Long Bawdy Poems
Long Bawdy Poems. Below are the most popular long Bawdy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bawdy poems by poem length and keyword.
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
In a vehicle, once more this month. Though not going as far as the palm trees, my stomach’s lurching left and right. The baby’s alright! He coos from time to time as we weave through lovely soil and vines. My cousin with his bawdy jokes, his wife with eyes like gears, up to the roof of the party van. The pulley of emotions in full range, the laughter and tunes fogging up the window panes.
We’ve been here before, though time changes the “whos.” Dad’s still with us and enjoying beers and grins with the menfolk. Still, I find I stick by his side. This has been so, since Mom died. There is a rhythm and flow to this.
We head up into the mountains of Georgia. I can’t tell you where we’ve been except for the one sign I see out the window. It says “White County” and “Courthouse Museum.” That two-tone image, a bit scary!
Bumping along, drinking soda; and polka, the choice of my Dyngus Day-relations. Holding onto my tummy, closing my eyes on this first leg.
The sight of vines, pruned and neat. Almost to our first stop. Let me out…let me out. Makes us want to shout. The driver of the vehicle is not a stranger. My brother-in-law’s a limo driver. Picks up some big names, but of that part of his life, we can’t participate…who cares. We hear a few stories. How sweet he is to drive us to wine country. Aren’t we the lucky ones. Bulbs still flash to take numerous pics and yes, many get posted, but the paparazzi cares not to follow us.
The loveliness of the day, like bulbous and sweet grapes, picked and prepared to meet our sips, to toast our happiness. This outside venue takes us away on a mini vacation, a treasure to share with our relations.
Snack trays arrive along with red and white. This mini jar of honey, divine, tastes sweet as sugar. We have crackers, meats, even a green-tinted cheese, could be coniferous…
All those sparkling glasses like a family circle, filled, sipped. Later, we do it again, at another vineyard, sitting in wooden chairs next to a woodpile. It is lovely there, as well. All in all, we were out for nearly twelve hours, and there was more, much more time spent.
Thankfulness for this family outing. A sweet memory that will last.
Byword People (Came By Way)
Pitch black was the day after
the nightmare before
When the blue wails
washed upon the sunset shore
Dark journey’s end for the castoff children,
who were unspoken for
Idol eyes resting carelessly,
got sin windswept upon a western breeze
Towards a bitter labor colony destiny
An ancient reign of tears soaked the New World red soil,
as reaper grief tainted the replanted spoils:
Sepia souls who were unspoken for
The auction sound of the gavel pound
had such an ugly skin tone ...
Wavy echoes of the ghastly row roar
from the trapdoor chained oar
Emerald moan exertion reverberations
of better beryl days bygone
Fear numbed by the cadaver drone —
That sea-whipped unfurling
of the dreaded skull and crossbones
We of the byword name,
came by way
of the Middle Earth dark passage:
Ivory cold Purgatory
“Abandon all hope”
was the living death sentence message
Byword we came by way,
tossed and driven by Hades’ fury —
Gale force hellbent
on making a false profit delivery
Our byword name
was bawdy mocked at the loading docks
Precious Nazarene locks
were talon prey sheared from the flocks
Our byword shame
was put on lewd, bare buttock display
Scarlet letters written
on wooden stocks ~ hope rotting away
As fresh oppression became
perpetual slavery
And His story whited out
our erased ebony glory
Byword people came by way
of the Middle Earth dark passage:
Ivory Coast gold pirate foray
Forged link pain, so galley below demeaning,
was our Ivory cold Purgatory
Until us bygone disgraced
accepted our Gospel heritage retold fate —
That blessed Second Coming message,
we freely bosom embraced
Byword people,
with the cursed byword name
Cast on the Niger river ...
