Long Bad tempered Poems
Long Bad tempered Poems. Below are the most popular long Bad tempered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bad tempered poems by poem length and keyword.
Zotëri Count Dracula
is a terrible, Transylvanian host
Mister Tarantula Fangs serves watered down
fermented, sour liver compost
I know
because my Planet Terror peep Tarantino
said so
Vladdie’s batty bandë
campy lip sync way too much on the fly
Playing air guitar riffs
that’ll make any party stiff Mummy die
This I know
because my dungeon babe Elvira
en-crypt texted me
the down-low
Domnule Wolfman
Were a bad-tempered, English bog bloke
Mister Aristy Lycantrophe takes liquid
anger management medication
This presto change-o firewater potion
got a mean Romanian bite
It ain’t no Jekyll-and-Hyde Howling joke
Please Pumpkinheads, don’t ask me
how I know ...
Because my cannibal pal Hannibal L.
said it’s a sacred doctor/patient violation
to divulge this info
So my tasty Mikey Myers marshmallows,
gather ‘round
the strobe light, crystal ball cellar campfire
Get Jiggy Saw off the hook Hostel
Just how slasher far,
Rocky Horror Picture Creepshow
do you wanna go?
Old school, vintage reel macabre Blob snuff action:
Vic and Frankie Boy, lab cadaver number one son,
will do a drunken, shrunken head dance
with Morticia and Harley Quinn
Be advised,
not to Monster Mash skull butt in
So have some Terminator fun
you Alien party animals
Lose all Nightmare on Elm Street bladder control
Take a Bughuul trickster treat
out of the Jeeper Creepers Candy Man belly bowl
There’s only one parasite Thing,
death notice Lurch doorbell ring, to remember
at this Pet Semetary open house invitation:
When you give a Skeleton Key
Premature Burial ghoul greet,
the proper zombie etiquette scream
must be 1408
ten shivers delivered
Hellraiser late
Cower in fear,
when you see the floating head
of Jacob Marley's ghost ...
his haunting eyes telling you —
Don’t cross the host,
at his own Halloweenie roast!
It were bonfire night in 1910,
when fireworks first lit the night,
streets that were dark in shadows,
now suddenly fulsome and bright.
Bairns scattered as the bangs blew o’er us,
we giggled and ran for our lives,
and clutched as the noises grew louder,
at the skirt’s of our father’s wives.
I were twelve when I held onto my mother
scared by the lights in the sky,
mother said, ‘don’t be frit son,
it’s just fireworks, flying up high.’
I remembered that night six years later,
as I lay in the shadows, all dark,
as a flare lit up the Somme wasteland,
to aid bullets in finding their mark.
Entangled in wire, some were screaming,
others, quietly accepting their fate.
All knew, as they lay in the quagmire,
that morning for them, was too late.
I heard some call out for their mothers,
while others called out for their wife.
All called out for God, who’d deserted,
he’d gone, and he’d taken their life.
In the twenties when war it had ended,
I could never tell what I’d seen.
To explain to a child,
how men could go wild, would be
brutal, vile and obscene.
So I locked all these thoughts in a chamber,
and buried them deep in my mind.
Locked them so deep, it was only in sleep,
fired the torment to which I’m consigned.
I’d remember the noises while dreaming,
the shells and the light in the sky,
exposing my friends, who were screaming,
and begging to live, not to die.
I were judged for being erratic,
bad tempered, a worrisome bloke.
All because I picked up a rifle,
to protect all us ord’nary folk.
I won’t ever talk about battles,
or those that were lost or were maimed,
yet I’ll always remember those brothers,
when bonfire night comes round again.
