Best Saddle Sore Poems
A nubile young vicar named Jude
Was seen swimming, totally nude
The bishop said WOW
Just look at you now
Your assets - they need to be viewed!
Fiction write!
07-05-17
Invited him home for a drink
A toast as their glasses did clink
Robes down on the floor
Performing a chore...
How far will this story now sink.
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
The vicar bent over to pray
The bishop could not look away
So for his protection
Took up a collection
A robe now conceals his display
WRITTEN BY CHRIS GREEN
I think this story about being nude will sink low
I will tell on those guys, all I know
Those two men are not holy
The bishop's roly-poly
And the vicar used to be in a nude girly show
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
The bishop was feeling romantic
The vicar thought the man pedantic
When the vicar turned around
To give the bishop a frown
The bishop gasped, "Lord, you're gigantic!"
WRITTEN DALE GREGORY COZART
Said Jude, will we both go to hell-
Said bishop, you never can tell
But please will you turn
I've got carpet burn
And my knees are beginning to swell
WRITTEN BY GARY SMITH
As the bishop continued to stare
He thought such a body's not fair
To see the nude vicar
was hard on his ticker
and soon he had to change underwear
WRITTEN BY ROGER ADAMS
Mother Teresa told me so
In the heaven we’ll dance too slow
If you want to come
Bring us some Rum
Otherwise you may stop and go
WRITTEN BY PASHANG SALEHI
btw... What would the Pontiff say?
Would there be hell to pay?
Or would the Pope
just drop the soap
and hope he'd be invited to play
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
When suddenly a knock at the door
they decided they'd rather ignore
in walked the pope,
joined in the group grope
next day they were all saddle sore
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
The pope thought it not at all freakly
when asking the other men meekly
that if they were game
and would do the same
they could set up appointments weekly
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Jude's assets developed so well
As the bishop could obviously tell
But you might be surprised
How it grew to that size
Well, he used it to ring the church bell
WRITTEN BY RAY GRIDLEY
07-06-17
The happily ever after...
He searched the kingdom for a fortnight 'til all saddle sore and weary,
With his eyes bloodshot and bleary,
The prince arrived at the last door.
He found two sisters, far too ugly, and an even uglier mother,
And asked himself why even bother,
This whole darn quest's become a bore.
Then from the kitchen came the vision he had searched so far and wide for.
He asked stepmother what she'd lied for
To say the three of them were all.
A flash, a crash, there was the gown, and then he saw her bare right flipper,
And on the left, a crystal slipper…
The girl he'd danced with at the ball.
The stepmother feigned regret that they had sadly so misjudged her,
T'was for her good that they'd begrudged her,
But to a prince one shouldn't lie.
On her wedding day the trio met the fate they should have dreaded,
They were arrested and beheaded,
And Cindy never blinked an eye.
The wedding feast and celebration were the grandest in the nation,
The king and queen felt jubilation,
Their son was "normal", after all.
They could retire and the crown would be passed down to their descendants,
Their kid, grandkids, and co-dependents,
They were so glad they'd had that ball.
But on their wedding night the prince confirmed his sexual confusion,
And forced them both to the conclusion,
Theirs was no fairy tale romance.
But still they made the marriage work, although they had no little nippers,
Sometimes he wore her gown and slippers,
And Cinderella wore the pants.
So, in conclusion, Cinderella got her semi-happy ending,
In spite of all the rules I'm bending
To tell her tale and make it new.
It wasn't meant to be so grand,
But what my muse commands, I do,
And now in bidding fond adieu,
My hat is off to those of you
Who stuck it out and read it through.
The End
Hank had cowboyed and rodeoed fer nigh on forty years,
Ridin' in sleet, rain and snow a-herdin' cantankerous steers.
His hide was tough as leather and his legs was slightly bowed,
But brandin' dogies and fixin' fences was all he ever knowed!
His gut was made of iron from a diet of taters, beans and bacon.
Many times he was throwed from his hoss but his will remained unshaken.
He'd been bit by rattlesnakes and scarred from many barroom brawls,
And kicked by many a skittish bronc while muckin' out their stalls!
When tryin' to halt stampedes, Hank was often gravely gored,
And was hoarse from yellin' and cussin' at that riotous horde.
