The
Turkey
That escaped
This thanksgiving
Wanting more living
Had fled in November
In hope he would remember
The route with the fastest vessel
To Britain where Christmas was special
Categories:
frying, christmas, thanksgiving,
Form: Nonet
Young Albert Andrews thought he would
Help his dad to peel the spuds
Switched on the machine just didn’t linger
To check that he had removed his finger
The machines set off at a fair old zip
Caught one of his digits by the tip
Very soon had one arm to the elbow
Before it started to run slow
By the shoulder it had stuck
Abert’s dad said what luck
If it had gone to yer head
You me lad would’ve been dead
And where the heck would I have been
Without me tatie peeling machine
All that week some said the cod
Tasted just that little bit odd
But said Albert’s dad there’s nowt the matter
I just been using a different batter
And he made young Albert hide
When his clients were inside
It they knew about it at all
He thought his sales might just fall
He’d already had to buy smaller dishes
To disguise his smaller fishes
Global warming made life tough
And he thought that was enough
Life’s hard as it is in the fish frying trade
With no more fortunes to be made
And Albert's dad deserved his fame
For all he knew about the frying game
Categories:
frying, business, father son, fish,
Form: Rhyme
One more day before the weekend?
Awake early to do errands and befriend
Those Jesus loved or wants me to ...
Alas, with struggle, I managed to do
Now, as I recall the hard work, no lunch
Still, I didn't fry, the heat, the time-crunch
The body older, my faith bolder ...
I consumed water, juice, no other
Victuals until after six, this evening
First posting consumed, no cyberjoking
I ate the clock, very time consuming
Wendy noticed, when we wanted seconds
Prayed, thanked God; His grace abounds
Categories:
frying, butterfly, caregiving, christian, jesus,
Form: Rhyme
On the day of his divorce
He put a bet upon a horse
And when it lost he bet again
And then he walked home in the rain
No-one asked, ‘How much d’ya lose?’
He didn’t wipe his muddy shoes
And no-one moaned and no-one groaned
And no-one said you shoulda phoned
In the morning no-one said
Don’t forget to make the bed
Or asked him at the crack of dawn
When you gonna mow the lawn
He didn’t vacuum, didn’t dust
And how he grinned when no-one fussed
He never liked Do-It-Yourself
But now he needn’t fix that shelf
He got some food inside his belly
Put his feet up, watched some telly
Guessing it was getting late
Grabbed a beer and called a mate
His ‘Echo’ bought from Amazon
He wondered if she’d left it on
He said, Alexa, what time is it
‘She’ said…
Time you washed up, fixed the fence and paid your mum a visit
[Inspired by my recent purchase of an Amazon Echo and my accidental
discovery that she does jokes. Try saying… Alexa, make me a sandwich (apparently it’s well documented on YouTube but I found out by pure chance)]
Categories:
frying, divorce, humorous,
Form: Rhyme
I think that it's fantastic
When my wife start's to cook,
She gets out all her pots and pans
And MY brand new cookery book.
She starts to peel some potatoes
Then she gets some liquid out.
As I look on in wonder,
At what it's all about.
She then chops up the potatoes
And drops them in the pan.
I don't know what she is doing,
After all, I'm just a man.
At last she shouts it's ready,
She says she's made my tea.
She's sat there eating a takeaway,
And it's a plate of chips for me.
Categories:
frying, food, funny love, thank
Form: Rhyme
Eternal Frying
Written: by miracle Man
9-11-2019
Those giving scant thought,
about life after dying.
Attribute stories of hell,
to believer falsifying.
But in eternal punishment,
one will plead and squirm.
Nonetheless, in Hell, no one dies,
not even the worm. *
Today, heed HIS calling,
and make your election sure.
Jesus Christ is the way,
the one saving cure.
* Mark 9:48
Where their worm dieth not,
and the fire is not quenched.
Categories:
frying, bible, heaven, jesus,
Form: Lyric
Sizzling technology fried up dark and crisp like bacon
Not the way i like it with sunny side up eggs
Driving me mad with its peculiar nuances
And its changing ways, almost sinister
A cape of confusion too crisp on the outlying whites
The rooster crows, pounding its chest, so proud
But the defeated farmer runs to the barn to diminish the flames
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Categories:
frying, angst,
Form: Free verse
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, city,
Form: Quatrain
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
freezing now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, writing,
Form: Quatrain
...inspired by 'Blues' by Joseph Brodsky
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrain the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey summons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, writing,
Form: Quatrain
...inspired by 'Blues' by Joseph Brodsky
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrain the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds its red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey summons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, community, new york,
Form: Quatrain
The old lady
Had a frying pan
Ready to crack
Her old man
Out somewhere
He didn't belong
She hit him pretty hard
For she was strong
He turned and yelled
What did I do wrong
Now q migraine
With hangover, too
Still, why he got hit
He had no clue
He went to bed
Slept it off that night
Kept the old lady
Outta his sight
He'd wait til morning
To make it right
6/19/14
Categories:
frying, anger,
Form: Rhyme
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, city, environment,
Form: Quatrain
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, on writing and words,
Form: Quatrain
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey summons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Categories:
frying, on writing and words,
Form: Quatrain
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