Form:
she pips in fear for lateness like her peers,
hauteur cloaked with reticence,
her-boo-boo-vague, though walled around and palpable
official Narcissist disguised in rude affronts
Bravado of naughtiness in candour yet tacit
“Free me to free me”, rants in melancholy
as ignorance upsets sorts of sort
Insensibility of differentiating as angels often tastes the gall
By routines of cataract long glare
Sends nostalgia down their spines
Though forgetting the milk and candies of supposed rivals
Doubling as friends in conning angst beggarly in their nature
Nagging and ganging a gang of gossipers
Finding Mutual grounds for their victims
Causing higgledypiggledy where there exist no war
For a suspected compromise of morals
Or a hunting taint of a past paints on Z walls
Where decorum is not a schoolmaster
As official time wastes in visits to motels at un-break break time
With holy bible at desk view to mask hypocrisy
First venerable “Etis” Migrants tasted buds of vinegary as noised by witnessing chauffeur
And guilt cautioned not her thigh with an avalanche of showy attire of a seductress
advertorials of “buried innocence” jagged in curved carbuncle front and back
Banging shoes in unending visits secreted in kitchen
double-faced, loud calls to clients for managerial gratitude
as empty office fill vacuums of fast quickie (sharp-sharp) appointments arranged or rearranged
Ill-mannered, bad-tempered not marriageable, never listen, never patient making enemies
Commandeering, verbose, self-conceited, presumptuous, stout and arrogant
she pips in fear for lateness like her peers,
hauteur cloaked with reticence,
her-boo-boo-vague, though walled around and palpable
official Narcissist disguised in rude affronts
Bravado of naughtiness in candor yet tacit
“Free me free me”, rants in melancholy
as ignorance upsets sorts of sort
Insensibility of differentiate as angels often tastes the gall
By routines of cataract long glare
Sends nostalgia down their spines
Though forgetting the milk and candies of supposed rivals
Doubling as friends in conning angst beggarly in their nature
Nagging and ganging a gang of gossipers
Finding Mutual grounds for their victims
Causing higgledy where there exist no war
For a suspected compromise of morals
Or a hunting taint of a past paints on Z walls
Where decorum is not a schoolmaster
As official time wastes in visits to motels at un-break break time
With holy bible at desk view to mask hypocrisy
First venerable “Etis” Migrants tasted buds of vinegary as noised by witnessing chauffeur
And guilt cautioned not her thigh with avalanche of showy attire of a seductress
advertorials of “buried innocence”jagged in curved carbuncle front and back
Banging shoes in unending visits secreted in kitchen
double faced, loud calls to clients for managerial gratitude
as empty office fill vacuums of fast quickie (sharp-shap) appointments arranged or rearranged
Ill mannered, bad tempered not marriageable, never listen, never patient making enemies
Commandeering, verbose, self-conceited, presumptuous, stout and arrogant
Form:
The cruelest of all villains lives on Mount Crumpit
for when it comes to Christmas, he says, "Dump it!"
He keeps trying to "Pooh pooh" that sacred holiday,
but so far everyone's efforts have kept him at bay.
Oh, he's a real mean one, that monster, Mr. Grinch
A devilish fiend that I would love to catch and lynch
I'd gladly dump his body in a cactus patch or ditch
if someone would tell me where he is. It's ok to snitch.
To celebrate Christmas, he has never been willin'
to let children enjoy the day. He needs to be chillin'
and stop trying to ruin the holiday when Santa comes,
and if he's a good grinch, he might get a set of drums.
He's big and he's a beast, bad-tempered to say the least
so, he's never been invited to join in a Christmas feast.
Oh, he's a vile one, that Mr. Grinch with flesh of green,
a supervillain without a heart, meanest of the mean!
He's such a grouch, wanting to commit the dirty deed
of stealing Christmas and that makes him a bad seed.
What an evil wretch to kidnap Santa and children's toys.
That's one of his sinister schemes and dastardly ploys.
If I can catch him sleeping before December rolls around,
I'll find a way to bring that thieving horrible creature down.
Oh, he's a mean one with a twisted soul, that Mr. Grinch.
Will you help me rid the world of him if I get into a pinch?
September 4, 2022
Superhero or Supervillain Contest
Sponsor: Robert James Liguori
Cause you look into me
Through me
Past my sensitivity
And into my loyalty
I never left you
I still got you
Even though I don’t got you
You touched me somewhere deep inside
And I refuse to let it go
Yeah I had dic before
But I didn’t touch my soul
You got some issues
And I still miss you
Bad tempered
But I’ve tested you
Laid next to you
Felt so comfortable
Washed ya body a thousand time (in my mind)
From ya knee caps to ya neck bone and nappy roots
As you washed mine
Wanted you just to kiss me one more time so I could live again
Mad as hell that all I can be is ya friend
Way back then
Didn’t know what to do
Though I was sweet on you
I didn’t know you wanted to
Now I can’t even touch you without wanting to fuq you
Can’t even look at you without lipping I love you
You are my specialty
You are a delicacy
My favorite fantasy
Cold chills when I acknowledge how it feels to be without you
But I don’t doubt you
I know you gotta handle ya bizness but
Can we go back to the days when I was ya misses?
