Long Chick Poems
Long Chick Poems. Below are the most popular long Chick by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chick poems by poem length and keyword.
People used to think I had some special rapport
A MD-PhD explained that I was a slob to the core
He claimed I did not wash, so I exuded Pheromones
Thus attracting females, with 2 X chromosomes.
It's true some ladies saw me as a potential mate
But the consensus was that I was second rate.
I had a wholesome image, and some people gave a cheer.
But familiarity breeds contempt, and rebound breeds a sneer.
I met men and women who gave me a high five
How could I tell them I felt more dead than alive?
I didn't feel their warmth, enthusiasm or a spark.
Thoughts came slow when chatting, slow like an Aardvark.
My advice to guys who want to drag a net
Here is the secret to being a chick magnet
Have your friends spread a rumor that beauty strikes your heart.
Then play hard to get, the challenge does its part.
If that doesn't do the job
You could try plan 'B' and be a slob
That might backfire, but I'm sure you agree
You don't know as much as an MD-PhD.
Last year I told my Mom I was handsome back in '88
She burst out laughing, my ego did deflate
My brothers get along with me when I'm not a pest.
But me as a celebrity would strike them as a jest.
I envy you if warmth and heart are what you feel
But you should keep it grounded; you should keep it real.
The cost of a friendly smile is cheap
But it reflects something warm and strong and deep.
"if you fix the meal exactly like his " dear ole great, great,(I mean great!)
grand-paw-paw fix-it. he'll give you the contract plus a million dollars! just keep in mind, that your completion has the same opportunity as you do, and their want is just as strong, (if not stronger) than yours.
you have five days to perfect the recipe. Using simple ingredients, and a smile.
the limo will be over at exactly twelve noon! be ready for him to stop over and taste your food. He said you were the last one on the list, and he had a great big appetite. so by noon Friday be prepared! The contract and the million dollars!"
so all we do, is fix the food that dipper use to fix and the loot and the greasy-palm is ours? That right Diggle, that's right!
well we got a recipe to perfect don't we? We sure do said Mr. Slowcum, " we sure do!" I heard the audience clap, and then they stopped the filming!
this chick came out on stage and started singing. We couldn't tell if the music was live or over the head speakers, we kept looking up, trying to find where the sound came from. Other than that we had a marvelous time at the theater, while they taped an episode of " Gooney Bay!"
THE COMODEY ABOUT THE MERCHANT WHO REFURBISHED AUTO PARTS IN A
TOWN IN CALIFORNIA!
Chick in the pond
Is from double yolk
Born Easter morn
He’s a little slow
He couldn’t swim
He barely floats
Oh look at him
The butt of jokes
One day a kid
Was tossing bread
He hit the chick
On his yellow head
Chick wobbles and splash
Gags and chokes
The other chicks laugh
Calling him a dope
Carrot top kid has an idea
Why should the chick nearly drown here
He wants to help chic persevere
He tosses a toy boat off the pier
So yellow chick
Grabs the toy boat
He rides in it
And leads the row
The other chicks
Now proudly gloat
“Did you see my brother’s boat?”
Oh, boy! It's poem time!
I think I'll try a little rhyme
What goes with the word 'Claus'
How 'bout paws, jaws and hee-haws
Next I'll do 'a little trick with Nick'
Pick, Quick, Lick, Sick, Wick, Tick, Chick
Did you get it, that Nick's short for Nicholas
Just like Tick is short for 'Tickle Us'
And of course, I mustn't forget 'Kringle'
Why, there's mingle, tingle and bi-lingual
Yes, darling. I've finally found my niche
We're on our way to becoming rich...
So, here's a peep at my next fab new jingle
Once we were married ~ now we're single
I think I know what life's about
It's ten a.m. when I set out
To eat, and then I snarf my food
You know that I am looking good
I go to class, get on my phone
I tell the teach: "Leave me alone!"
She tells me that I'm gonna flunk
I tell her: "What a bunch of bunk!"