spit given the extra G, we derisively came
Over fortune fading empire time,
we byword people were scornfully blamed
Pitch black was the day after
tomorrow’s scapegoat nightmare before
When the sky blue wails
whitewashed upon the ruby sunset shore
Old Covenant eclipse began for the captivity children;
who, tho’ New World sold,
were Golgotha crossroad spoken for
Birdie’s Bar
August 19, 2008
To the old Plymouth
Mom came to salvage her brood
We’d hear the crunch of gravel beneath her feet
She dragged us three sleepy eyed girls
Sullen
Curious
Non-entities
We took our mealy mouths up and followed her
Out of the warm, closed-in car
We all had to go to the bathroom
We all hoped for a treat
She always remembered us
As we were
Tucked away in a locked car, somewhat threatened
Injured by time, her pleadings, his resignation and defeat
The door opened
The smoke escaped into our eyes
We traipsed around tables with yakking customers
Drinking liquid sunshine
Gut-rot
Spewing epithets
We bounced off the stools plastic corners
Cracked with resistance of our efforts to spin them as we passed
If luck had its way
Birdie would be playing the boomerang
Her platinum hair bobbing up and down with her
Wrinkled body
We looked for Dad and he looked for us
What did he wish?
Sometimes he treated us to a hamburger
Or we’d get our orange Nezbit sodas and peanuts to take back out to the car
We were grateful for any small thing then
He’d come to us sometimes
He leaned over us smelling like Lucky Strikes and Budweiser
His smoldering gray work shirt, his worn jeans,
His blue blood- shot eyes, sad and forlorn,
Love passed like a vapor between us and
Fear was a given, a constant companion
No one knew anything about
The bar was noisy with men’s bawdy laughter
The wicked laugh of a man at a woman he scorned
Or she;
The evil empire, the corporation,
The low pay, the idealistic boss
The economy
The lost hunt for a deer that got away
The hunger for a justice they knew little of
And contributed less
The laughter was
For the pain they protected
Everyone’s pain
The beer flowed and frothed while
The pang of the women who left them
And the pain of the children who stayed
Out in the car
Hung around Birdie’s Bar
Reminds me of a rattlesnake
We killed in the summer
All the ‘car’ children
Hiked the hills
Around the bar
About five of us
Roamed like Indians
Whooping over sagebrush
Determined to create
The sunshine somewhere other
Than at Birdie’s Bar
For those who don't read blogs or know of Jan's successful first book, I've written a limerick for her and included it in my comment on her blog. She's included her interview in a podcast. I was asked to post my limerick here as well. If anyone would like to write a limerick in honor of her first publication, please join in and send me a limerick, or even a note to congratulate her. Thank you.
Jan, our Queen of Poop has a sexy voice
Crowned as Limerick Queen, she is our choice
But oh my lordy
Some are quite bawdy
Book sales are good ~ she's getting a Rolls Royce
by Lin Lane
Jan's poems are clever and funny too
Full of bawdy lines and some about poo
Comedy at its best
Her poems will attest
Read" A giggle a day" to not feel blue
by Tania Kitchin
No rolls Royce or Winnebago camper van
A sedia gestatoria, for Jan
One with a floating loo
For outdoor number two
Carried shoulder high around the Isle of Man
by David Kavanagh
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN
Jan Allison has written her first book
It was a mammoth task she undertook
Preview it on amazon
I'll guarantee you'll want one
I've read a bit and my whole body shook.
by Tom Cunningham
Jan nixed the idea of getting a Rolls
She opted to put wheels on toilet bowls
Her farts serve as a horn
She ignores those who scorn
And she never gets stopped to pay bridge tolls
by Mark Koplin
In a bathroom where tales tend to unfold
And humerous secrets are often told
There’s a plop and a cheer
Laughter rings loud and clear
In porcelain chambers poems are sold
by Arthur Vaso
Poetry Soup’s Queen of Poop
has made herself a news scoop!
She published her book
and that’s all it took.
A second book is now in the loop.
by Linda Alice Fowler
Congratulations Limerick queen Jan
A poetess who’s from the Isle of Man
Pleased your book is a hit
A giggle a day gift
From an hilarious comedian.
by Beryl Edmonds
Aunt Ethel said to Uncle Fred,
Let’s attempt the starfish in bed,
Old Ethel insisted,
Till Fred’s back got twisted,
They best stick to sleeping instead!
