Long Chippy Poems
Long Chippy Poems. Below are the most popular long Chippy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chippy poems by poem length and keyword.
PSYCH UP
Hours of wasted yesterdays
Haphazardly hops in my head
In a ugly pretty fashion
As though it were some minutes past
All my fore-time murderers
In my inner eyes appear
Like it does on chippy screen
Loneliness pulls the trigger
Of the lurking memories
Tick-tacky natural eraser becomes helpless
Dawn frowns and twilight mourns
The demise of their elder brother
Long sitting on the fence
Drenched my solo silk in conical aqua
Inside too warm, outside too cold
I had to call the skull into play
The chest couldn’t get along easily
Because of its familiarity with the deceptive lens
The trio combo seems impossible
Until the latter plays second fiddle
Then the weighty body sets off
Slowly it paced
Amidst myriad of lieing lizards
All waiting to swallow my innocent ant
Wisely did it fly with its peers
And put my progress hunters in turbulent sea
They aimlessly ran helter skelter
Then I chuckled, smiled and laughed.
YEMI AFO
I will very very probably do it again
Anyone who knows me and has a brain
Can see that Biden's old and lame
Now's the time to reignite my reign.
MAGA folks love me and want me back
They need our country set on track
For what I have all others lack
Of running stuff they know sweet jack.
As to DeSantimonius, Short Pants Pence and Chippy Cheney
That they'll burn out I'll wage you money
I'm the one that's smart and funny
My golden touch makes all things sunny.
So once these midterms are sown up
I'll squeeze lame Joe just like a bug
Show the world that he's a dud
For I’m the man, I know it in my gut.
Milk bottles we would rinse out and return.
Pop bottles take back to claim the tuppence.
Kellogg’s cartons collected for the kids
To cut and paste and learn creative art.
Unburnt cinders reclaim from last night’s fire
And add to burn again with today’s coals.
Rinsed food cans collected by rag-bone man.
Blue sugar-bag take back to the Coop
To be filled once more with weighed out sugar.
Cut up old clothes to use as cleaning rags.
Collect carthorse droppings for garden plants.
Newspapers take to chippy for free chips
Or use to roll and twist as fire-lighters.
Naught went to waste in those austere times.
Ultimately, only my sister can decide whether to let them know or they should be let known that she’s in a deep hole mentally trying to do her dissertation proposal. We are strongly advising she does something to help herself. Course leaders can only empathise if they know what's going on for students.
I’ve been giving silly solutions to her struggles – stopping for the day and giving our parents piercings, stopping for a day and emailing Mrs Coventry inviting her to Binley Mega Chippy in Coventry. The spring rolls there truly are MEGA.
Lucky me is just looking forward to getting my chicken on a bike tattoo with my self-drawn sweet, the only assignments I’ve got being ones I give myself. My current assignment is chilling waiting for my Jasmine Rice to cook as I write this, a katsu curry and carrot cupcakes already made.
When she’s working and studying and working, my sister often doesn’t have the chance to eat. She’s just got her laptop – hopefully she’s going to send that email. That email will be the only thing she needs for them to grant her a break from going down.
Across the Atlantic ocean
They have a pedantic notion
Quip us Brits have a frantic lisp
Did slip..meant to say chip not crisp
Semantic antics causing a commotion
Misunderstand our land’s devotion
To the sensory explosion that is a crisp
So why the linguistic demotion
Respond to across the pond & beyond
Have donned a wig of blonde
Seem fond of being conned
They need to be told
The reason Brits abscond from the fold
Will break the mould
Skip this blip and let rip
A chip is hot and if not.. is cold
Such umami gold is actually factually
A crisp!
Our gung ho American foe
Will still go & crow..
Blimey those slimy Limeys
We’re the aficionado…so no bravado
Must surely know a chip is always
Made I’m afraid of purely potato
(unless I guess if its chips at a casino)
Displayed for trips in dips
Not just crud dud spud chips
Bud..could be made of wheat
Sworn am often torn
Could be swayed by corn
Synthetic aesthetic can’t beat
Heart attack in a pack food p*rn
If Polenta is the mentor.. its a chip
But if some parsnip you did flip
In oil then it is definitely…definitively a crisp
Got a hunch that if for
Lunch.. earlier at brunch
Or just for a munch
Thick or thin as a wisp
If it does go crunch
Then it’s crisp
Not being trippy.. dippy or too lippy
Don’t be hasty and haughty
Nothing beats..tasty treats
Seriously salty.. deliriously naughty eats
That's why we say crispy.. not chippy
P.S ..The only crispy beast feast
Where’s there is no hackling
Tackling or shackling
A snack as a chip or a crisp
No cackling…is when it’s crackling
Oops somehow a new row hatching..isn't
Fried pig skin..a pork scratching
But Colombian cronies are dispatching
Such phony baloney..there's no matching
The show ponies that are chicharrones
There was a man,
Who lived in wales,
Lived a boring life,
And worked in sales.
