Long Copped Poems
Long Copped Poems. Below are the most popular long Copped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Copped poems by poem length and keyword.
Tail Trauma
I’m a Cat (fancy that) and my tail went all droopy.
When I came in with it all bent, it sent my oomans loopy.
She started making phone calls, he put on shoes and socks,
They shut me in, they pinned me down and stuffed me in a box.
I’d only come home for an hour, a midnight break in hunting,
I never thought I’d suffer such humiliating shunting.
If I had known my tail would create such an awful worry
I might have stayed out later; not come home in too much hurry.
I’d only had a little fight, a minor feline quarrel.
No acts of real violence, not awful or immoral.
But I had copped a tail-bite, which made the end go numb.
Didn’t think that much of it, I still could feel my bum.
And so they dragged me to the vet, that place of such dishonour.
I could truly bite my folks for that. You know, I really wanna.
Squeezed and shaved, stabbed and prodded. The worst was mainly where
He shoved that cold thermometer – that’s nobody’s affair!
So here I am all poked about, my tail looks like a dumb-bell
My oomans just don’t realise that in feline terms, that’s some hell!
I guess they did their best for me, but for what I’ve undergone,
Until I’m ready to forgive – petting rights withdrawn!
You Come Out of the Woodwork
By Franklin Price
12/4/2017
You come out of the woodwork
Some from many years ago
Looking for the spotlight
For the fifteen minute show
Look what now is happening
When you to tell your youthful tale
Others jump the wagon
And the numbers make me pale
Many of you justified
Others stretch your youthful views
To degrade some reputations
Have your names within the news
Shame on you who waited
And let others feel the same
For whatever was the reason
Did not spread the pervert's name
Some would profit in the process
When the power copped a feel
Were paid off with the big bucks,
Money made it no big deal
Now that it's the thing to do,
You expose the nasty guys
Point the finger at them
Claim it's them that you despise
A score more may have followed you
But if you were the first
You should not be the hero
For not telling, should be cursed
If you were the first abused,
What the pervert did was wrong
If you had stood up firmly then
Others could not sing your song
The blame is on the dirt at first
For those who followed, some's on you
Would have saved the shame, of some of them,
If you had stood when times were new
This morning's sidewalk is cold and gray,
traffic sparse.
Coffee awaits, if my secretary remembers.
My head circulating thoughts from a case,
I reluctantly took on yesterday.
I'm usually more particular,
I don't like cases involving blonds and their men,
but, I needed the money.
As I enter my office, the strong odor of coffee hits me,
she remembered, this time.
The steam was rising from the pot,
the widows were also steaming,
with lines of water rolling down each pane.
We need curtains.
Julie my secretary says I have a visitor,
a blond, same one from yesterday.
Says she's wearing a single gold earring,
dried blood on the other ear.
I toss my fedora on Julie's typewriter,
with a not to be disturbed look.
Closed the door.
She was pacing back and forth,
trying not to look up.
Says when she got home she found an ashtray,
filled with cigarette butts, some with lipstick,
two empty glasses and a half filled bottle of whiskey,
sitting next to an airline ticket to Hong Kong,
for a flight at midnight.
They argued, he slapped her a few times, until,
a shot came through the front window.
She's frightened, frightened of the police,
frightened of the truth, both run through my head.
I told her to stay here until I find some things out.
But, it will cost another couple of hundred.
After all I am a detective.
My name, Humphrey M Falcon.
contest Copped III
1/21/19
"OAT"
I was wrong to quit
It's been too long I admit
Was gone a bit
On a trip
Putting down lagers quick
Now I'm back with a stronger grip
Deep down in the water sits
The key for you and me, it is not a myth
Now go ahead and ponder this
Does god exist?
I will honor this
World and bring the proper gifts
My help I will always offer it
With a whole lot of wit
I already did it, before you thought of it
Had to stop to piss
Up atop a cliff
As I was walking my boxer pit
While wearing a copper fit
Back in the day I bought a bit
Couldn't tell you the last time I copped a zip
It keeps coming my way, a whole lot of it
Meanwhile, all day long I sip
You should already know, I'm off of it
We're polar opposites
You keep talking ****
Unaware, that I'll bring forth the apocalypse
Soon,you'll need a walking stick
And put in a coffin quick
Before Autumn hits
Still paying my homages
I would rather remain anonymous
In all honestness
Here to follow through on promises
Got no time for incompetence
Across the seven continents
They continue their reconaissance
Over the populace
Because of much more than opulence
It does have to do with dominance
And is rather ominous
You're a drone, I'm a rocket ship
You're a mosquito, I'm a hippopotamus
I'm negative, you're HIV positive
I protected it, you kept raw dogging it
I'm clean with good hygiene, you smell like rotten fish
I'm off the Richter, you're sweeter than a box of chocolates
When I decide to finish, they'll wanna audit this
We heard the alert!
Big storm coming!
Batter down the hatches.
Tie down the loose stuff.
Board up the windows, sandbag the doors.
Remove any debris that may fly around.
We did it all, in plenty of time.
But, we looked around dismayed.
The neighbors did nothing.
Many were away, out of reach, not contactable.
We saw that their properties were a vulnerable bedlam mess.
With debris, loose stuff, dead trees, everywhere.
Decided it was too risky to trespass.