When shoein' hosses they often left an imprint on his chest,
Where flyin' hoofs landed leavin' him angry and depressed!
He didn't git rich and couldn't hoard money fer a rainy day;
Not much chance of accumulatin' such on a cowpokes meager pay.
His bed was usually 'neath the stars with his saddle fer a pillow,
Sharin' space with his old dog Spike and an occasional armadillo!
One day he up and told the boss, "I've had my fill of a cowboy's life.
I'm a-quittin' as of now. My old bones is weary from all this strife.
I'm saddle sore and tired of bunkhouse livin' and all yer stingin' slurs.
You kin take this job and shove it 'cause I'm a-hangin' up my spurs!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
final dismount, final ride
pasture waits for dappled roan
girth mark of the lonely byways
lather from the battles flown
dew eyed weary, spinal backed
stumble step'd and nostril blown...
stirrup brass with bugle hung
faded strap and leather worn
bridle twisted, crackled spur
broken packboard, blanket torn
carbine scabbard, saddle sore
salt and stain wrung round the horn...
cosmoline and splintered stock
powder burned and pointed lead
flashpan crusted, blackened sight
ramrod tamped and barrel fed
faceless names etched in the action
thunder echoed, eardrums bled...
now the rider, less the man
mustered out a thousand suns
restless eye and palsied hand
scattered mind behind the gun
drumbeat sigh and breaking heart
no true glory grasped and won...
in the world
of the world
in joy's cascade as much as grief
season turns
while seasons end
wind blows down the autumn leaf.
My tale about the barnacle I bared upon my bum
has now passed into legend and folk law
The battle I thought was over and now long done
Just when I thought I could sit down and relax
and lick my wounds
and heal my poor bum
I now have two barnacles
clinging on instead of one.
Their jealous of each other
and like a porcupines
my bum is very sore
I'm stuck in the middle
and I don't think I can take any more!!!!!.
My telephone is melting
and they push love notes through my door
I'm divided down the middle
and I'm preparing for war.
I have no idea why they follow me around like flies
maybe it's my aftershave that smells so nice
There's nothing about me
I do declare
but everytime I turn around
there's always someone there.
Why couldn't it ever be
who I really like
I even tried to escape on my motorbike last night
I thought I was just saddle sore
but latter when I pulled my trousers down
what did I see
not two barnacles but three.
I darn't leave the house no more
and I've barricaded myself in
I'm now a nervous wreck
and I've taken to drinking Gin
I've sealed the letter box and took the phone of the hook
and have been searching amazon for a useful book.
If your a poor sufferer too
have a hammer and chisel
we can help each other get through
just bare your bum like me
and maybe we could throw the barnacles back into the sea.
''Beware! their out there''.
Peter Dome. copyright.2014.march.
The bugler's piercing call sounds "Reveille" at the break of dawn.
Young horse soldiers rise, rub their eyes and stifle a gaping yawn.
The brawny Irish Sergeant bellows, "Up and at 'em lads!
You belong to me and the army now - forget your moms and dads!"
A wretched meal of bacon, beans and coffee awaits them in the mess.
Endless bugle calls throughout the day adds to their duress.
There are horses to curry and saddle and other chores ad infinitum.
All of this for a lousy one hundred and fifty-six bucks per annum!
Perilous patrols in the saddle in every sort of miserable condition:
Heat in the summer, freezing in the winter - a never-ending perdition!
Weary, saddle sore, ever heedful to the commands of their "sarge".
Ever alert to the bugler's clarion call, " To Horse! Charge!"
At the end of the month they collect their meager pay.
Most repairing to the local "hog ranch" just down the way,
To enjoy the delights of a "soiled dove", gamble, drink and fight,
Later to be confined in the guardhouse feeling mighty contrite!
These stalwart men ensured that Manifest Destiny was carried out,
Enduring untold hardships and protecting the treacherous route.
Many paid the ultimate price and lie in a desolate, lonely grave.
