Long Cigar Poems
Long Cigar Poems. Below are the most popular long Cigar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cigar poems by poem length and keyword.
China charges 1 million annually
For each panda in our zoos
If we won't pay in full
Then the pandas we will lose
Nasty Panda's the exception
No one wants him here or there
He was paid 1 million dollars
To abscond and disappear!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
I smelled him 'fore I seen 'em
That black and white pariah
Slippin' slidin' in my kitchen
On smooshy mushy pulp papaya
I yelled for him to stop
And I told him where to go
Wink and laugh was all he did
With a Homer Simpson "D'oh!"
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
He hasn't bathed in ages
Masked by quarts of cheap cologne
His furry skin sweat-sticky
From the surface to the bone
Smelly cigar and boozy breath
Plus an air of upper-crust
Please keep your kids away
Cuz that nasty bear can cuss!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
If you meet up with Nasty Panda
Better turn around and run
You're bound to lose your money
And your wits before he's done
Don't shed tears for Nasty Panda
Cuz he likes the way things are
Don't forget to hide your keys
Else he'll drive off in your car!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's a scoundrel and a bum
He's such a nasty panda
~He's as nasty as they come
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He's gonna raise a stink
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He's much nastier than you think
Whar art mine fervent zeal for Marx Brothers?
While figuratively trout fishing
for ideas to write about
analogous (hook, line and sinker)
idea wormed itself into mind with clout
moment of awareness arose
without shadow of doubt.
As a long haired pencil necked teenage geek
zany Harpo, Groucho, Chico ranked as idols
mine most favorite slap stick until I reached
cusp of early adulthood, yet of lately uptick
regarding said comedic acts unexpectedly a
rose, spurring me to revisit adolescent mem
rubble entertainers overarching unstoppable
nostalgic ache for their nonpareil antics did
pang ping pong within mine corporeal esse
Scents trademarked and christened Matthew
Scott Harris, somewhat alleviated watching
courtesy Internet random You Bet Your Life
momentarily experiencing giddiness bursting
with laughter - shy kid relishing hearing quip
lightning fast barbs oft imitated sporting his
greasepaint moustache nsync with cigar size
of small walking stick renown world over an
American iconic figure (+entire motley crew)
lively bunch post World War II boys groomed
since birth begat Minnie Marx (born Miene
Schönberg, 9 November 1864 or 1865 – 13
September 1929) mother and manager of the
Marx Brothers, a family of vaudevillians,
Broadway and film actors, she dominated
band of five boisterous and hilarious brothers
who dominated silver screen more'n nearly 3
4ths century ago sired by patriarch Sam Marx.
No particular rhyme nor reason explains why
aforementioned nitty gritty personal trivia thy
actually more accurately & specifically yours
truly metaphorically unexpectedly did qualify
as teetotaling poetaster to craft poem well nigh
acknowledge inexplicable passion regarding my
heartfelt affection constituting zany wily troupe
linkedin with baker's dozen films iterated wild
3 ringed circus antics did all these years schtick
well lodged within me noggin + gamut of stars
whose career launched during quaint silent film
era albeit (Betzwood, one time, between 1912
and 1924), one of the largest film studios in the
world located in downtown Philadelphia and
their studio lot in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania,
right next to the park, I kid ye not, and... take
look see for yourself by visiting following link.
https://americasbesthistory.com/
spotlight2017-11.html
An ode must be written to the player of strings
Thanking them for the joy their playing brings
Reminiscent to a puppet master they strike the strings
Like a ventriloquist with seemingly voicelessness the object sings.
Sometimes seated or even when they stand
By pick, by bow or by hand
Played as an acoustic or powered with juice in the form on an electric
Like perfect circles both sit perfectly concentric
A lute, a cello and guitar
A harp, a bass, zither or sitar
A double bass, banjo or mandolin
A cigar box guitar or violin
Treble, Lyon, Pistoy, Diapason and fret gut
As different as a cashew and macadamia nut
As long as it is played well and not abused
It doesn’t matter how or what is used
The impact of sound orders the audience to be silent
In a forceful way which is strangely non-violent
The sound created is so divine
As delicious as a creamy cheese or well aged wine.
If a picture tells a thousands words
There must be infinite words present in your soulful chords
When you arrive at that magical sound
Body quivers and feet lift off the ground.