She sends me to the dean, for what?
I open his door, begin to strut
He says, "The game is up; get out of here."
I say, "Thanks much, n'go have a beer...
Now it's six p.m., time for dinner
Fries and a coke will sate this sinner
Then I'm off, to hit the town
Rock-and-roll, and come on down
I get it on with a foxy chick
We smoke and drink till we get sick
I hit the sack by midnight's end
Then I'm up at ten to do it again
******
I trust you liked my little story
I hope it didn't anger or bore ye
That it's the truth is plain to see
The bad part is ~ The joke's on me
On a lonely islet, on top of a precipitous cliff, in the farthest sea,
a bird built a nest and kept clinging onto her empty nest though
all birds were, feeding their chicks with abundant food from the sea
and rose to adolescence, left for a southern island for warmer climate.
As time elapsed the vexed bird sank exhausted under a fierce storm coming by the raging waters smashing the shore, picks a pebble,
and returns to her nest. She sits on the stone as if it is an egg
she was incapable of laying one, and transmits the warmth of life
that comes from her weakening heart.
Surroundings become darker as weather worsens, and in this darkness that no way to distinguish waters edge from skyline the rolls of thunder pierce the ears and a thunderbolt strikes the rock to smash it
in pieces.
Nonetheless, this pathetic mother bird sits still, rather, she pulls stone deeper into her bosom because her only desire was to transmit source of life to this lifeless stone.
After transmitting all her body temperature to this lifeless stone,
therefore, her strength gave out at last, this mother bird barely
rising her slender neck to look up at the sky to appeal her
cherishing desire, a thunderbolt strikes her back as thunder rolls,
a billow surges to swallow the isle.
At this tragic moment,
though mother bird perished, a beautiful chick with downs
brighter than dazzling sun hatched from this thought-lifeless stone.
A swinging sixties chick was I dressed head to toe in Biba
Miniskirts my mother loathed and free love too, so I was told
Music of choice was Motown and Soul that played upon my radio
At weekends tuned to Saturday Club a programme never missed
Radio Luxembourg each night, though signal crackled and hissed
Reception was weak as twilight approached, with my radio under my sheet
At the foot of the stairs Mum’s voice could be heard
“Turn that radio off, and go to sleep”
In ‘62 a pirate ship launched off the Essex coast
Radio Caroline was her name, with young DJ’s as programme hosts
Innovators of their time, played songs we loved the most
Enjoying the challenge, but taking a risk each time they went ashore
Deemed illegal ~ no license had they, so were technically breaking the law
Trailblazing times enhancing our lives, playing songs never heard of before
these songs were the soundtracks of my youth
these songs I love and adore...
Tony Blackburn their first DJ; a handsome young fella back in the day
The first DJ to spin his discs whilst bobbing around on the pirate ships
At 77 still playing his songs and boring the nation with corny quips
on ‘Sounds of the Sixties’ every Saturday morn
he plays the tunes
I singalong...
I sent a request for his 'Magic Moments' spot
feeling sure it would end up in his 'magic melting pot'
Our 'Magic Moment' in '63, as we danced the night away
at the Regent Ballroom, Brighton, on a floor made of wooden parquet
was it love at first sight on a midsummer’s night
by the light of the silvery moon...
As we danced to the Chiffons 'He’s so Fine' it became our special tune
When Tony played our 'Magic Moment' on his radio show
I could hardly believe my ears
then my eyes filled up with tears
for my darling he has gone ~ for he died ten years ago
Written on 1st December 2018
after hearing my request played upon the Radio...
Contest :NOSTALGIA any form,any number of lines
Sponsor: Brian Strand
HONOURABLE MENTION
Isn’t there an adage?
“If a cuckoo builds a nest the sun will rise from west.”
However, the strange thing that happened to me was,
though it was not large or small in size,
or cozy or love overflows in it, I built a nest.
