Best Nozzle Poems
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your Buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
© Jack Ellison 2014
(Out of Eden: Act V)
Have you heard the sound of hooves go….. ‘clippety clippety, clop’?
That is the sound that the Pale Horse makes, when down on Earth to shop.
That Reaper mean, the one called ‘Grim’,
Takes tortured souls with wanton whim.
That rider of the Pale Horse smirks - goes …clippety, clippety, clop. ...clippety, clippety, clop.
Have you heard the sound of chests go…… ‘boom-a de boom-a de boom’?
That is the sound that the poor heart makes in throes of gloom and doom.
Horrors unleashed you freeze with fright,
Hormone screaming ‘flee or fight!!!’
The stricken heart pounds deathly beats - goes '...boom-a de boom-a de boom’….boom-a de boom-a de boom’!
Have you heard the sound of guns go ….rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat?
That is the sound that the nozzle made when out, it’s bullets, spat.
To claim a life and rip apart
The victim …and a loved one’s heart.
That nozzle spits out rhythmic hate - goes…rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat! …rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat!
Have you heard the sound of bells go ..ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, dong?
That is the sound that the Church bells make to mark a victory song.
Men may die, and many shall mourn
But Life itself is not forlorn.
Be brave, take heart…the Church bell peals, ..goes: ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, dong …ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, dong!
Have you heard the sound of the Cock; go …kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo?
That is the sound that the rooster makes when light, the days, renew.
Days will come, and days will go
And Life goes on the way we know.
So listen, hark! The cockerel crows - ….it goes: …kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo ...Kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo…………Kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo - Another Dawn ...another Day ….kook-a-doodle, kook-a-doodle, doo!
I shiver at the thought of being attacked by owls,
My home infested by Carols' pesky trolls,
A fire breathing dragon,flying around in the lobby,
Or a hand crawling around searching for it's body,
A hunchback with six eyes in his head,
Or zombies walking around calling themselves,the living dead,,,
I am scared of bats,turning into vampires,
Gorgons hopping around,throwing balls of fire,
Werewolves with scars,Chuckies with stitches,
And that big hairy bump on the nose of witches,
Blood running from the nozzle when I turn on the faucet,
Or skeletons and the Boogieman playing cards in the closet,,,
Right now i'm in a dark,dark room,hiding under the bed,
Features of my face growing taller,changing the shape
of my head,
Fingernails becoming fangs,eyes turning red,
GRRRR!!!it's HOLLOWEEN again,a night of feast
for the rising dead,,,
*ODE TO MY GARDENING GLOVES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alas, beautiful gardening gloves, I knew you well. I remember that early March morn; I opened your package and slipped you onto my hands. At first you were a bit stiff and uncomfortable. Over time you softened and became my weekly companion, pulling weeds, cutting flowers, and guiding the nozzle on the water hose allowing our foliage to flourish even during the hot summer months.
You've faded, though, from our days together in the sun. Your bubble grippers are worn, and your fingers are tattered and torn, worse for the wear. I will surely miss you as I will miss the warm, languid summer days we shared together.
Soon, I'll cover my hands with woolen mittens or furry gloves. But you'll hold a special place in my heart as I stand on my front porch shivering and yearning for next spring's arrival. Inside my desk drawer I've placed my new pair of gardening gloves, already purchased for next spring.
Each morning during the seemingly endless dreary winter months, I’ll open my desk drawer and slip them onto my hands, embracing the hope they symbolize.
oh! frost in the air
mist is on the nearby hills
plant dead, ugly bulbs
once bulbs are planted
they slumber peacefully while
faithfully waiting
in silent darkness
locked in winter's frozen sleep
secretly they grow
bulbs work mystery
some morning soon in springtime
pale, green tips appear
soon scarlet blossoms
slowly emerge, gracefully
beauty to behold
The façade of content that you see
Disguises a brewing pot of misery
Hidden deep inside his empty soul
Devoid of passion that life has stole
Making love only to his left hand
While she sleeps beside another man
The pale, impression from a wedding band
Discarded inside the bed nightstand
Seeing his children just once a week
A source of advice they no longer seek
The prospects for improvement look rather bleak
Alimony slaps him on the other cheek
He has felt the noose around his neck
But hasn’t stepped off of the chair, yet
He has tasted the nozzle of his gun
But has kept the safety latch turned on
The façade of content that you see
Keeps his life of pain a mystery
If that façade ever comes crumbling down
You better pack your bags and get out of town
My secret is a phobia that many would not guess.
Bringing me much anguish and quite a lot of stress.
Some say that it is silly, to me it is immense.
Causing me to detour, incurring more expense.
I keep my phobia secret for fear I’m thought to be
Wacky and ridiculous and also cowardly.