Like a boat in the ocean calmly afloat
There is a calming peace that arrives when you hit the perfect note
Choosing between being blind or deaf is decision one wouldn’t want to make
But if I was to only hear, for heaven’s sake
Strike those strings and create those harmonious sounds
And the visual images will come in leaps and bounds
Play me an a, b, c, d, e, f or g in major or minor
When beautifully played nothing could be finer
A verse on its own can be said and cheery
But without the strings it becomes tiresome and weary
The body shakes when the sounds of the strings reach perfection
In peculiar cases it has been known to aid downstairs in an uplifting direction
With the perfect note the soldier stands to attention
Here’s hoping it doesn’t occur at a men’s only convention
Undoubtedly when you play
The dark of night turns into the bright of day
Like a perfect duck dive without a splash
Or a burnt out fire with the remaining golden ash
Whether you’re in your twenty’s or seventy five
The magic moments keep you alive
So thank you to the player of the strings
For the absolute pleasure your playing brings
And sheer delight when your instrument sings
THANK YOU PLAYER OF STRINGS
While writing about the History of Jazz Music in verse , I got the idea for composing this
fictitious poem ! I hope the readers will like it !
Harlem Blues !
Lingering perfumes float through the night air ,
Life was a drudgery for him and no one cared !
With neon lights blinking and flashing every-
where !
The jazz band in the saloon played a soft tune ,
And the lady there sang the blues and also
crooned !
Now the solitude of the night gets to him ,
As he drops down into a corner seat where lights
are rather dim !
Signals the waiter as he lights his cigar ,
And orders a large whiskey and soda , having
come down so far !
He remains enthralled by the lone singer’s
voice ,
He must spend this ‘blue night’ all alone , -
since he had no other choice !
The singer now comes pretty close to him ,
And he could see her white teeth dazzle and
gleam !
But when he looked into those dark eye lashes , -
Sad memories form the past before his eyes
flashes !
He had been a clarinet player of some renown ,
But his wife couldn’t tolerate its piping sound !
His habit of playing his pipe at mid-night hours ,
Made her to desert him for their marriage had
gone sour !
The blue notes in the saloon soon comes to an
end ,
But the music goes on simply to entertain !
The singer now invites this loner to her room ,
He accompanies - trying to forget his loneliness
and gloom !
She pours out two drinks in her upstairs room ,
And places his head gently between her bosom , -
Which makes him to swoon !
The ‘blue notes’ still plays on in his mind ,
It is then when she pulls out a clarinet form
behind !
Seeing him surprised - she laughs out loud ,
He stares at the clarinet with misgiving and doubt !
“Don’t worry darling I had met you wife ,
She had shown me your picture and told me about
your life !
From my childhood days I had loved the clarinet ,
It turns me on before I go to bed !
So play the pipe gently as I get into my slip-on ,
And we shall make love right into the morn !”
He picked up the clarinet and played ‘the blues’
so tender and so light , -
The music echoed through the lonely Harlem
night....... !
- Raj Nandy
New Delhi
There’s something ornately comforting, in a downpour of a day’s healthy rain
So replenishing, cleansing, as renewing, the ultimate giver to feed life’s grain
As standing undercover feeling the smaller flecks of the rain against your skin
With the thrashing of rain against the window panes, creating a deafening din
Each drop, creating rivulets that chase each other down, onto the window sill
There pausing, but, for a second in pools before they take their final overspill
God’s creatures sensing mother’s nature ungodly call find refuge in their lairs
Others finding cover from the torrents of rain that caught them, so unawares
Birds tuck their heads away, wait on the downpour of rain to end, its final fall
In this time just birds of silence, you seldom hear them making their bird call
Within the marble halls of mansions, walls glisten with dancing shades of hue
Gun dogs put out of work lie waiting for their prize, there’s nowt’ they can do
Children sit upon window seats watching as the rivulets fall upon each a wish
Their little fingers pressed upon the window pane giving each rivulet a squish
But; nothing can prevent nature’s raindrops falling, so they just watch in awe
Cats on their hind legs each trying to catch the rivulets drops with their paws
There is more than a sense of security, in this day’s healthy downpour of rain
Mother makes hot cups of juice, just in case, from a cold, we all need to feign
Grandfather sits very staunchly before the fire in his armchair made so grand
A tot of whiskey just for good measure, for medical purposes you understand
While dear Grandma is knitting away, totally in tune to the rhythm of the rain
In the hallway standing there idle rests father’s ebony and ivory walking cane
Who has now took himself into his study, sits to reminisce and to have a cigar
It saved just for such a day resting in its lacquered pigmented box of cinnabar
Cooks busy themselves in the kitchen making all the family their evening meal
Steam rising from the cooking onto the windows panes, does the rain conceal
Until the steam itself creates rivulets of their own, and the outside is revealed
In doing so, makes the clarity of the day’s rain even more so magically surreal
(prior to tha ode dee us political stink sans hillary rodham clinton, i scrawled out this poem. her likelihood to grasp to political mantle than considerably greater than fourteen months when another official will help keep america safe and sound from cares and concerns of an uncertain future).
