
Is what this bird delivered
And the Chef thought this made a darn good start
But further on inspection
There was a sad detection
The poor little Fryer had no heart
So I've learned, Not to be mean
Or you'll end up a cuisine
So, be nice and kind from the very start
Even if you're bless,
Having more than the all rest
Don't be a little Fryer with no heart
===================================================
Oh, I thank you, my friend but I don't think I should...
No, I never would dine here again, if I could!
And the truth is, I tried but the outcome was grim,
for you see, what came out was much worse than went in!
But you know, all the dishes you've named DO sound good,
so perhaps if you came in to MY neighborhood,
we could come by a fryer and try some new stuff
like delicious doo bryer and fenberry fluff!
And when we feel full and no more food will fit,
then we'll each pull up seats and together we'll sit
'til the stars on our bellies are smaller in size,
then we'll get in our cars and we'll holler goodbyes
but until that day comes (and it's coming, for sure!)
I will show you your chair and I'll call you "kind sir"
and you'll know then and there the next time that we meet,
we will sit as a pair and we'll both get to eat!
Now, I hope you don't think that I don't like my job!
Yes, its noisy, it stinks and each night there's a mob,
there are zakes in the dicer and qwetts in the flue
but the place is much nicer now that I've met you!
===================================================
Funny talk... "diddly squat"
Means basically nothing to me!
Where do these words come from?
Do they grow these things on trees?
What a joke... "a pig in a poke"
Fooled unsuspecting buyers!
Instead of a piggy inside the bag
Twas a kitty cat for the fryer!
But of course... "hay's for horses"
Here's another reason to spend?
Some stuffing for your Jockeys
To give you a fuller front end!
Just my luck... "I'm a dead duck"
She caught me with this lady!
Not to worry, it all turned out
Twas Mom so nothing shady!
Whadya think... "Take forty winks"
Causes trouble with wifey poo!
Of course if you wink at a filly
And the filly winks back at you!
It's really absurd... these silly words
They upset our daily routine!
They've been known to turn sunny days
To the ugliest days ever seen!
© Jack Ellison 2013
If a grill you approach or you roast or you bake
Or you boil or you poach, you have made a mistake.
If you steam or flambe or you stew or saute,
I suggest when you're cooking you chose the wrong way.
If desiring a meal with its taste maximized,
Then one method's ideal: It is best if it's fried.
Fry in oil or choose fat or use butter or lard.
All when hot become grease for your recipe card.
First with cracker or bread crumbs the pieces you coat.
Then in fryer you plunge them and watch as they float.
See them crackle and spit till a rich, golden brown.
Then remove them and drain and voraciously down.
Whether dinner or lunch, it gives flavor its punch.
On a crispy piece munch while you savor its crunch.
With delectable, succulent meat that's inside,
Either treat your own palate or serve it with pride.
The aroma will linger and please or repel,
But with dishes delicious as chef you'll excel.
If you'd epicure be or would chase away blues,
Then from menus an item that's fried you should choose.
It will shorten your lifespan, nutritionists say.
But if true, it's a price I've decided to pay.
More than length, it is quality living I prize;
So I'm makin' some bacon with fritters and fries.
You were born in December
And you wear your trouble like a rough petrifying plum and carry the sadness of 1000 unsung voices
That's about as much as I know about you
Where are the poems about the sorrows of ordinary people?
You are 23
And gazing upon skyscrapers
You breathed in the air of a new America
And searched for your mother's eyes across the canvas of solemn Church ladies
To deal with your depression, you bought a new air fryer, a CD player and unused glassware that still lingers in the depth of our kitchen cabinets
You won't let us touch it
You are 25
And endure the searing of knuckles into skin
Like pillars of stone
A tightening grip around your neck,
hot breath from lips of silk and honey
You are 31
And your hands can heal broken bones
Ready to intrude upon unsuspecting colds, unsuspecting falls and unsuspecting men
Elegant in their form and function,
they create beauty out of nothing
and hold the bronze black skin of my face with calloused fingertips and so much love summer blooms from my cheeks
Black mother's hands are unyielding
You are 37
You bathe the boys
and groan at the sound of me
You are 38
and sorrow follows you into every room like a dark silhouette
You are 45
and have cut yourself in half
Your body ages
and your anger burns into a seam
Your CD player has broken
It is easy to become a praying woman
“Do you still love me?”
I ask searching, for an answer,
Trying not to beg
This is a time for gathering side by side,
Frustrations set aside by the riverside.
Step off the roller coaster of life,
Spend time with the people in your life.
Set up the fryer and inject the turkey.
Dinner prep starts bright and early.
