Long Bopping Poems
Long Bopping Poems. Below are the most popular long Bopping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bopping poems by poem length and keyword.
Tripping, skipping, lipping Lee. I’ve got a wart hog, you’re on my knee!
Spiking, liking, biking me, I’m going to travel, far as you can see.
Hopping, bopping, cropping, key. Fits in a door knob, bigger than me.
Smacking, tracking, fracking, we. You are a he, I am a she.
Jumping, dumping, lumping, fee. Were you talking bad about me?
Laughing, cracking, graphing, gee. Did you understand how to flee?
Skinning, skipping, hopping, see. Where is that beautiful oak tree?
Leering, learning, licking, he. What kind of woman would I be?
Hunting, bunting, breathing, she. Bear hike cumberdash, knows Mr. Dee.
Shoving, loving, doving, bee. From unknown places, now here with thee.
Wondering, thundering, gee. Leave me now, go get some tea.
Jimmy, Whimmy, Limmy Lee. How much more fun can a rhyming poem be?
Revised: Jan 18, 2019 Contest: Rhyme Battle Xii
Sponsor: Juli-Michelle
I started sucking my thumb until it looked like a plumb
Things didn't feel any better so I poured a glass of rum
Some will imagine I'm happy when they hear the tunes I hum
whisky me Dixie I am the crazy unbalanced one
Yes I hum like a drum and I pretend to be dumb
I prefer the shady ladies who stay out of the sun
You might want to hang out after all I can be fun
Others will try and warn you, you'd be better off to run
You think I'm simple dear Simon, my thoughts not so deep
I know it's easy to judge me by the company I keep
I'm hanging on by three threads, one step away from endless sleep
I can't get up high enough, the incline of my mind is too steep
I'm weathered and worn kinda broken and busted
Others thought they could help get my aptitude adjusted
Yet some things can't be fixed too many layers have rusted
Kind people have attempted to get me polished and dusted
Forget all that attention I just simply cussed it
I wander asphalt streets bopping to my lost boy beat
see the crooked dexterity of my wobbly bruised feet
Nothing satiates me what I hunger for I can't eat
the ghosts in my mind have occupied my seat
My demons are hidden beneath a white worn sheet!
Don't try and peek under, you won't like who you meet!
with noticeable burgeoning bosom in the offing, ahoy
this baby faced blubbery bosom beastie boy
fast becoming a bra man,
and might hire himself out
as a male wet nurse for employ
ment, cuz when stark naked on shark tank,
I behold two bopping, brewing, busting
flap jacks in search of a frying pan,
which change in my physiognomy doth annoy
but, suddenly spurring,
this ordinarily calm, cool, and collected chap
positing even a more radical income idea
changing ma name to Chester, letting hooters
get suckled, though,
methinks they qualify as milk duds
tit two siamese twin guys christened ell and roy
offering accompanied with serving of cookies,
where adipose floppy blimps
rank popular as novel cheap toy
where art though washboard stomach,
where brestworks didst sprout
as if overnight a markedly increased
from flat “Joe” six pack chest did an about
face, with squishy, mushy, and doughy
sprang up without doubt
suddenly forcing a sexual identity crisis,
which freaky phenomenon makes me wanna pout
for weird, wicked woebegone
affects the psyche of this lviii aged lout
wondering what other transitions,
this fellow may indeed be on the look out
feigning to traverse (in me mind) badgering
rugged hormonal secretion terrain akin to a girl scout
on the prowl targeting a peeping tom,
whose foolery demands clout,
thus this imposed unfair punishment,
as some half assed irreversible decree
maybe hints of other surprises,
yet tubby revealed, which haint no fallacy
possibly being brewed up by a brood
of bruiting imps of the pervert with glee
some bot sized microscopic
anti bosom buddy hood stolen the genetic key
analogous to a pesky malware,
virus, trojan horse secrete lee
scheming to transform the sexual identity of me
perhaps waking up tomorrow minus
my little peppy ***** , and behold a pussy
should such an outcome prevail,
where media papparazzi
stake out this freak of nature re:
doubling efforts erecting fortifications
in a big old sassy tree,
especially if the press
(i.e. particularly meaning Wikileaks)
discovers ability to experience infinite orgasms
converting sexual predilection into electric utility.
