Best Willies Poems
A is for a**l
B is for balls
Share them or wear them
Tucked up in your smalls
C is for condoms
Of all shapes and sizes
D is for dicks
Made of chocolate for prizes
E is for enlarging erections
Oh wow!
F is for fig leaves
Worn you know how
G is for G string
Oooh very nice
H is for handcuffs
Double locked twice
I is for indecent
That sums it up
J is for juices
And not in a cup
K is for kinky
Whatever the weather
L is for lust, libido and leather
M is for mask, massage and minge
N is for naughty
Making me cringe
O is for oral
Taken at leisure
P is for pervert, ****, pimp and pleasure
Q is for quickie
If that is your need
R is for rampant rabbit
One you won't have to feed
S is for S and M
With shackles thrown in
T is for torture
Oh such a sin
U is for urinate
Some folk just love it
V is for vibrator
You know where to shove it
W is for whores, whips, willies and wellies
X is for x rated **** on your tellies
Y is for yeast
Well it does make bread rise!
And Z, well I'm f****d
So I'll say my goodbyes!
Jan's spouse said she's gilding the lilies
For treating herself to new frillies
All the neighbours got hot
When they saw what she bought
And that really gave Jan the willies!
maudlin
maudlin Monday's mostly mud
halts the weekend with woeful thud
laughs and sillies
get the willies
on maudlin Monday, what a dud
tintinnabulous
tintinnabulous Tuesday
is the second paying-dues day
we head uphill
but it’s no thrill
'cause we’re not there, but we’re on our way
wadd'lin
wadd'lin Wednesday straddles the hump
wiggles and shakes like a wide-angle rump
it’s a little too slow
with way too much show
wadd’lin Wednesday makes us “harumph”
thoracic
thoracic Thursday we’d like to send west
we want to get Thursday off of our chest
we’re not so sure
we can endure
thoracic Thursday'd be a good day to rest
finally
finally Friday, when it gets here
makes one take a look in the mirror
to practice a smile
to reclaim a style
time to get ready for giggles and beer!
sleep in
sleep-in Saturday comes with the blues
has way too many of those chore-ing to-do’s
so get outta bed
with hung-over head
and put off whatever you choose
shuff'lin
shuff'lin Sunday saunters along
changing tempo, just like a song
pretty soon then
it’s time again
for Monday and that is just wrong!
elusive
elusive, the eighth day hides from the rest
we like to think we’d like it the best
but we’d probably waste it
and then we’d lambast it.
an eight day week the Beatles addressed
Each book in my library must be read, each one, each and every one,
vagrant, homeless papers must find a forever home, I must
edit, amend, revise, reword and condense a poem-
Rattled, I search for my keys, oh collywobbles!
Yearning for tranquility instead of this constant dither and tizzy, and
daunting days of jitters, willies, shivers and heebie-jeebies,
and my heart in a knot of anxiety!
Yes, I have days of cliffhanging moments!
Inside my soul, I just want to dilly-dally,
silent, I want to make each day count, but
apprehension and anticipation always keep me on tenderhooks.
Consternation, worry and anxiety, creep, creeping, and
like an unsettled butterfly, I flutter befuddled.
Inside my soul, I just want to lollygag!
Fearful, I face each new day undaunted, taking
first one step, then another and on and on and on . . .
hoping my distress is unseen and undetected.
And I step off the cliff that is my life each morning, oh
no one can escape some anxious days, of
go here, go there, get this and get that, oh collywobbles!
Edit, amend, revise, reword, and condense a poem, but really,
really I love my crazy, hectic, unpredictable, anxious life!
_______________________
February 24, 2017
Poetry/Acrostic/Everyday is a Cliffhanger
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 879-893-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
In Iceland there’s a Willy museum
It’s not huge like an old Colosseum
Filled with all types of willies
It would give me the sillies
But people pay lots of Kroner to see um!
Inspired by a comment Tom Cunnigham made on my Aurora Borealis poem
The museum has many exhibits of the genitals of animals!
1/8/20
I need it all the time
I hunt for it.
I advertise for it.
I answer ads for it.
Anyone else need it as badly as I do?
Oh I'm sure there are a few of you
that would do as I have done and
maybe even worse.
But you can only go so long.
Then that urge will catch up with you again.
This is a never ending thing.
You have it maybe three or four times a day.
Maybe more. Who knows what each person's
need's are but themselves?
But you sleep and get refreshed and BOING!!
There it is again! That urge!!!
And that urge gets greater everyday!
"Oh sure," you say to yourself, "it will soon pass!'
