Long Chowing Poems
Long Chowing Poems. Below are the most popular long Chowing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chowing poems by poem length and keyword.
would conveniently scare bejesus
among any hooligan tween
ready and willing to cause mischief
while prowling for methamphetamine,
or other drug of choice
one motley crew member seen
dodging, evading, fording... police
eventually cornered unlike Steve McQueen
(the late actor), who escapes behind screen
of smoke unscathed unlike
formerly acquitted, alluded mean
and aforementioned hoodlum
who suffers gunshot wound
rushed to same hospital
lay disabled fugitive ruffian took lead
fired into buttucks bullet punctured
evident by derriere oozing bloodshed
as self, both us nearly dead,
asthma doppelganger wed
did in sweat upon abdomen,
now aching pain in ass spread red
hot poker radiating throbbing inside
excruciating did quickly thread
into noggin i.e. fifty shades red
dully permeated gray matter
inducing severe agony with head,
though mustered energy to scrawl
obituary envisioning said
on same page as op/ed
gallows humor sought instead
of relief courtesy synthesized drug,
thus laughter as best medicine
linkedin chowing down unsuspected bean
dish licked plate sparkling clean
mental note made to avoid
eating flatulence inducing food
prepared Das daring "frau" faux Queen,
though I certainly also enjoy keen
wah filling up growling hungry void,
and... appealing to this bonafide android
gluten free textured meals direction I lean.
Buffalo wings, buffalo wings, buffalo wings
when I was young, just a boy
the skies overflowed with flying buffalo.
Take shelter for if you looked up
splat on your face from a buffalo butt
Now the poor creatures grounded for we clip their wings
deep fried and tasty sauces they are a favorite food thing
Herds of buffalo floating in the sky
kids waving at them as they mozy by
Peaceful and plentiful wouldn't hurt a fly
but sad for them their wings we fried
Poor buffaloes on foot they must roam
no longer in the air can they call home
Buffalo hunting a dangerous sport indeed
shot from the sky hunters squashed for their deed
O poor bison how now life must stink
hunted for their wings on the brink of extinct
So when chowing down on their tasty wings
watching sports with friends gathering
Why is the taste not what your expecting
cause buffalo wings taste just like chicken.
Since advent of *****sapiens
objection overruled against immortality
all across millenniums humans
generated, amplified, and
idly reverberated (Billy me) rebel yell,
when finality 'twixt consciousness
eternal existence doth die as well
grievous news laudable hospice staff did tell
us (meaning yours truly plus
his deux darling siblings), I
in addition to older and younger sister,
thru passionate love making
intercourse did propel
seeds of life embarking
upon parent trap role
til sands of time did runneth out, and
for whom (him) the death knell
bell tolled, now funereal shroud covers dell.
Born April 9th, 1929 - Hebrew
ancestry papa never witnessed affection,
whereby his father - a liberal Jew
(mine paternal grandfather)
purportedly gave nary a blues clue
about welfare regarding youngest son
christened Boyce Brandon Harris,
who harbored quashed feelings
glommed like figurative ague
nsync with chowing down
into his esophageal flue
peristalsis allowing, enabling,
and providing gurgling goo
gull faintly sounding
to (my lard) Doctor Seuss
eerily similar to Horton hears a hoo
after milk (deciduous) teeth
gave way to papa's adult choppers
(by George), whereby
he could thoroughly chew
heavily saturated high caloric ethnic cuisine
(albeit American, Chinese,
and eats of ethnic Jew),
which high cholesterol comestibles
probably contributed to congestive heart failure,
now plaguing papa on his deathbed - loo
zing his tenuous grip on life,
where rigor mortis will find his body
chilled courtesy cold storage queue.
I feel sad today (September 29th, 2020)
and inconsolably weep,
cuz the man who helped beget me
after coroner pronounces
lovely bones lifeless heap
immediate fate most likely cremated
versus buried six feet deep
despite absence of his presence
cherished memories of his value,
yours truly will keep
plus recalling mine boyhood
chuck of full of bliss
particularly driving, fending, staving... off
bogeyman or any other menacing creep.
Let me tell you about a guy Pete.
If it’s true that we are what we eat,
he would just have to be
loved by everybody
because he would be something sweet!
On sweets Pete could never get full,
so he’d eat all his cakes and pies whole!
With each passing year
his widening rear
more resembled a large jelly roll.
With gusto Pete daily transgressed,
chowing down on desserts he liked best,
never giving one thought
to the things that he ought -
like that thing going wrong in his chest. . . .
It occurred after Pete had dug in
to some pastries, his favorite sin.
In his chair Pete had plopped
when his heart simply stopped -
But his jelly smeared mouth wore a grin!
For the "Die A 'Fun' Death Contest Poetry Contest"
hosted by Natalie the Rogue Rhymer
Not much about Goldilocks is really well known,
Except she liked to hang out in the woods all alone.
Of other customs and habits we have just a splintering:
She was whiney, persnickety,
And obviously skillful at breaking and entering.
No deadbolt or burglar alarm could defy her.
A common criminal, then, is how history should try her.
The three bears, that morning, had gone outside to forage
For sweet berries and nuts they could add to their porridge.
On returning, they found this young girl in their bed,
And their first misconception was that she was dead.
Since she also was human, they were somewhat afraid,
But after looking around at the mess she had made,
They debated the question of how they should treat her,
Then took a quick family vote and opted to eat her.
Now, bears are opportunistic, don't adhere to the letter,
And when it comes to cuisine, "haute's"* not necessarily better.
These three had had Muslim, a Mormon, a Christian, a Jew,
And a Tibetan monk, just to mention a few.
But they couldn't care less for religious perversity,
When it came to free food, they were all for diversity.
What they weren't quite sure of was how this one they'd render,
Or was she naturally tender because of her gender?
So heed this warning all squatters, all beakers and enterers,
Before invading the space of homeowners or renterers.
Beware lest your miscreant action finagles a sad end,
Like our heroine,
Who never dreamed, I'll be bound,
She would ever be found with three bears chowing down,
Complementing their porridge with Goldilocks and bagels.
*As in "haute cuisine" (pronounced "oat kwee-zeen"), French for "fine dining".