Mac and cheese bakes in the oven,
Everyone’s waiting to start grubbin’.
The annual parade is around the corner,
Santa’s sleigh is getting closer and closer.
Excitement fills the atmosphere,
Like spring pollen entering the air.
The end of the year is officially here,
The air is filling with joy and cheer.
Harvest the blessings in your life,
They will benefit you in the fight.
Roses are red
My names Dave
this poem makes no sense
Microwave
Roses are red
I a'int No lier
This poem makes No sense
Deep fat fryer
I have toured the country from North to South and East to West
People's patience with me has always been a test
I am called for year around
In an environment with intense heat, I tan to a nice golden brown
In a freezing climate, I have pale, smooth skin
Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Mr. Turducken
I am famous and world renown
From the big cities to the littlest of hick towns
In the oven or in a turkey fryer to cook
I am now the king and queen of the recipe books
I am always quiet, no gobble gobble, quack quack not even some cluckin'
Try me once and you will be hooked, for I am Mr. Turducken
Do I need to be seasoned, please add if you choose
But I have a natural flavor, you not want to lose
I go well with any side dish
I come plentiful, so eat all you wish
After a few chunks of me, your shirt you will no longer be able to tuck in
I am not with Jenny Craig, you won't find a diet menu with Mr. Turducken
My fellow countrymen, the President, Politicians, and pulpiteers Though not in a cave like Rip Van Winkle, I must have fallen asleep in "indifference and over-business". It was more than Van Winkle's 20 years, because prior to my sleep, I knew an America that dreamed of chickens in every pot; of carports, garages, and picket fences; of a good education and catching the Joneses.
It appears I am awaking, not from, but to, a nightmare; and to what am I opening my eyes to see? Me thinks it's not 'my country tis of thee'; not a chicken in the pot or fryer in the skillet. But I see leaders in the kettle like a frog, where the fire is turned down low and heating slowly. Like the frog, they are relaxed and comfortable. Oh Lord, if they only knew the manner of the frog's demise.
I see changes, and multiple evils have been removed. Recovery and relief have been appropriated and dispatched for the poor. Reforms and revivals have periodically visited us from above. I see blessings and prosperity beyond comparison; melting pots of dreamers and immigrants still dine at our tables. That's part of the American beauty.
Oh America, we are busy face-booking and twitting; But we must realize that we are also bleeding. I weep for what might lie ahead for us. I grieve for what we are becoming. I fear for us, though not of guns and nukes from afar; But for rivalries in the white house and the halls of congress. And I fear for our pulpiteers who also relax in the kettle like the frog.
07312017cjFBPH; August Standard Contest, Brian Strand Part fiction
Would you go swimming or fishing with an eighty foot strong hook, flippers, a basket hat, and a toothbrush tail? Bullfrog wants to. He wants to consistently visit the waters to engage in the flow and ebb and weave of the stylish currents. Duty bound so duty is and all flotation tanks that arrive on a ceiling are to be thus acknowledged. Carrier pigeons make very dramatic circling loops but circling a pair of pans is akin to dripping a sauce heavily over a tissue. Ok then. Perhaps it is the formality that is the formal but not the formerly formed first. And beware of baked rations of cabbages at this time. Fir they can rise and rise and rise and rise. So all you sea urchins, emeralds, garnets of tree clusters, and ilk hypothesise this scenario. In under one word. Or in a sentence of six characters. Here is the title to ponder. 'If nine elephants ate a cake with no icing would the rhino still be envious'. Scores will be given to any emblematic and meaningful answers. The rule is not to swear and curse for both are insufficient to a language lean. So don't lean heavily upon amplifiers, pool tables, breasts, sea horses, tails, or any related articles resting in fires and bins. Surplus to requirements is a large wad of mismatched print that portrays fresh cream and butter like lards and fats. Critical caressing creating crossing chaos. Chat chat chat and then cut chop. No chip shop in their right mind would sell multi corroded mouldy non sparkling potatoes in a fryer. So leap then. Longitude latitude is neither an attitude nor a mystified contemplation of a sausage roll on a shelf. Ok then. Tell it to the feathers, mystic beak in realm, tell it to the cloven hooves trotting in the towns, tell it to a block of frozen ice, soon to break and thaw, and don't forget the number two waiting at the door. And now go bake a cake using a lorry, a car and a huge seventy acre highway. Hahaha bread is giggling to the toaster. Hahaha postures of pigs parading and paragliding too. Hahaha missionary muscle mass musical effect. Passing. Xxxxx hypnotherapy Z. That was a bulletin from 9905829405.0 from the p Y Q REPORTING ON A NEW NOTE FLICK, z