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bill leave me
Hugh will cause a beloved howel
From him – the divine necromancer with magic dowel
If ambition stirs thee to make presidential bid for we Chelsea
Reverberating throughout terrestrial bowel
Analogous to former reigning supreme ringleader Muhammad Ali!
As an obedient student who crossed his t’s and affixed every “I” with a dot
Although high letter grades this older papa never got
(Undiagnosed anxiety inducing pressure cooker symptoms made me hot)
I recognize brilliance, and thus would immediately cast my lot
From the current secretary of state whose political skills right on spot!
One year hence, this democrat will cast his vote
Without doubt maintaining his party line
No matter campaigners with republican huzzahs will tote
Unable to change opinion of mine
Praying that economic maelstrom she can brazenly smote
If necessary seeking oracle of Delphi for a positive sign
Or devising my own catchy slogan to quote
Common as this generic human dust mote
Whose esprit de corps would to the stratosphere float
Like some over inflated helium filled ballooning goat
Kidding nobody that view from on high depicts sinking American boat!
Please take to heart
From this fellow (among ship of fools)
Who decries special interest groups sway to sabotage and up-end donkey cart
With extreme elephantiasis haunting white house with ghouls
With penchant to undermine sacred constitution with graffiti art!
This Joe schmoe of a lame duck nada so soup per poet
(who idolizes billy eve able applications of a cigar re: monica lewinsky)
would be in awe
And inwardly hee-haw
If this poem affected your name to be on ballot garnering cheers from this paw
And knows that in those random polls made of straw
The former forty second first lady gaga to engender revolutionary thaw!
Simon – the protagonist.
18 – year old kid who just graduated from high school.
Lives in middle class suburbia, no designated town, and an every-town sort of feel.
Lives with his mother, his older brother. (Father has recently passed away...a year ago)
Have a small number of friends, most of them through service groups.
Very active in community service, volunteers for church organizations.
Enthusiastically participates in highway clean-ups.
Loves helping old ladies to their cars with groceries.
Brings in stray pets from the street, he’s currently the unofficial caretaker of 7 dogs and 5
cats.
A steady “B” student in school, would be an A student if he didn’t spend so much time with
community service.
Doesn’t date at all, has almost no free time, although he does sometimes feel like he’s
missing out.
Drives a brown station wagon.
Has never put any type of hair product in his hair before, wears a T-shirt and blue jeans 80%
of the time, 20% he is in church wearing something nicer.
Earns most of his money during school at a part-time job at an old folk’s home, taking walks
with them, listening to their stories.
The kids at school have nicknamed him “Simon Theresa.”
He sometimes gets frustrated at other people, that they’re not doing enough for the
community.
In church when he was 13 he stood up and demanded more people donate money into the
basket being passed around.
He is sometimes too passionate about what he does.
He is not very athletic, or interested in playing sports, yet he is ridiculously good at table
games (ping-pong, air hockey, pool, etc.)
He has a hard time socializing with people his age, and fears he is too different from
everyone else.
He has always been the antithesis of his brother and father, who are very much the All-
American male: athletic, sports fans, cigar toting, car lovers, beer buddies, etc.
The only alcohol Simon consumes is the teaspoon mass.
Despite how opposite they are, he gets along fine with his brother, as their personalities
seem to compliment each other.
His father on other hand, he feels like he failed somehow, ever since his death, he never felt
he got his acceptance from him.
And I can't help him.
In the foggy isle of Britannia, many men have sought
Out fortune and fame.
But one man's legacy remains, as steadfast as the walls
Of parliament, a single voice echos, thunders across historical
Reference, and it's meaning sound is crystal clear, We shall
Never surrender, it has become this man's epitaph,
Behold the Prime Minster, Winston Churchill.
A stout figure head of reason, during a time
Of global madness, lighting the fuse of justice,
On an international stage.
Awakening the old sleeping lions fury, it's roars sounding,
Crashed as a tidal wave, against the walls of ignorance’s
Injustice.
The British cannon's announced their coming, these
Fighters champion for freedom, and liberty, we will
Fight them by land or sea, and emerge victorious,
This elder gentleman so did speak.
Harken young soldiers of the brave heart, our time is at hand,
Shall we not shake the fists of anger's vengeance at them.
For those whom hide beneath a blood stained flag,
A symbolic sign of purity, behold a nation's lie is exposed.
A stout figure head of reason, during a time
Of global madness, lighting the fuse of justice,
On an international stage.