He went to the pub,
Almost every day,
At night he came home,
On the sofa, he’d lay.
Chippy every Friday,
He’d have for his teas
Chips and gravy,
And a tub full of peas
He had an umbrella,
To battle the gails,
After all he lived,
In the hills of Wales.
A quiet little village,
The community so sweet,
Surrounded by fields,
Of barley and wheat.
A picturesque place,
A postcard place,
A place to put,
A smile on your face.
His name was terry,
Lived to a ripe old age,
Of ninety four,
Like his wife, Sage.
A boring old life,
But the best that they had,
Enjoyed every minute,
Not a moment being sad.
Terry and sage,
Grew up together,
Shared the umbrella,
And battled the weather.
The nice old lady,
Terry working on sales,
Had the best life,
At a village in wales
The windows pane upon my face,
The door unlocks, I fall from grace.
My friend he screams, a crunch of steel,
Stabs of pain, then the blood I feel.
The car we stole, a ride of joy,
Treating it like a tonka toy.
Speeding 'round the Mumbles mile,
Off our heads for a little while.
Pass the chippy, towards the pier,
We hear the sirens, "The cops are near".
Faster, faster, we approach the bend,
This so called "joy" is about to end.
Headlights shine from the road ahead,
Then when I wake, my mates are dead.
Broken limbs, a mangled wreck,
The sense of warmth from my swollen neck.
I try to move off the cold damp floor,
My legs and arms I feel no more.
The scents of fuel, blood and smoke,
I try to breathe, but can only choke.
I hear a voice coming close to me,
I tried to look, but could not see.
These words I tell about this night,
From a darkened world, now I have no sight.....
I was asked to write a piece about the crime of so called "joy riding"
Outside a butcher shop in London Town
I met an old girlfriend and she made me frown
‘I remember boyfriends,’ she liked to acknowledge
‘By naming them all after all kinds of sausage.’
The first time she made a man out of a boy
Was a lad who she now calls young Savaloy Roy
Her next feller’s member was beyond belief
She now refers to him as Pork and Beef Keith
She told me her next bloke she called B.P. Lee
B.P. is black pudding… interestingly
So I asked if she had a nickname for me
‘You betcha,’ she said, your name is Chippy.’
I said, ‘Is that down to me being a carpenter?’
She said, ‘Don’t be daft, it’s short for chipolata.’
*
[in the UK a savaloy is a red skinned sausage, about 8 inches by 1.25 inches, usually accompanied by chips (thick French fries); Black Pudding is a whopping great thing that, on a man, would be inhuman; pork and beef are usually stumpy but with a good girth, and chipolatas are slender, scrawny efforts that only become interesting if you wrap them in bacon at christmas]
It was the last order rush
All full of fun and chat.
As the door swung wide
All turned to look at what.
He wore his hat pulled low
He wore his dark hair long
And his spurs jingle jangled
Like the rhythm to a song.
His leather chaps dragged
And scraped along the floor
And you could cut the tension
As he stood there in the door.
Someone started laughing,
Then another one or two,
Great guffaws and giggles
You know the way you do.
He glared at us with slitted eyes
One hand hovered as if to draw
And as the laughter increased
Glared at us all once more.
The last Gunfighter?
Survivor of the few?
But rather out of place
In a Saturday chippy queue
He walked out defiantly.
Such an amazing sight,
Ok I suppose in Tombstone,
But on a Barnsley boozy night?
I am listening for footsteps , or the creak of a door .
I'm gasping for breath and quaking with fear.
I'm hungry and thirsty and wishing that I could escape
I'm hoping and praying that I don't get caught today of all days
Yet a voice in the distance is shouting my name
I'm just hoping the scales of justice are going to come down on my side
Or am I about to pay for my crimes.
As the voice becomes clearer I can tell it's the wife.
And its seems it's my turn to face up to my crimes.
can you get on the scales as it weight watchers, weigh in today
The facts of this matter are I have been caught out again, the chippy and pub have beat me again .
"Next week dear, Amazing how many calories are in lettuce !"
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