When a cuckoo flies over and sits on the nest
to push the egg lain by mother bird out to the ground
to die, and when cuckoo lays her egg in the nest
the mother bird worked so hard for her offspring,
the sad mother bird, which lost her own egg,
sits on it to brood and raise her foe’s offspring.
And when chick hatches from egg it opens
its grotesquely large mouth that is greater than
foster mother’s head and demands foods as if to swallow the mother
if she doesn’t provide enough to fill its gluttonous stomach,
even though foster mother so busily flies over in air with her wearied wings and brings plenty of foods to feed her foe’s famished little devil.
When the chick grown to twice the size of foster mother
it flies away from the nest to find its own mother,
which raised her chick by killing other’s offspring
and stealing their place in the nest, and therefore,
though possessing maternal instinct
do not know the true meaning of motherly affection.
The foster mother, however, worriedly moves around branches,
glides through trees impatiently and calls with heart-rending cry
to bring her chick back to the nest, the chick the foe left her to rise.
“Is that why the cuckoo cries with vomiting blood once in a blue moon?”
It’s strange because I built a nest,
though it was not large or small in size,
or has its own address, or even a space I can squeeze in,
but the thing is, I built a nest.
Barnyard buddies met in the barn at dawn.
We jumped in puddles, looking for meadow fawn.
She came sometimes, but was not here today.
Wonder why a chick said; I hope she’s okay!
We are close to each other, like sisters and bros.
We sit in the barnyard next to where tall corn grows.
Horse, cow, lambs, hen, rooster, and two kinds of pig.
We like to converse as the people plant, hoe and dig.
We are barnyard buddies, fast friends for sure.
A kind of instant family. Our thoughts are pure.
We love the scent of the country, even that of manure.
Loving the lilacs, and the flash of a fluffy fox fur.
We can talk about everything or nothing at all.
We watch the crops as they grow big and tall.
Pumpkins are my favorite, so orange and round.
In October they are all over our farmer’s ground.
A queen was spinning flax one day.
She gave her loom a jerk.
(Don’t ask what “flax” or “looms” might be,
or why a queen must work).
She pricked her finger (careful, now!)
yet Sigmund Freud would say
these children’s tales are full of smut –
there is no other way.
Three drops of blood fell in the snow
(she’s spinning flax outside?)
She thought that she’d commemorate
her perforated hide.
“I’ll have a daughter,” Queenie thought,
“with lips of ruby red,
and skin as white as that there snow!
Let’s go!” And so to bed.
Her weaving-loom was black as jet
- another tint to add –
and when she found she was ‘with child’,
a daughter’s what she had.
The girl grew fair, with jet-black hair,
and skin, unblemished, white:
those curvy hips, those luscious lips!
She was a gorgeous sight.
But mother never missed a chance
to put her daughter down:
“Just understand, I rule this land –
the only babe in town!”
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the tasty totty?”
The magic mirror told her straight,
“Queen, you’re the only hottie!”
But adolescence changes things,
and Snow White turned out fair:
to use the common parlance, she
had grown a lovely pair!
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
I’m still the choicest chick!”
“Well, just about,” the mirror said:
“the kid’s improving quick!”
We’ll drop the Huntsman who was tasked
to take her to the river
(Snow White, that is) and rip her guts,
so Queen could eat her liver.
Why did the hunter like the girl?
Was it her curvy bits?
A friend, he proved – and probably
A friend with benefits!
He told the truth, and now the youth
slipped something in the booze.
She turned real mean – she got the queen
the reddest pair of shoes!
The birthday bash was fairly flash:
for Queenie, two surprises –
no, not the wine ‘improved’ with hash,
as everyone surmises!
Snow White was still alive, the first:
she wore a see-through blouson.
“Mommy Dearest,” red lips pursed,
“Just slip these bright red shoes on.”
The Queen put on the birthday gift
and started twirling, prancing:
the mirror told her, “You’ve been stiffed!
You’re dying, Queen – not dancing!”
That Snow White dame must take the blame:
for she had put together
two metal sheets, a red-hot treat!
Those shoes weren’t made of leather!