Awakening the old sleeping lions fury, it's roars sounding,
Crashed as a tidal wave, against the walls of ignorance’s
Injustice.
The British cannon's announced their coming, these
Fighters champions for freedom, and liberty, we will
Fight them by land or sea, and emerge victorious,
This elder gentleman so did speak.
Harken young soldiers of the brave heart, our time is at hand,
Shall we not shake the fists of anger's vengeance at them,
Those hiding beneath a blood stained flag symbol of purity.
Hell's storm broke lose upon the distant land,
It's dark shroud blanket, relieved cruelties ugly offenses
Against humanity.
Did thus the world mourn their lost kindred, and the lion
Fell asleep once more, after shaking it's golden main free from,
The feathers of war.
In the annals of history, an old man sits beside a large lion,
Petting him until it rests at calms ease, lighting up a cigar,
Winston Churchill’s vision will not completely fade away,
For his words ring eternal, we shall never surrender.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
oodles and oodles
mushrooms made with noodles
with some sweet strudels
battened down hatches
Texas had many taxes
paid them and relaxes
will give you a hint
he has been incontinent
wherever he went
after reading text
how much longer and what next
by devil are hexed
by God had been caught
being dismal and distraught
temptation off fought
should see synagogue
we do love drinking eggnog
had killed a big hog
had smoked his cigar
Severely smelled up his car
and a corner bar
have heard latest leak
no bath and body will reek
any time of week
Our cat did die the other day.
Decided that carpet needed to
be vacuumed. As I went from
place would think of Henry.
He first would lay in higher
places and drink water in
high places. He worked his
way down to the floor.
He would lay under the mirror
and dresser on the floor in
hallway, bedroom or closet
where I put my shoes. He would
lie on the bed where I would brush
him. He had a hard time getting up
on the bed so I had to lift him. The
last day I put him in his liter box.
He had a rough time and fell down
while standing in it. Sunday night
around eight PM EST he started
panting and gurgling. His heart
had been beating rapidly. His eyes
always remained open. My wife
picked him up with her shawl.
Just before midnight his heart
stopped and he stopped breathing.
Henry was gone off to pet heaven.
We left him in the shawl all wrapped
laying on a blanket on the floor.
The next day I picked him up with
his body still laying in the shawl.
I put him with shawl around him
in a USPS box. I tightly sealed it
and then put box into a trash bag
and tied the top up tightly. I dug a
hole and put him and his box in it.
I put the first sprinkle of dirt on his
box and said an animal prayer.
Thank you God for giving us Henry.
We had him for 15 years and he
was such a nice, good cat. I filled
up the whole and planted flowers
around Henry's grave. We ordered
a Tomb Stone from Amazon of
course and it will be here shortly.
We also ordered a name tag so
we could put his name DOB and
DOD on it. Henry has gone but
his memory will never be forgot.
God bless Henry.
Gross Income
80% of the entire global wealth
Is owned by 15% of the global population
Never before in the annals of human history
Has so much been owed
To so many
By so few
The economy is collapsing
All around us
People that we see
On the streets and suffering
The system setting ready for imploding
How did this come to be
That the poor and the ordinary
Are being pushed further into poverty
Kids are going hungry
Now it’s not just a problem for the third world
We’re all beginning to see
What it’s like to live with prosperities tourniquet
But there’s fat man in a big fat car
Sucking on a big fat cigar
And he doesn’t give a damn who you are
And there’s a house on a big fat hill
Where he sits sucking on a big fat world
A multi million construction of luxury
Yes his toes are always warm
Sits there in couldn’t care-less complacency
Big fat belly always full
Swimming pool is always cool
No he’s not part of what’s going on
Sits there with a big fat grin
Plugged into the profiteering
Bloodsucker of capitalism
And there’s a mother with a hungry baby
Her husband lost his job just this Monday
He’s out there on the porch staring at the ground
Because there is no work to be found
He was a cut back to save the gross income
And the profitable wages of a corporation
So the managing director
Could still take his two-month holiday in the sun
No it’s not his stomach that is empty
Why should he care he is wealthy
Big fat man in other peoples clothes
And walking around in other peoples shoes
Not his concern that the people on the streets
Haven’t got enough to eat
He just wants to make sure the chrome stays polished
On his fleet of cars
We all saw it coming
While we were all trying to live the dream
In this capital culture of ego need
Scrambling over each other
To catch the drips
From the big fat mans under exerted sweat
These days we all have to worry
Wonder how this crisis came to be
Yup; it’s all about the money and the slavery
And the avarice and the greed
Of the bloodsucking industry
Never before in the annals of human history
Has so much been owed
To so many
By so few