RIGHT!!!!! That need is only satisfied
if you find it and have it!
And have it more than once a day!
I'll bet if I took a survey, more than likely
all of you would confess. You say,
"Not me!" but believe me!!! You have!
And I can prove it if I have too!
Please don't ask me what it is,
because if you do, I'll have to explain
this poem and that's something I could
never do. This poem gives me the willies,
as it should you. GO AHEAD AND ASK!!
JUST DO IT!! And see what answer you
get!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“I don’t know.
It’s been just one of those itchy
dry skin days
where you know somethin’ has to happen
but it ain’t;
at least not chet.
I was expecting a call but
it hatn’t come either.
The ‘wild willies’ were settlin’
in somethin’ fierce
an my stomach was feelin’
somethin’ awful.
It was like- -um, uh
taste of bad whiskey
on molded bread
that was tryin’
to be fresh,
but there just weren’t no way.
Even if it could, what
difference would it make?
Not a dab!
So I just sat and stared- -
at the coals,
that used to be lit,
and still could be if I was a mind to,
but I ain’t .
Shore is cold though.”
as the last thought
he ever had, passed
through his head.
I wrote this in a semi-light hearted motif to take some
of the edge off of a sensitive subject.
Do you know someone who feels alone. They are just
as alone as anyone you will ever meet, Loneliness is an
acquired perception, often a gift of good people, though
not habitually or intentionally thoughtless or self-centered, they
“just do not have the time”, They “do not want to get involved”,
or “just do not like someone’s looks”
Go visit an old age home this next week. Sit in the lobby and strike
up a conversation with any old person not interested in the TV.
See how good you feel when you leave, even though you may
have dampness in and around your eyes.
There's a mighty fine fellow named Jack
Who with the ladies has a real knack
Has a case of the sillies
Sometimes gives you the willies
Watch your girl cause you won't get her back
A NEW COUNTRY SONG
I was ravaged today
by
three country songs
on the truck radio
each moaning the lyrics
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".
(God! What woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!)
I reckon he lost
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
finishing each and every line!
Is there no shame no style
no class no original music
anymore?
Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with his "The Perfect
Country and Western Song".
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup
into the train!
Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named un-tamed
legends! what have you
let happen?
Where are the lonesome, snow white
doves, the mule train sorrows,
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies or the Luckenbach wails
of songs gone by?
Why was I ravaged today
by
The flashing neon sign
re-echoed ghosts
of disturbed country music,
not re-assured by soulful
originality?
Are we no longer able
to compose, to play
in a twitterless world
of art, creativity, quality?
Alas we have lost; I want
to scream!
"Turn off the radio, the IPOD,
close the door!"
I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture, and
. . . "drink a beer!".
the kids are acting funny, honey.
they like to play out in the fields.
they don’t care about our money
or how much our company yields.
they want to see the flowers bloom
under cotton candy skies.
they don’t see how adulthood looms
past their milkshake soaked french fries.
the kids are acting silly, billy.
glueing their fingers together.
too preoccupied plotting wet willies
to be thinking about forever.
they haven’t a clue about the economy,
they are too busy playing house.
how do they understand monogamy
when they don’t really love their spouse?
yes, the kids are quite crazy, miss daisy.
i hear them singing about posies and falling.
they prefer earth when the air gets hazy.
they are angels listening for heaven’s calling.
when the night blankets the ground
the kids strike matches on rocks.
the spark it makes is their favorite sound
and they put out the flame with their socks.
Halloween at the Bates Hotel
The attendant in the Ghostface rig was kinda creepy,
When I came in to pay the gas I owed.
“Is there a motel nearby? I’m really sleepy.”
He pointed down a dark and dreary road.
No kids were Trick-or-Treating that Halloween night,
Nothing was open. I couldn’t buy nor sell.
I could barely see. There wasn’t a single light.
Then I saw the sign for the Bates Hotel
The clerk in drag, carrying a dripping blade,
Said they had a sudden opening;
But first he had to get the room remade.
“Why don’t you stroll outside, see what’s happening.”
Some spaced-out dwarves were shuffling ‘round the mortuary,
While a Tall Man looked down from up above.
Nearby a big dude in a goalie mask was swinging a machete,
Taunting a burned guy wearing a freaky glove.
Another dude was gardening, cutting something at night,
Sporting a leather mask and a gas chainsaw.
But a walking-talking Good Guy doll gave me the biggest fright--
He was probably the weirdest thing I saw.
I decided to head back; this town gave me the ‘willies’.
A big shape and a clown grabbed me outside the Bates Hotel!