Hoped for the best!
But, storm did not heed our call
to be blessed as best dressed!
The storm hit hard!
Debris flew all around -
punched holes in our roof and walls;
smashed our window with flying junk;
neighbors trees flew and topped on our fences.
It was bedlam, a total disastrous mess,
not made by any of our stuff!
But, who can we blame.
To whom does the tin sheets
flying around belong?
Who owned the tree branch
that smashed out our roof?
Who had the neglected and blocked
their drain that flooded our yard?
The truth was there was no one
who we could blame, for the damage done
other than the storm, long gone.
For the debris that flew could not
be traced to anyone.
The storm had found us out!
Called us out!
We were in the same boat
as the neighbors who had copped out,
and neighbors who were out at the time.
All together hit hard, damaged, blameless,
found out and counted out.
The wall that the warrior must climb
was not only steep, rough and slippery,
but the weapons of all kinds
were waiting on other side to kill the warrior.
Although, there were warriors so called enemies
much like the warrior who climbs the wall
they glare at the climber from other side of the wall,
with bow and arrow in hand to pierce in climber’s heart,
with hatchet in hand to chop climber’s head,
with sword in hand to stab the climber’s throat,
the climber kept climbing on the wall
that is steep, rough and slippery
as if treasures more precious than his own life is there
on the other side of the wall.
When the climber came to the top of the wall,
the flying arrow dashed over for his life,
the spear thrust his heart,
the hatchet copped his forehead,
the sword stabbed his throat,
and, when the climber shed his blood and fell with ghastly cry
a warrior other side of the wall also fell,
and when these two lie upon one another
their blood ran down on the wall in the setting sun
with the color of crimson that is redder than the glow of the setting sun.
Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
Once upon a time, Prunella
dwelt amid a magic wood
a dainty pixie most rare
whose temperament wasn't good
Last one of her purple line
in that dreary, dreaded glen
where beasts ever feared to tread
and mankind had never been
For purple pixies were known
to be devilishly mean
they'd terrified the kingdom
wherever they had been seen
So Prunella lived alone
and pouted, skulked and scowled
and dark nights when coyotes called
she piteously howled
Until one day she found them
some children lost in the wood
and scared the daylights from them
just because she knew she could
The children fawned and pleaded
to appease her rotten mood
this only made her madder
so she copped more attitude
But she'd miscalculated
when she made the last one mad
and felt the ammunition
from that slingshot-wielding cad
Wee bits of sweets kept flying
so like pebbles at her wings
until he ran out of those
then he chucked most anything
Around the wood she darted
avoiding him at some length
until at last she gave out
having used up all her strength
He plucked her from where she fell
and plopped her into a jar
then she began to bargain
as the village wasn't far
But Fred, both shrewd and clever
vowed to keep her locked up tight
'til they all were safely home
and ev'rything was made right...
So she charmed the fireflies out
to show them all safely home
bossily shouting orders
from within the jars glass dome
But once they were safely back
the boy quickly changed his mind
decided to keep Ol' Prune'
(as pixies were hard to find)
And 'though she was mad as hell
and her wings pulsed fiery red
she couldn't help but admire
this precocious, wily Fred
'Though he never let her loose
they became the best of friends
laughing with glee as they kept
his parents at their wits-ends
“What's with these wild ideas?”
They would grouse, and groan, and moan
unknowing those mischief-plans
were a pixie's- not his own!
Snapping fingers, a low hum in the microphone)
Hey, It's Café Jazz/ But we ain't just sipping black coffee and snapping our fingers in polite applause/
Talkin' Bop/ first idiom where being white wasn't the fast track to success/ Yeah, dig it/ Bop was the soundtrack/ To anxieties, to late nights, to dreams deferred/
A nervous tremor in the rhythm/ Hard to play/ Man, you don't even KNOW. Only Bird, Diz, Miles...a constellation of cats burning bright, digging deep into a new conception in jazz/
A new hip way/ The hard Bop LP Clifford Brown and Max Roach, Study in Brown, 1955?
Got heads blown right off/ This isn’t just music, see?/
It's talkin' 'bout you, talkin' 'bout me/ talkin' 'bout life getting ready to take on a new form/ Be-Bop Creating a dialogue in Blending ideas, twisting sounds, birthing a style from the after-hours jam sessions at Minton’s Playhouse, Harlem/
Extreme virtuosity/ blistering speed/ /dissonant chords/ chordal substitutions – a vocabulary of rebellion/
Offbeat piano action, more action, SUPA DUPA HIGH VOLTAGE, MAN! Scorching tempos mirrored the doped-up lives...the pain... the desperation...of some Bop masters/
Even the beat poets... yeah, they copped the style/ the wicked mix of horn blowin' break-your-freakin'-neck speed, the Bop notes bleeding into their verses/ Jazz poetry on fire/
Did Bop influence Lenny Bruce? while doin’ a A-bomb of Heroin and Marijuana in the back of the room of his late night gig/
Is you black, or is you white?/
That question still under the skin of Jazz America/ still inching, scratching, Racism out of jazz/
Where are the jazz lords of the in-between at?/
What's the jazz world like today? Well, your ride is way clean, man/ got the chrome shinin', the leather gleamin'/ but… your gas tank is on E. (Silence, save for the click of the microphone being switched off)