We want to heal-
scab stealers wont allows us too
sneaking up on us-
giving us new busy work
side trackers –
killing us
the only hope we had left
invested in our progeny.
progenitors
Our children become our ancestors
Arrested -
Denied freedom.
assaulted,
Degrading us our offspring.
They make examples out of noble men.
Leaders not knowing what day will
be their personal doomsday while
They recite a healing prayer on balconies
Thinking “is this my end”.
"As they risk healing folks in large crowds with
un-trusted friends watching their backs
Let me get these words in As
We begin to heal from
the power of love.
These "scab thieves’ who snatch
scabs off the old wounds.
Create and open new wounds,
As they dare us to heal.
We fall to the ground.
as the targets keep
Dropping they
Kill the mighty to
Control the weak.
We are angry -No time to heal -
Angry People
Bopping ignorant
Pop ups- Bobble heads, popping up
like bobble heads at a carnival.
We needed the big black men-
who soon after that
Perplexed us
Who were they that stood
on Hunter street?
In front of Paschal Brothers
Over near "Don Clendenin’s"
surrendering
Waving White hankies
at tricks and enemies
We are bleeding now...
The scab makers are winning
where and from wince –
Do they come from?
or go to?
Wall Street or colleges-
White collar preppies-
promoting separate causes.
We still chant
Free Mandela
“we loved him too
They all were gone
to the grave or to prison.
Many wounds open
blood everywhere.
Perplexed.
Things fall apart again in...2013
2013 is here.
We are still with open wounds
Remember now wonder
can we heal if they?
keep re-opening our wounds.
My tolerance is no more for
nincompoops and
Poot—butts, chastising
Empresses and Kings.
Knowing nothing....
While pulling off scabs
Who am I, if I lose focus?
There will be no us-
So, I relent,
Leaving them where
they are - or at least
where I found them!
I really feel that until I die
I have a connection to someone’s
future I have wounds to heal.
I must remember-
“I cannot get angry for you”,
Lest I get stuck fighting your battle.
“I will get angry with you”
I will fight aside of you.
Those who live in the city
hightail it out to the country
to worship Nature with adoration
for them, a breathtaking vacation…
While those who dwell out in the sticks
drive in to see the city slicks
towering skyscrapers, endless shopping
keeps them hopping and be-bopping…
As for – yawn – me: Been there, done all that
Time to curl up with my fluffy housecat
Switch on the tube for the next moronic spat
‘tween MAGA-men and livid Democrats *
______________________________________
*'MAGA' stands for 'Make America Great Again,'
which was Donald Trump's campaign slogan.
Mine dad in the 1940’s was an organ grinder huh!, in the high seas in the Navy. In the 1940’s
Lo, the clanging, bopping, banging of prepare containers foods. Large coppers pans and pots.
Put together meals by combining and heating the ingredients in various ways. Prepared bake fix knock up grub rustle up food meshing and mashing,
a preparing organ grinder hun!
See he tampered with seasonings and sauces interfere with manipulate forging, fiddling embossing be happening as to planned Navel foods.
Was an organ grinder
Most food was boiled in the and liquid was run out via taps sort of an Entertainer of meals
Clanging, clinging, metal spoons, forks, plates, pots and pans
Happen go on in the galley. Like he was a one who played a barrel organ in the streets. kinging and clanging pots and pans sounds.
An unimportant person who does what he is told to do would cook so the seamen could eat...
chef in the Navy
my dad was galley organ
grinder Navy Chef
Keeping the craft alive twas a Navy Chef Barrel organist.
Comes and gets it a handful of cooks wheel-turners are keeping the craft alive.
There was an open fire at the back for spit-roasting and seamen
So could apply to use it if they caught a fish three-legged pots were stood in the embers.
Navy dinner time be on sail onboard personnel three main meals per day
.Breakfast: *0600–0700 lunch: 1100– 1230; dinner: *1600–1800
Chef organ grinder played the galley
The galley food is cooked and prepared
It can also refer to a land-based kitchen on a naval base,
Point of view, gourmet to beef stew to a straight design of the kitchen layout.
