Best Gook Poems
Here’s a bunch of Gobble-de-Gook
There is no sense or reason
I just threw together some stuff I read
Which constitutes poetic treason!
Here’s a fact about knowledge and wisdom
A fact which I know is valid
Knowledge is knowing a Tomato’s a fruit
Wisdom- not putting it in a Fruit Salad!
Another fact I’d like to relate
Pay attention if you please
The early bird gets the worm
But the second mouse gets the cheese!
Another vision that I had
I know may sound bizarre
Going to church don’t make you a Christian
Nor standing in a garage won’t make you a car!
If you need cash here’s some advice
I hope that you will heed it
A bank will surely loan you some
If you can prove that you don’t need it!
Elections are a funny thing
Our choices are quite shifty
For president we choose from two
Miss America from fifty!
When faced with a payback decision
Be careful what you choose
When tempted to fight fire-with-fire
Remember water is what Firemen use.
Someone posed a question once
I admit now that I smiled
If we all learn from our mistakes
Why do people have more than one child?
P Pipes corroded
L Lies, folds, and bends
U Under a sink
M Mans the phones
B Butt crack showing
E Extracts gook and hair
R Rodents and snakes
Trying an experiment today.
Making myself type as fast as I can
Which is fast
I type 85 words a minute.
I do not think that fast, so some of this is gobbly gook.
Maybe all of it.
I do not care.
I have made a goal, and we are racing to accomplish it.
My muse is laughing.
This was probably her dumb idea.
Wait a second.
I just realized something.
My poems today are heart-felt,
Because I am so in touch with my feeling self,
When I fly through my mind and grab up anything there,
That I do not have time to be in any other mind frame.
This is an awesome way to write.
I may try it again someday.
When I am in this crazy mode.
When I was young and had zero dollars to spend
Grandpa's skiff with succulent mangoes I loved to tend
With view of City canal, flowing not far from home
Near thoroughfare with perfect patrons; few not so grown
Not so proud as I, safe with shillings from tropic fruits, sold
Sans chant. I never had to beg, my joy was always two fold.
Times have changed, I wouldn't sell jack; my family knows
Sales has never been my forte; I'll be lackadaisical, and let it show
For I'd rather be a P.R. person, who sniff labels and goods that entice
As deals, but trick the masses with much gook, some unnoticed
But that's not all with sales; folks will look you up and down
As though you're part and parcel of goods they've found.
...
Entry for Sara Kendridk's 'Two Lenses' poetry contest
Since youth, I've been a big foodie; every goodie I've tried, even sushi.
At 18, I traveled abroad, first to France; Thank heavens I didn't try frog!
I got to try crepes (sweet filled envelop shapes) and liquor-filled chocolate
that I ate on a train headed for Spain; but I could not get tipsy on it!
I tried many foods in Madrid, but the strangest thing I ever did
was go to a bar to try fried "calamar." Had no idea it was squid!
In the place where we lived they would serve us a strange fishy soup
that had gobbledy-gook which looked not much better than poop.
My horror I couldn't disguise while eating around those ugly fish eyes.
A soup in Seville not quite as bad was surely the coldest I ever had.
Its name is gazpacho, but I think that machos would rather eat nachos!
Paella I had on the coast to the east; for most it’s a marvelous feast.
But picking out things I just didn’t like, I ended up mainly with rice.
One melon-like drink has a cool taste. In Spain people order horchata.
Horchata from Mexico though they uses rice. It’s not even worth a piñata.
Also from Mexico I had some pork so filled with fat, I thought I’d choke.
And their mole, Holy Moly! I’d much rather eat a cannoli.
In Israel, served a mammal, I was told (once crammed-full), it was camel!
There’s one last super rare thing I’ve tried in my life (and I don’t fib this).
I say it with pride. I’ve recently tried chips made from flour of crickets!
Oct. 25, 2018 for Nina Parmenter's Trying Something New Contest
(the cricket chips are quite tasty! I gave them to a bunch of kids simply telling them that they were similar to doritos and the kids liked them!)
Her jack-o-lanterns flicker in the room
Bringing that eerie feel to those who look
The witch cackles as she stirs her cauldron
An evil brew which inside looks like gook
The smell is terrible, she laughs with glee
She knows what this potion can surely bring
A curse to an entire town that shunned her
She’ll make each and every one of them sing
She clips a few hairs off of her black cat
Puts them into the boiling concoction
She zaps a flying bat, takes out its eyes
She makes it complete, spits in the potion
With an evil laugh she gets up and pours
Takes the brew and places it into vials
Knowing that each person in the whole town
Will suffer with pains and lots of trials
Russell Sivey
(sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of --
Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone)
With a flam boy hunt deft jais nais sais quois
firm lickey split tongue
and two bell yule yar pissant
little nappy ruck berry filled up paul ling sacks
viz peppy la pew doth not peter out,
and weathers clawed rained swipes
from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung
assisting climbing Jacob's ladder
(without pussy footing,
orb bing a putz like the president)
advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung
while heading into a slippery sloping sluice
(with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill
smooth sailing along a ****
re coarse upon phallic shaped pung
crossing la brea tar pits (peppered
with lai bee ha tricky bridge over the River Kwai)
comprising ideal place de la resistance
to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate,
where two puckered rill lee fleshy ruffling rills
tinged pinkish lips overhung
a challenging escarpment,
where many a brave Tom, Harry or Dick get hung
up, particularly while searching for fabled “G” spot,
cuz portcullis hamstrung
even the most fiercely determined
Engleburt Hump per dink
necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver
as most studs know tubby gelandesprung
though booby prize wool worth any slimy setbacks,
where sticky gook gets flung
from angry cat,
who does not in the least find amusing,
and if further pricked with rage
not averse to hurl dung
gar (with) ease at snaky,
retractable hardened beastie boy twill clung
for dear life and limb (er, or twig and berries),
while applying crampons (bivouaced
within his maxipad), viz bung
gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove
hammered out by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled,
kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among
pheromone laced verboten fruit.
