Best Pistol Poems
Krystal the Pistol
God has blessed be with such a dear friend
someone who entertains me on the weekend
Lucky I am to have such a unique person to work with
in a cold windowless pit.
A beautiful Libra
Crazy enough to dress up as a zebra
She gets me and my crazyness
Just ask her to paint it on a canvas
She sings like an angel
and looks at the world from different angles
we dance, we laugh, we like to take naps
we also know muay thai so watch your ass
She's my wingman with a tan
and can handle my attention span
I'm glad to have her in my life
any man will be golden to call her his wife
When you walk into my classroom
Man, you'd better be prepared.
If your poodle ate your homework,
You might be a little scared.
'Cause I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
My Colt is on my hip
And my trigger finger's itchy
So it's time to get a grip.
Better not be disrespectful
And forget it if you cheat.
No one messes with my lessons
'Cause I pack a little heat.
Yes, I'm a pistol packing pedagogue.
But do not be alarmed.
See they're paying me a bonus
If, inside my class, I'm armed.
It's a crazy world we live in
But I thank the NRA
And our president, for making me
What I've become today.
That's a pistol packing pedagogue.
You shouldn't be too shocked
For at least my gun, like this idea,
Is less than halfway cocked!
Loaded, close, ready
May I never hear it speak
Resting cold--silent
A fellow by the name of Ole Pistol Pete
Once had this real special technique
He just had to think
His eyes he would blink
Ladies would follow Pistol Pete like sheep
© Jack Ellison 2013
Hood fellow, pull her hair like I do the trigger
Plenty of cash, don't care if she's a gold-digger
She broke-up with her ex and got me, lost and found
Get in bed, take out my pistol, let off a round
Shoot her up, shoot her up, bang, bang
Blowing on my mic', the best song she ever sang
The chick's riding me, she started to pant
She dropped down low, started giving brain, transplant
She's eating that wood, like she's a termite
Got something to quench her thirst, but it's not sprite
I think I might go down-town, to get some dessert
She's like a water gun when she climax, squirt
Always takes showers, but she's oh so dirty
Started at three, it's going on four-thirty
Make sure I meet her needs, you're a minute man
She say I got flavor, but you're kinda' bland
I'm speeding, you get home at six, it's rush-hour
Gotta' clean up for you, hit it in the shower
She's so wet, it's like swimming in the ocean
Hop out the shower, dry off, wipe her down with lotion
Starts to get upset, said she wanted me to stay
Ain't in Florida, but she might go M.I.A
Hood fellow, pull her hair like I do the trigger
Plenty of cash, don't care if she's a gold-digger
She broke-up with her ex and got me, lost and found
Get in bed, take out my pistol, let off a round
Shoot her up, shoot her up, bang, bang
Blowing on my mic', the best song she ever sang
Got flavor, cold with all this ice, like a 'Slurpee'
Got something for your chick to drink, she slurps me
Definitely ain't praying, but she gets on her knees
Her head game is fire, nine-hundred-degrees
It's like she's educating me, gives me good brain
While she's down there, I pull her hair, like a horse's mane
She's a vampire, sucking on the neck of my second head
Not the one on my shoulders, but the one used in bed
She told me to eat her out, went down and bit it
She can't stand violence, but loves the way I hit it
Beat the 'Coochie' up, bedroom turned into a boxing arena
Call it domestic violence, no court, no subpoena
Riding me, I'm thinking 'bout gettin' her a saddle
We rocking the boat right now, ain't got a paddle
Making a movie, this the best part, 'bout to climax
She loves when I come over, got everything her man lacks
The Pistol of the Priest
When the world resurrected
from a hanging hole between the thighs.
The body brought out with all his animals ,
The priest brought out ,
carrying a pistol,
surrounded by the corpses of the roses,
and the lamentation of the angels .
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A poem by : Khaled Kheshan (Iraqi Poet)
Translated by : Laith Seher
Pistol Pete is Peaceful Peter now,
Married life has altered him, and how.
He used to be a honky tonker
Always spoiling for a fight,
Now he's always home with Mama
And in bed by nine each night.
It was a huge mistake to take that wedding vow.
He had to give up hanging out with all the boys,
And had to throw out all his "girlie" mags and toys.
Nor can he scratch, nor cuss, nor chew,
He had to kiss that life good-bye,
And when he's dragged to church on Sunday,
She even makes him wear a tie.
There's not a thing about wedded bliss that he enjoys.