(CS) with ranks
culinary Specialist
organ grinder chef
“Fair winds and following seas”, food prep and served seamen for those in the United States Navy. Where they have to say farewell to mommy’s and grands meals. In 1940’s World War 2 tolls. To those retiring or leaving for deployment to cut, munch, and eat now from the galley. Of the chefs in the Navy organ grinder manning. Said the galley a method of saluting rendering honors works in galleys the seaman Chef food prep.
My dad Galley organ grinder
11/01/23
The Last Organ Grinder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Poindexter swivels
his index finger swiftly
as if a windshield wiper
“Look there, and there, and there”
Breathtaking, the vista soaring behind my eyelids
Cobwebs, thick like drapes,
wisps of what was then,
anchored to what is now.
Still pretentious —
as if meaning can be derived by thinking too hard
Hippie beads clink
as if I’m in a record shop
Elton John’s glasses
bopping to Crocodile Rock
I’m home in my flower power bed nestled near mom
Poindexter points
to the ceiling above my head
over the rainbow
lava lamp clumps
resemble my dendrites; or is it my soul’s vista?
4/28/2021
WALK IN THE PARK
a lovely late afternoon
sun and shade at eighty
perfect degrees
my toes curl up inside
my sneakers, not
in shape for this season
of walking
surprised to see
a baby bump
bopping along
with expectant runner
i walk steadily toward the wooden bridge,
cross over the creek,
take a little dirt path,
loop back
as i cross the green grass
a huge American crow, leaves
his perch
with a snack
as long as it’s not me
i’m okay
a little too close for comfort
‘he’s the alpha...he’s the alpha!’
i have no illusions, i
tread lightly
not meeting his eyes
keeping mine on the trail
and my trek continues
without peril
i round the path
where a lady sits
with her two huskies
under a tree
i say hello to several walkers
the general
“nice weather we’re having”
one lady keeps to herself
to her cell i should say
but that’s the prerogative
of the introvert
and shy
we have gone around a couple times
passing face to face
so i finally have to ask
the pregnant lady
and she pauses
perhaps
prepared with an answer
“so i just have to ask, how far
along are you?”
she tells me 39 weeks
says it’s any day
i give a warm blessing
and i head for the car
thanking God
for this early Autumn day
spent with strangers
in the park
9/25/2017
Look out on the music these days,
there ain’t a whole lot to say,
techno makes me feel dead inside,
dub-step, just get out of my way.
Hip-hop just rubs me all wrong,
that stuff is barely a song,
maybe there are some gems in there,
most of it’s just here and gone.
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
putting the fans all on lock;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Don’t get a thing from pop stars,
autotune gets them that far,
hot young thing on a casting couch,
that’s what makes them what they are.
Most of them really can’t sing,
their live shows a recording,
voices like karaoke bars,
I’d say it’s embarrassing.
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
Making all the panties drop;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Some might say I’m out of step,
don’t you known that rock is dead?
Won’t hear it on the radio,
but something needs to be said:
masterpieces never age,
they carve a place out to stay,
sounds just as fresh as when written,
Beethoven rocks to this day!
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
pushing it over the top;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
I’ll die before I dare stop;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Here they come with
an iPhone
Go Pro Zv Max
buddies in their ears
bopping to old tracks
dead cat on a mic
push it in yer face
what are you doing, girl?
Tryin’ to turn a trick
earn your Rhino tranq?
Sneakers burning
keeping warm
sleeping standing
got no dorm
Here they come in
their pink puffy
glittering long fat coats
frothy coffee, milk of oats.
Come see the zoo;
we got dead cats, dead rats,
xylazine zombies too
shootings, drive by’s
OD’s, all you need.
It’s killadelphia man
Sleeping in grime
in this here hood
that ain’t no crime
ain’t no good
Here they come with
Their TikTok
YouTube Instagram smirk
Here’s a Dixie buddy
tell me where to shoot.
My girls lost a foot
you wanna see that?
See him lie, see him die
what you gotta film
to get your likes?
influence me
influencer
nothing to see
make a stir