And so I travel many miles until I find, at last.
A station that’s full service so they can pump my gas.
You may think this is foolish but I have thought this through.
And I have many reasons for thinking as I do.
So much I have imagined could possibly take place.
A series of unfortunate events I’d hate to face.
For instance, there’s the nozzle, already filled with fuel.
It can be very dangerous and such a deadly tool.
What if the gas should suddenly begin to gush and flow?
It is a possibility I do not want to know.
And when the nozzle is in place, it is really there?
Or will the gasoline start splashing out and everywhere.
Will it drip onto my car or maybe on my shoes?
Later on igniting – of this I often muse.
I therefore watch my gas gauge very carefully.
And then I fill it often because I fear to be.
Forced to stop at self-serve when my fuel is low.
Because there is no telling the way the gas might flow.
We’re committed no doubt, when the engines roll out,
as we answer an alarm.
So rally the men, ‘cause the score’s tallied when,
we’ve rescued those from harm.
‘Cause we never back down from a fire attack,
while dragging a nozzle, irons and axe...
We carry a life-saving breath on our backs,
in the hour that defines us.
From a basement below to a high-rise and then?
It’s not a matter of if, but a matter of when...
The shifts are long, but our hearts beat strong
and our brothers stand behind us.
But we’re never seeking fortune or fame,
in the hour that defines us.
When disaster’s on an epic scale in the city dark
and deep, we run all night, the sirens wail,
and yet the city sleeps.
We’ll respond to a plight when the winter winds bite,
and in summer sun that blinds us.
But the minutes come tough when conditions are rough,
in the hour that defines us.
As for brothers in arms who will never forget,
there will be times that try us,
we’ve beaten every challenge met,
in the hour that defines us...
Copyright © 2016
Der Zapfhahn has several meanings in the German language:
The Spigot, The Nozzle, The Tap, The Faucet, The Hose.
Without its definite article, the noun “Zapfhahn” is also the name
of a local pub in a small historic German town with discernible
vestiges of the Roman Empire near Braunschweig.
My earliest experience in this rather colorful establishment dates
back to 1990 during the period of the German reunification.
Zapfhahn is the place to go to imbibe alcohol of all variations,
and to have intellectual discussions (sometimes),
and to dodge errant beer bottles speeding through the air (occasionally),
and to sing songs (mostly in German) apropos to the crowd gathered.
Zapfhahn is the place to go to solve the problems of the world
or at least attempt to do this fruitless adventure.
Zapfhahn, with its medium and influence of alcohol,
is the place to:
adjust your attitude,
fall in love,
fall out of love,
get drunk,
find redemption (depending on your religion),
or just have a good time.
With fun had by all,
and with the night quite late,
I cannot wait to so indulge myself again.
And so, Zapfhahn with your mythic and alchemic
connections to the spirits of the night,
I surrender my soul in due course
so that I might see it resurrected
in its splendid glory.
I can only pray
and hope so.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(August 29, 2014)
The craze
And chase,
The loud cry out
And our laughing out loud,
Should I call this madness,
Or over joyfulness?
A goal was thrown in by Kaka,
All fighting for the Oscar.
Emenike opened the game
As Mikel throws the stone.
My heart is rising,
And my legs are squeezing.
Goooaaa! Oh no!
That was so close!
For uniting us together,
Football is the way and no other
As I'm celebrating with a white man
Right here in the Etihad.
They'll say never work alone,
But alone they got to their home.
The nozzle of the gunners
Couldn't even get the runners.
Yet they come banner high again
We will win today o, Amen.
A bridge can crumble,
The devil also fumble,
But like the morning sun
Never missing her turn,
The super eagle will always soar
With white and green her colour.
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
Weebles wobble
but they do fall down.
Once without windup whimsy weebles wobble writhing in wistful wiggly wattles,
they bubble, bobble, boggle, bottle and boondoggle coddles and dawdles;
a colossal ensemble debacle joggles and toggles the toddler's throttle
waiting on wafting waffles the twaddle and goggling the toppled pottles.
Just google that old fossil's nozzle schnozzled squabble.