Held a set a keys to the back seat of the Intrepid
Now I know what to do and I want to show you
Come over early and make breakfast for two
Fall asleep under covers stuck together
Never trying to leave neva
back then I had ya heart around my pinky
you was my hopsickin
I was ya lady
callin’ me from far away lands
just to remind me you was still my man
A Valley in Portugal.
I have promised to visit my brother in Spain. I’m not leaving yet,
the fall here in my vale is too beautiful to leave right now; it is
the wonderful colours and in the meadow rabbits play…
or used to, I have not walked in the forest for a while, legs tired,
but head is young. But I have added a bit of colour too painted
the yard beige, the floor painted green; wife worried seeing me
on a step ladder. I love the fall, it is so soft and gentle, but we
know it will be windy and rainclouds will cross the sky; October
will be bad tempered, torrential rain will hammer on roof tiles.
I love seeing rain, and see the greening of a sun tired nature.
I can’t leave that month either. Perhaps I will visit my brother in
January when the sun has lost its power yet looks beautiful when
its sets painting the clouds crimson. My brother lives at a tourist
resort, swimming pool and all that, entertainers in bars singing
about the old days; and bingo. And I will be sitting there drinking
too much and think, what the hell do I care about the old day,
poverty and belching factories, air smelling as the entrance of hell.
No, I want to go home to my vale in Portugal where I lived many
many generations ago, and old olive trees still remember me.
Jesse Forbes
1893 – 1911
Black Canyon.
Now, there was a place to be!
It is true I was born a brute in a Quaker Town.
Born a bad-tempered brute of a boy
In the two-room digs on Bailey Street and Comstock..
My father fathered two other families,
Unbeknownst to his wife..
And I was the first one disowned.
But my father was a great believer,
And I loved the man like a fool.
I took up the milkin’ business at fourteen,
And made my morning way from Orange Drive down to Penn Street.
Delivering the dozens of clinking milk bottles.
Delivering the dozens of morning salutations,
To neighbors and friends in the glad and dismal days.
I had but one romantic interlude in my short stay,
Just one futile attempt at Carpe Diem.
But was left slapped and standing by a disheveled Ethel Hurst
There in the dark shade of Black Canyon
That inauspicious August day in 1910.
Ethel Hurst did not accept the entreaties of a 17 year old brute.
Did not accept my wild stares
Or my insanely puckered lips.
It was to my surprise that I died.
Died so young and so unready.
Still desiring the perfumed kisses of Ethel Hurst,
Still desiring her heart-quenching embraces,
There, in the dark shade of Black Canyon.
I’m bad tempered and upset,
Feeling tired isolated alone
Sitting hopefully waiting for
Someone to answer the phone .
I just want to hear
A normal human voice
But these days my dears
You don’t get a choice.
Androgynous, emotionless
It’s going off again
Promising an answer but
Never saying when,
Any second now and we
Know what it will say,
Your call is important
Please don’t go away.
When somebody invented
Automatic answer machine
Life got more complicated
Than it had ever been
Then the multi choice options
To save wasting their time
But they just don’t bother
About them wasting mine.
There used to switchboards
With real people to call,
Probably shoved out on the dole,
Machines don’t need wages at all.
The inventor of this obscenity
Is over the seas living in style
A successful and much lauded
Multi faceted rain and tax exile.
All I can say is,
Enjoy it while you can.
One day you may meet
One very angry man
Who’s spent ages feeling
Isolated and all on his own
As he’s waited and waited
To be answered on the phone
Every doggie has,
In time, their day
And, oh brother may be mine
To make him slowly pay.
Satsuma, were you Man's first attempt at cloning,
neither orange nor tangerine,
misshapen orange, misspelt tanggerine
as you left the Japanese test tube,
ends flattened through lack of genes,
did they call you Fatsumo
ready to be fed by the thousand
into the bottomless pit of the revered wrestlers,
or did they call you Squatsuma,
yes, that would be more accurate,
no 'r' to confuse with 'l's
no 'l's to confuse with 'r's,
olange would not fit the birr,
tangeline, no-one would buy.
Your skin takes the traditional colour,
it hides a unique aroma,
and a deadly shot of acid
released when a manicured finger invades your very being.
Oh bad tempered offspring
you do not appreciate it when the pith is taken.
Within you resemble your fourbears,
segmented, regular,but one taste,
one simple taste, for the aficionado, heaven,
fulfilling the promise aired when your skin was violated,
for others, 'Yuk'
a taste not to be acquired, a failed orange,
a poor impression of a tangerine,
Satsuma, Fatsumo, Squatsuma,
Toysuma, Suzsuma, Madzuma,
only the japanese could have invented you.