Soldiers who our horizons expanded and whose lives they freely gave.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
In a dusty fleabit mining town
The kind you’d see on screen
The stranger rode down Main Street
Looking evil, looking mean
He packed a pair of six guns
And a sawn off in his vest
Those folks was mighty nervous
But that’s something you’d a guessed
The drug store shut the shutters
And the hotel did the same
The sky grew dark and cloudy, and
It looked like it might rain
The stranger in his poncho
He stayed sitting on his horse
He’d rode near fifty miles
He was saddle sore, of course
It took some time, but he got down
Then standing in the street
He opened up a well worn pouch
And rolled a cigareet
He struck a match across his chin
And in it’s dying flame
Some folks recognised him
Though, they didn’t know his name
Moving slowly down the boardwalk
Headin’ straight towards the bar
The light’ning flashed and all could see
The stranger wore a star
He pushed in through the bar room door
And silence filled the air
Those men was mean and moody
He could feel their hateful stare
Sidling slowly to a barstool, well
The mood, it sorta eased
For at last they had a starman
And they seemed like they was pleased
The starman drank his coffee
Ate some victuals and some bread
It had been a long hard day,and
He was ready for his bed
But then he saw the gunman
From the corner of his eye
He knew the man was faster
And he knew that he could die
Dressed in black all over
Staring deep into the room
The gunman, like a shadow
Almost hidden in the gloom
Though running short of time
The lawman hatched a cunning plan
He only had one chance to get
The better of this man
Moving quickly from his barstool
Heading straight toward the door
The sheriff hit the gunman
And, the gunman hit the floor
so much precious existence
found me rooted with mouth ajar
as sigh asper the dentin-cementum
so mud dear reader (with dem perfect
enameled pearly whites), aye har bar
envy for those with a complete set
of eight incisors, four cuspids (i.e. canines),
eight bicuspids, and twelve molars
(including four wisdom teeth) tabulating
many hours in the car (engendering
saddle sore bony tuckus)
plus regarding chunk whereat,
pernicious cementum funk
viz distraught psyche, when muss self as a lil monk
key decades after being examined
by family dentist Doctor Marcus (NOT WELBY),
excellent practitioner (button irate pulp pill
people ' especially children) eater – the grump,
whose private practice located
in Levittown, Pennsylvania,
and when prepubescent underwent
pertinent more explicit focused
intense noninvasive procedures
asper subsequent cause of speech impediment
determined why air didst jump
thru nostrils, (speech therapist at Henry Kline Boyer),
neither thin nor plump
informed parents
of Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic –
fifty plus miles one direction),
where chief prosthodontist
Doctor Mohammad N. Mazaheri, DDS, an Iranian
whose expert reputation, sans strict manner didst trump
his aura, karma evincing clipped commands
forceful as a vocal whump
before launching into meat and potatoes
of crux comprising real aim
constituting modus operandi
(and cresting away from details indirectly tide
into main intent, nobody aye blame)
for thine dental debacle quandary
(managed by gumshun,
whereby eons hyperbolically toted beyond google),
and despite the optimistic stance
wool worth anesthetized numb skull claim
nascent malocclusion faintly affecting,
hinting, pointing toward Periodontitis
(despite diligence attending to oral hygiene frame)
the manifestation of major looming crisis compromising,
forgoing, instigating, et cetera loss of teeth,
this (after agony in league with separate occasions
twice wearing braces, concomitant Extractions
of wisdom and removal of crowdsourcing –
closeup toward the front of mouth teeth - game
The Call of the Highlands
Oh I'd love a day out in the heather,
With a ghillie a gun and a stick,
I'd stalk 'cross the moors, crawl about on all fours
All the way from Fort William to Wick.
Oh I'd love to catch fish in the river,
Cast my line, it's no problem you see,
For the fish that I catch will find they're no match
For a quick-witted lassie like me.
Oh I'd love to go riding on horseback,
'cross the valley the glen and the moor.
I'd gallop all day o're the banks and the brae,
And come back a bit saddle sore.
Oh I think that maybe on reflection,
If it's snowy, or if the wind roars,
That I'll find me a nook, cuddle up with a book,
By a nice cosy fire - indoors!
This is it
I give up
I throw in the towel
I draw the curtains
I pull down the shades
I close the doors shut
Finito
The end;
No more haggling
No more beseeching
No more whining
No more whimpering
I'll call it a day,
Saddle sore
I am heading home
I am out of the race -
Get me off the grid.