A Redneck Visits the Eiffel Tower
By Elton Camp
I hadn’t never been over to that Paris before
And I shore don’t care to go there no more
Most of those folks look like some sorta kook
And they all talk in this strange gobbley-gook
Them Frenchies, they call it the City of Light
And I have to admit they’s got that part right
But that tall tower that they like to brag about
If they’ll ever get it finished, I have my doubt
They started building it over a hundred years ago
But only got as far as the iron framework though
They better get some walls added to that thing
If they expect that any rent it’s going to bring
It’s tall enough that it could have a lot of floors
It would hold a bunch of apartments and stores
Unless they close it in, that iron’s gonna rust
Then whoever’s stalling around will get cussed
If in building it, they are never gonna get through
Then it seems to me there’s only one thing to do
I can’t see how there can be any really good excuse
Not to tear it down and give that iron a good use
A miracle pill
Makes "that certain part of a male body"
Much bigger...
This commercial the trigger
For 100 million sales
And it never fails
So ol' tom sent for some,
Not that he had any prospect
Of needing such a miracle
Just curious, you might say
And lo and behold,
After the very first day...
My big toe was 18 inches long
No shoe could I get on
So if you believe these claims
Remember what some are
The secret's in the RX27 fiber technology
And they go so far
To back up their claims
With goobley-gook
Buy this spoon, you'll be a cook!
They treat us as morons,
Well, perhaps they're right
But must I endure this drivel
Day and night?
Makes me laugh, that's true
But then again,
You probably want to see
What they can do.
Snipes are a kind of bird, difficult to spot
because they’re quiet and they hide a lot –
a kind of cross ‘twixt stool pigeon and an owl,
it is a bird that deserves to be called fowl.
Maybe a large rooster with antlers like a moose
some guys say they are more like a wild goose.
How do you catch them? Now that is where you
depend on luck; my friend hit one with his shoe.
Some make a cage from an old cardboard box
but pillowcases work. To really outfox
a large snipe, you may need to bring a rope
to tie him up; if it's real dark, you just hope.
First, you start to hear sounds - like gobblety-gook
and you may start to think that you are a schnook
but hang in there. Sometimes it takes all night
especially if the snipe puts up a fight.
First time I went, along about one o’clock
I smelled what I thought was a rat in a crock
quick as a wink, I caught onto a small snipe.
What a night! but I got it, all in one fell swipe.
Hey! How come you're using my Banderella cook?
It's mine now. I found him in my wife Liza’s nook
Finders keepers,
Losers weepers.
Use tenterhooks and cook your fatty goose in gook.
VENTRILOQUIST POETRY
Ventriloquists can drink gottles of geer
Gut their skeech is odd to our ear:
They can’t say Keter Kiker kicked
A keck of kickled kekkers - they’re tricked
Cos they can’t say gee or kee
And nost often not ewen en or wee.
Healthoquists - lots of fruit they eat:
Akkles, gananas, kineakkles, or kears as a treat
And wegetagles, like kotatoes, keas, kaggages, and geans.
All kinds of geautiful greens.
Religioquists reskect the Koke very nuch
And of course all the gishoks and kriests and such,
And they often read their Gigle
Or any Good Gook awailagle
Koliticoquists kossigly geliewe in reading the Constitution often enough
Gut krogagly not its Kreangle - too tough:
It’s well-known in Philadelphia, Galtinore, and Goston, say;
Gut not in the area of San Francisco Gay
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTE
This poem can be recited in ventriloquist-fashion without moving the lips.
Letters b, p, m, v are replaced by g, k, n, w in normal ventriloquist speech.
What’s a cell without its membrane?
A bulbous mass of uhck?
A strung-out sea that’s ever-expanding?
An ugly pile of gook?
Does it know where proteins go?
Are signals always mistook?
Do organelles discombobulate
And invaders overlook?
Can it feel? Can it fathom?
Does it know which way is up?
Is a formless blob of matter
Anything but gobbledygook?
Isn't life funny?
You spend hours and hours writing and revising
re-revising and rewriting
and then starting almost from scratch again
making sure each line sounds right
each and every word fits,
does what it's supposed to do,
and then of course making sure there's enough
imagery, symbolism, metaphor, and all that there gobbledy-gook
Finally (!) you post your poem
and then you have to edit it three or even four more times
anyway, because you saw something else that didn't quite
work right when you viewed it again...and again...and again...
On the proverbial other hand
You decide that you can't go to sleep without doing one more
so you dash something off in 7 minutes or less
you don't even check it for typos, errors, or omissions
and you figure, "What the H," at least I published another
one before I hit the hay...btw, you sleep like a rock that night...
The next morn you wake up with the nagging feeling that your magnum opus
is mediocre poetry at best, humdrum stuff:
Hmmmmmm
As for your 7-minute rush job -- Ehhhh, Phoooey! Fugettaboutit!
You regret posting it, and vow never to act so rashly again
At work though you reverse course and suddenly can't wait to see how many comments your masterpiece got..
So, after work when you get a chance to check
you find no comments on your you-know-what
and a dozen or so on your hack job.
A women's bathroom needs a hook
Though oftentimes it's missing
And so our bags must sit in gook
While we are stuck there pissing.
Since men don't have this issue
They don't even need to hurry
And, without the need for tissue
They, too, lack that extra worry.
My suggestion? A reversal.
Let the menfolk hold our purses
And you'd hear, from this rehearsal,
Quite a chorus full of curses.