Six months in and she can't take it anymore,
All she does is wring her hands and pace the floor.
When Pete proposed to her he promised
He'd reform and get a job,
But no one wants to hire a guy
To sleep, drink beer, and be a slob,
And Mama's sick and tired of being poor.
What the last straw was for Mama, who can say,
But the police came and carted her away.
What she claimed as her defense,
That made the judge and jury frown,
Was he forgot too many times
To put the toilet seat back down.
"Justified, perhaps, but guilty, anyway."
To see her tried Pete's old friends flocked from miles around,
Then stayed to see her fried and Pete put in the ground.
As each one heard the eulogy,
This thought was racing through his head,
"If I had followed Pete's example,
That could be me there lying dead!"
And not a dry eye in the parlor could be found.
If there's a moral to my tale, this truth will fit:
If you only "like" someone, do not commit.
Before proposing, think again
'cause it's a fairly well-known fact
That married life can be a pain
When complete opposites attract.
If you don't believe me, just read his obit
Because Pistol Pete's the pitiful proof of it.
Pistol or Revolver Horn Haiku
A pistol or revolver
Is not a problem solver
Never meant to be.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Winds of change
Hauntingly whisper
Terrifyingly roar
Silhouette at door
Silent pistol
The word fine is the frame of a pistol that grips to callused hands
When you think of the word fine as an answer, you move your finger to trigger ready to shoot a lie
When you hear the word fine it’s the scraping of the lie as it ravels through the barrel and into the world
Not causing damage to anyone it hits, but to the person who said it.
See when you say the word fine to describe how you’re doing
Youre attaching a silencer to the pistol in your callused hands, hoping to hide the sound of your anguish so others around can feel comfortable
But for your sake
Know that
the more you suppress your demons
The more you shoot out lies
The more self inflicted gun shot wounds youre going to have and eventually those wounds will spell out the word
Fine.
Only 4 years old and if looks could kill
Definetly different with a will of steel
Butting heads and not getting along
Sworn enemies in a little girls world
Better than Barbies
Claws out like cats
Battleground and Playgrounds
Strong willed and hardheaded
Little Princess is a pistol,
And she’s about to go off
Little Princess is a pistol
And she’s about to go off
Screeching like a banshee
Firecracker blowing her top
My way or the highway
Little Princess is a pistol,
And she’s about to go off
Joe Doakes packed a pistol for protection
Tucked away in his pants, 'scaped detection --
Had a girl named Meg
Who flashed him some leg --
Joe's pistol turned into an e-rec-tion
Your flaming heart has me floating on a cloud of iron thistles
THE COLOR OF THE WIND WHICH IS WEDDED TO WINTER’S MUSE AND
MUSIC
What, color is music?
Is it the color of your lover’s eyes as you wade at water’s edge?
Or more like the colors you view when a child’s giggle makes you young again?
Then again, they could be muted colors…………………….
opaque in nature,
but suddenly you breathe on them and alas they glow once more
Royal colors crowned and crowded with admirers who stand in awe of hues hewn with
precision
Yet if I had to make a decision
I would be urged to opine that music is the color of enjoyment enveloping this entire
planet which could be in peril
Allow the music of***laughter to echo through the deepest tunnels and over every
triumphant mountain
Or music could be the color an artiste must employ to duplicate a reflection of joy
which intrudes and reaches into one’s soul and tells you that no matter what, be
content with that which you were blessed to own,
And never fill your cup to overflow with the color of greediness or music made to
grieve
Music is not, of course the color of anger or jealousy
As for me I am making music my master who advises me to do things zealously
For after all, where would i be without the magic of music in the middle of madness
at midnight?
Whatever color music is I know it’s has to be majestically and brilliantly bright
Yet cannot deafen us to all but mellow melodies
That’s it
Music is the color of a mid-August breeze
when heat un-heavies your heart and music gives birth to ease
Music is blue as that breeze which gently blew
While Mrs. Levy’s laundry sways as it clings to a rope,
suspended on the serenity of a symphony sewn of silk
Music is the color of everything built and born of beauty that belies the notion that
an emotion is nay a color as well
And oh how much music is there in the vociferous voice of one single bell
Music is the color of a hundred pipers piping as their numbers increase
Music is made when a war has cause to cease
Therefore music must be the color of peace
© 2011.…. the indupitably prolific poet who, in a short time should be named
poet lauriet of this site....me.....phreepoetree
*t...* take the word “laughter” and make an “S” be the first letter before “L”