Tongue twister:
without windup whimsy weebles wobble writhing in wistful wiggly wattles
Hyperthermia can be caused by standing in slip streams in sluice dumps. It never really fails if ice water can run a lake from a rusted tap. And the mid morning broken by the drip drip drip from a nozzle. Squirt then. Nozzles are not noses and noses are not neon. But bringing a interdimensional b track record is now considered to be as slack as wearing dungarees in a cottage garden or a farm. Wow such rich aroma and oversized overspill of oversight. From a wide lusty frame. Whose discussions with a female mongoose will go unnoticed once the turmoil begins. Cover oneself with fifty six sheets, a record collection, five billion cassettes and consider life as a plant. Conversation cleverly choosing charismatic charming chequered chins chasing chests. And a dodo on a mountaineering expedition with two hundred tyrannosaurus rex, eighty-three teradactals and a half pint of lemonade in a nice clean jug. To wash with not drink. What on earth did you think. The amazement of some is often to the admonishment of another and the cruel multiplatonic indifference is what the name of the takeaway should be called. To be ingested in front of the ray machine. Hypnotic baby soothers. In mass. In amps. En masse. But not en suite. For that is merely utilised for the jam production in many hue and flavour. How very clever thought the passing bluebird. Halfway to town and twenty seeds left. Then right. Fortification of flames on a canal trip taking turns steering. Good. And fashion no necklace into a giant statue of an old hero. Hearing a moon beam then? Good. For at that elevation you should hear even the most daintiest cry from a single blade of field. Dare to dance with that then? Yes? Great. Fantastically freeformed frame fishes. And the hallways smile in castles worldwide. Grab then a hat,a coat, some gloves and build a symmetrical snowman with a crane. Hahahaha beetle borrowing books hahahaha laughing leering lecherous lurking leeches. Xxxxx hyperbolic z this is the midday bulletin from the p y q reporting live from the headquarters at 89.0 whisking. X
Form:
Our latest product is the Viv mark one,
please stop and take a gander,
coated with skin of medium grit
and an ass like an orbital sander.
Adjustable nozzle to help you reach
in all those hard to get places,
plus two large air vents for cold air intake
on a range of adjustable faces.
Exhaust pipe set down around the back
starts first time on the coldest mornings,
but use of improper fuels may lead
to blowbacks without warning.
Will decorate, and dig, and clean
all your household stubborn grime
and is guaranteed to get all jobs done
in probably six months time.
For contest 'Make me laugh', sponsor Robert Haigh
24th February 2018
You have the hysterical look of mutes
that roar through narrow straws.
I see in your yellow eyes – a Jules Verne winking moon.
Soon that ribbed pink cave will release
another flock of demented coots
hacked from the craw of an ancient macaw.
Soon the whip of your vocal squawks
will pluck my eyes from their trembling stalks.
Maine Coon, part Persian, part whiskery herring,
grimalkin mouser,
I love you not when you sing.
Verne goes to the movies, a flickering French theater
of painted malarkey, where mice threaten to Can-Can.
Buck Rodgers shoots rays of hyperbolic sound
from the open nozzle of your mouth.
A loaded pistol,
With youthful courage till yesteryear;
Now lies naked and dormant,
And Is found to be lifeless and dead.
Somewhere, buried in my Junkyard,
Playfully tested till now in all arms to shame;
As it shyly, blushes and whispers to admit,
Murmuring its helplessness into my ears.
Ooh! My Childhood friend,
It feels like an impotent;
To be so bullet-less today.
My Golden days have all ended,
Life has become so ignorant now;
As I've become so bullet-less today.
As the pendulum constantly oscillates,
Time has traded fast on twenty wheels;
Looking for some good fortune in distant lands.
And a store-room in my backyard,
Has always remained the same;
And is still kept unchanged.
But never was any eye caught,
Not even mine;
To drool upon the nozzle of that Gun;
Like the way I used to do,
Used to lovingly do before.
Strolling down my kindergarten alley,
When a Gun was gifted on a bright Christmas morning;
It used to amaze me in my childhood days,
As I so excitedly unwrapped and got it out;
From the mysterious and magical White socks,
Which was hung on my bed; Hung all night,
Waiting for a snowy white beard old man;
A laughing sage in an exception;
Who lived on the mystical hill-side view,
Of my Steel city.
Today, after so many years,
A long craved sight fell upon it;
And it instantly drove me back,
To flash my childhood nostalgic days.
When infant Army camps used to settle,
To battle in the air for all day long;
Under the densely old,
Never claimed tree by anybody - 'Our Mango Tree'.
Ooh! How then this pistol fakingly killed,
So many nappie buddies of mine.
Who played and just acted,
To be dead as my enemies.
Ooh..! How strangely it feels like,
A game of now.
When today the lil' me gazing at any topic,
Sitting in my backyard;
Stumbled and pondered to find,
An old vintage Shot-gun of mine.
So curiously digging the wearily torn school bag,
Hanging since ages on the dampened wall.
Ooh..! So clueless, I fumbled upon,
An old vintage Shotgun of mine.
Dumped and buried under thousand other,
Essential antique toys of mine;
Which notoriously has got rotten in rust.
In closed walls of adolescence,
Where white parchments seeps overall;
From moist doors of yesterday,
Ooh..! How strangely it still feels like today.