“I’m Mike Myers, and my friend’s name’s Penny.
We’ve come to convey you back to Hell.”
COUNTRY MUSIC
I was ravaged today
by
three consecutive country songs
on the radio while driving
each moaning the lyrics
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".
God what woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!
I reckon he lost
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
ending each and every line!
Is there no shame of style
anymore?
Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with "The Perfect
Country and Western Song".
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup
into the train!
Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named
legends! what have you
let happen?
Where are the lonesome, snow white
doves, the mule train sorrows,
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies of songs gone by?
Why was I ravaged today
by
The flashing neon sign ghosts
of disturbed country music, and not
pleasured by delicate originality?
Are we no longer able to compose,
play in a twitterless world
of art, creativity and valued songs?
Alas we have lost I want
to scream
Turn off the radio, the IPOD,
close the door
I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture,
. . . "drink a beer!".
In the fall of 1803,
The good ship, “The Queen Ann’s Knees”
Sailed out on the bounding seas.
Out of sight of the land
The captain looked grand
As with little ado
He spoke to his crew:
“Men, I’ve nothing to hide!
You all may have noticed how wide
Is that big blue thing outside,
Just over the railing.
So keep this in mind while we’re sailing;
The ocean is deep and mysterious
And can be at times quite serious.
‘Though I’ve sailed on the water
From Crete and Gibraltar
To the Lesser Antilles,
It still always gives me the willies.”
“But to our duty we shall always adhere.
What that is is however not clear.
I had all of our orders,
I thought, in my quarters
That in words quite precise
(In fact really nice!)
Told what to do while afloat;
But I left them at home in my coat.”
“But never mind that, we’ll just play it by ear,
And pretend that there’s nothing to fear.”
And so the ship sailed on
Through storm and through calm
Till the month of December
When he said he remembered,
Using logic deductive,
What the admiral instructed:
Go to the Sandwich Islands
And bring back two Hawaiians.
So they sailed one morn
Around the Horn
And on into Pacific waters
Where thoughts of their daughters
And wives
Helped to keep most of the men alive.
And many and many a year had passed
When the ship returned, broken, demasted,
And its harbor came into view.
What remained of the crew
Went ashore and disported
While to the Admiral the Captain reported.
“My Admiral, as per your instructions,
Through distress and wanton destructions,
Through monsoons and lagoons
And fearsome typhoons,
We sailed Isles of Sandwich
And in sorrow and anguish
We brought back two Hawaiians
From those far distant islands."
“Jolly good!” the Admiral responded,
“But as I recall, before you absconded
Those many long years ago,
I just asked that you go
To the pub down below
And pick up my lunch
(Or was it my brunch?):
A ham sandwich and a Blue Hawaiian.
So, now that you’ve paid your visit,
My bloody lunch, where the hell is it?”
he crawls in the filth,
struggles to climb,
finding a convenient spot
he branches out.
begins...perhaps
the most baffling of all processes.
when done...dormant.
he will be prey for predators of all kinds
as time passes,
as minutes count the hours...the hours the days
he beats the odds, success is his.
the dirty crawler who gives even 'Jocks'
the willies, the heebee jeebees,
starts his exit from his rented home.
just a bit, then more...then
wings opened...the crawler emerges,
a colorful...one of nature's most beautiful creations
...as you stare with disbelief,
A Butterfly
...crafted with rainbow borrowed shades.
as he is in you, so you know this is God's poetry.
one of God's rich, layered writes
"The Beauty and The Beast"."The Ugly Duckling"...
...and his children the human poet evolves by osmosis.
God's kind of poetry
pastes smiles in the core of young and old.
...ah but in children's laughter
joy like they've never known.
his masterfully written poetry...approved by all.
In prayer we herald the poet's name.
Something’s lurking in the shadows. Something’s hiding in the dark.
Something’s out there by my window, so why doesn’t Fido bark?
Something out there wants to get me! I am losing my sang-froid.
Something wants to disappear me. I’m not being paranoid!
I used to have a neighbor woman--We cannot find her anywhere.
When I called for some patrolmen. They did not show ‘cause they don’t dare!
Something outside isn’t human-- or at least not anymore.
A cannibal or psycho axeman, or just a clown covered with gore.
I’ve got the willies something fierce. Those shivers just won’t go away.
I’m not ready for the hearse. Too scared to run…too scared to stay.
Someone’s walked over my tomb, or given me the evil eye.
Something’s out there in costume--Trick or treat, it’s time to die!
Something’s out there by my window, so why doesn’t Fido bark?
Something’s lurking in the shadows. Something’s waiting in the dark.