Original poem by Jan Allison
Fred couldn't stand and was writhing in pain
Ethel was mad and looked on with disdain
So he took a blue pill
Then went in for the kill
And now performs like a stallion again.
But the blue pills power started to wane
As Ethel begged him to do it again
But things came to a stop
Poor Fred started to flop
So they gave up and cracked open champagne...
Then Ethel got hold of a book
Fred fainted when he had a look
Twas the calmer suture
Some poses may suit her
But Fred said it made him feel crook
Aunt Ethel said Freddie my dear
You truly have nothing to fear
Cos tonight’s the night
Much to my delight
We’re swinging from the chandelier!
Old Fred said I don’t understand
Your desire’s got right out of hand
If you want so much sex
Go next door and see Rex
He’s the randiest guy in the land
Aunt Ethel said you’re being silly
At aged ninety I’m no young filly
I still want to have sex
With you and not Rex
Cos Rexie’s got a tiny Willy!
The champers made Ethel quite woozy
Fred’s shattered so he had a snoozey
They were woken at four
It was Rex from next door
No thank you said Ethel I'm no floozy.
Rex hammered again on their door
He said Ethel I've said this before
My sex life is shocking
I hear your bed rocking
These paper thin walls I abhor.
Fred woke up with the pounding on the door
His language was very blue as he swore
He said " what do you want Rex" ?
He said "geriatric sex"
Cos' with Ethel I've done it twice before...
Ethel blushed and she said sorry Fred
Just last winter Rex took me to bed
BUT you were with fat Mable
Making out on our table
So I slept with Rexie instead
Final verse by Belle Bellevue
Fred said Mable has nothing on you
But what’s a poor bloke supposed to do
I heard you and Rex
Planning to have sex
What’s good for you is good for me too.
Collaboration with Jan Allison.
Written 2nd June 2021.
One evening Bob nervously said
I kinda like three in a bed
She said I’ve got friends
And each of them tends
To share the desires in your head
The next night as had been arranged
His ankles and hands were in chains
His lady walked in
With Rodney and Jim
And that kinda messed with his brains
His girl was a leather clad gimp
And Jim looked a bit of a wimp
Rodney said ducky
Time to get mucky
But Bob was decidedly limp
*
Time to collaborate...
First ‘up’... Jan Allison
Bob swallowed six Viagra whole
And soon was like a flag pole
Much to his delight
He stayed up all night
The threesome all enjoyed their roll
*
And from Tom Cunningham...
Poor old Bob was a pitiful sight
His girl decided to put things right
She produced a pump
And worked on his stump
And Bob was like a stallion all night.
Old Bob was so grateful for his girlfriend
But all things good always come to an end
With too much thumping
And all the humping
His thing deflated and started to bend.
*
And Belle Bellevue writes...
Bob went to see the doctor with his crick
Asking please could he do something with it
Doc gave it a jerk
That really hurt
But it became bigger after the visit.
That put a smile a mile wide on Bob's face
He strutted proudly all over the place
The more people looked
The longer he stood
With swollen head penetrating airspace.
Bob begged his girlfriend to bring some more in
The home fast becoming a den of sin
They came three by three
A sexy grand prix
Which ended up with Bob in a tailspin.
*
Mark Koplin adds...
Old Bob was a motherless soul
He liked bears, sheep and woodchuck holes
All three gave him a grin
On his chinny chin chin
Next time he’ll add a few moles
*
And Tania adds this...
Bob was enjoying being wildly bad
Posted a dating site with his fun add
So anxious he couldn't sleep
After being banned a creep
He was now left a frustrated poor lad
*
(There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal' constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom, while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels" until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem, "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
___
I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
- certainly no booze or needle tracks -
because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
because the descendant number of my measureless time
is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
needed!)...
... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
over visions of seraphim and angels,
slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
butt
while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
... and I want you to know
that my razor isn't my father's
road-hog...
... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
while the bottom line is
that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
sacred profanity
of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
"Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
butt -
(continued in Part 2)
Standing at the tavern door,eyes dark and brooding
Neath his floppy hat, stared into the crowded room,
A Raven flew from his shoulder settling in rafters high,
He smiled a sardonic smile and ordered a mug of ale.
All turned to look at this dark eyed traveller tall,
His leather boots dusty ,cloak trimmed with mud,
And from his belt around his coat hung a dirk long
No one thought to say a word they tried to look small.
Around the smoke filled room his gaze did wander
Settled on a crowd of rowdy sea going lads noisly
Drinking ale and rum and telling bawdy tales,
Just back from foreign voyage across the seven seas.
Within their midst a vision sat with a smirk on ruby lips
Long hair framed her face like waves of swelling sea,
Like kelpie mane, ran that hair ,her eyes like deep sea green,
And at once his dark eyes shone beneath that floppy hat.
The night wore on, the air grew warm, the raven fluffed his wings
From somewhere a shot rang out lodging in rafters deep,
Laughter raucous and shrill cut across the misty room,
Silence fell heavy among the gathered crowd.
He slowly turned his head in the direction of the rowdy lads
Dark eyes flashed as stepped towards where they sat,
As one they rose and laughed in his face,swords drawn,
In his hand a wooden staff and they laughed no more.
Faces stunned into disbelief at what they had seen,
Around his feet six men lay still blood seeping from their wounds,
He turned on his heel and slowly went through the door,
The Raven cawed, spread his wings as he flew out the door.
Standing by his horse the sea going beauty waited patiently,
She smiled as he approached with a swagger and dark eyes flash
He tipped his floppy hat and beckoned with outstretched hand,
She went to him in full embrace held him like a band.
They travelled the land, the sea faring beauty and the dark eyed man,
Their tale told throughout the fair sun kissed land,
From village to village and taverns where seafaring folk met,
The legend grew of the Dark Eyed traveller and his mermaid bride.
Andrew Provan McIntyre © 2015.
Legend of Fosse Way
Riding hard under a moonlight high
not a leaf rustling and it troubles my mind
In the distance there's music of the lyre and flute
rippling over the moors
Serenading the stars
The voice of a maiden
bleeds it's way through the thick darkness
Singing an ole Bawdy Pub Song.
My steed swift at a gallop
hooves sound their click clack
As we cross Halford Bridge
No time to be wasted
seeking comfort at the Inn
History demands I deliver this message
The dispatch I carry holds the future of England
I must make Exeter Castle by dawn.
No matter the risk or danger I encounter
It is crucial that I press on
Two Queens vying for the throne of England
Not even God can decide which be the righteous one
Protestant or Catholic not the reason for choice
A Queen must have love for Mother England
coursing through her blood
Forrest fairies ring the bells on the Fox Glove
The Oaks without expression and still
A rare breeze slaps the sleeping grasses in the glades
In the marsh toads croak complaint to night’s chill
This road is dominion of Highwaymen and thieves
Robbing those that choose this way to travel.
By the will of God and the Bishop's blessing
I will pass undetected by scoundrels and rabble
Nourished only on bread and Brambleberries
Traveling in the cover of night taking sleep by day
All that I've seen are ghosts of Roman soldiers
On this thoroughfare known as Fosse Way
If by the hand of God or the Devil
I meet with an untimely death
And I am unable to tell tale of this ride
Let not my story meet the same fate
Say my name Nigel Foster be mentioned in yarns
told in pubs and taverns .
History will decide if I am a Patriot or Traitor
As a result of my actions
When the years pass into the future
Don't let me be a lost memory of yesterday
If by chance may I live on
as one of the many legends
The many legends of Fosse Way.
Inspired by Alfred Noyes poem “The Highwayman"
And in memory of my distant relative,
Robert Devereux 2nd Earl of Essex.
Judge Santiago Burdon
©2019