World-weary,
Timeworn,
I am done.
Flat-lined
I am pulling the plugs;
I ran the gauntlet
Kaput
Stop the earth
I am getting off -
Sayonara!
I am just circling the drain -
Get me off this hamster wheel,
I am at the end of my tether,
I have just about seen
the last of the sunsets,
No more sunrises for me,
I am sitting fallow,
I am at the end of my rope
I am teetering on the precipice
I am hanging by the skin of my teeth
I am dying on the vine
I am ready to kick the bucket -
Uh...can someone
bring me a bucket please!
i took her riding
this time my venue, not hers
she loves horses, i am no equestrian
i am beyond saddle sore now
trail rides where every bird is identified
a short illumination of the species
mine are in this little park
where we would steal away
paddle boats thru the geese and ducks
she would always pack up bread
i always gave her enough notice
so she could buy the better bread
the day-old the bakery dumps cheap
it is healthier she will tell you
i always considered myself educated
until i found her lips
Robison Crusoe washed ashore
an island of magical moments
an oeuvre in my captivated heart
my magic is in the carousel
horses that go round and round
back in line to do it again
holding onto the bar i lean in
to steal a kiss, keep her in laughter
as the music and horses dance in a wonderland
the Wurlitzer organ fills the air with a bewitchment
we join parents and children in the magic
later we retire upon a bench
from her bag appears our humble offerings
every morsel approved by the minister of health
every grain is explained by lips i so adore
the ducks and geese beg at our feet
she delights in each morsel she throws
the happiness she wears on her face
i see Mother Goose in the crowd approving
drakes and hens galore with ducklings
the beauty of joy fills her eyes
to love her is to share her
caged birds are a sad lot
such a small price to pay
ride the carousel hand in hand
the alchemy in whirling horses and music
from an age long gone now
my treasure, a moment all to myself with her
to dwell in the magic of sharing loaves
those adoring eyes watching her
are a chorus i share
the bird of paradise has no price
master of her every dream
that is the labor of love
surrounding those dreams
with the magic life holds
3/2/19 Lufkin
While riding my bike down a lane
I felt an incredible pain
I was astraddle
Without my saddle
That's something I won't do again!
The Cowboy bloke of yesteryear
Would work in mud and dust
He would tackle any hardship
As long as it was just
Out on the range from dawn to dusk
Rarely saddle sore
His butt was tough as leather
From calluses he wore
Had the same thing on his hands
Where red hot rope slid through
His courage part of legend
A guide for me and you
Very rarely got to town
Had a blow out when he did
Imbibing plenty rot gut
Then in the stable hid
Head out to the ranch next day
Full trust in his horse
Swear never go to town again
A short lived thought of course
They were the stuff of legend
But the same applies today
You could never live a better life
Than by the Cowboy way
I help herd the cattle to market far away.
I am riding high in the saddle each day.
I travel many miles, and then some more.
That makes me quite tired and saddle sore.
The sun bakes me until I’m red and dry.
The ordeal is enough to make a lesser man cry.
Each trip is dry, dusty, and dirty.
It’s a difficult job, but it’s my duty.
Embryos sing saddle-sore sonatas, beneath
the despot eaves of chromium skies, reflecting
black light down upon the harbours where
ambition claws the air and slowly dies; and
nighthawks scream a siren song of sadness, for
all the lovers lost and ripped apart, their
entrails steaming, scattered and decaying, cryogenic
memories still the beating heart.
Somewhere in a paean of pain and passion, eyes
upturned in sockets sear the night, telescope
and zoom into the heavens, ruptured
vessels crack the milky white; for
all the golden graces of the goddess, stealing
and absorbing love and soul, hoarding
with her sadist smiles of sorrow, reaps
the diamond, reimburses coal.
On the moon my blood drips sour and savage, fills
the craters and the fossil seas, scars
the surface dust like crazy paving, packs
the vacuum deserts with disease; on
the moon my blood is frozen solid, crystallising,
still as tombstone script, cold,
implacably cast as death's dominion, to
love no more, enamelled bathtub crypt.