Long Fibbed Poems
Long Fibbed Poems. Below are the most popular long Fibbed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fibbed poems by poem length and keyword.
Written Nov. 10, 2012
Gail’s Note: Not for the Faint of Heart
Rated PG-13 (Poetic Grossness – 13 out of 20)
What part of this is true?
Answer posted at the end.
I was at the hospital.
It was a quarter past two.
I was waiting for my husband.
There was nothing to do.
The emergency was over.
His gall bladder was out.
He was coming back home
Better off, no doubt.
The next day our daughter cooked
A special meal for her dad.
To celebrate the ending
of what could have been sad.
Instead we were all at the table
Treating my hubby like a star
When he eyed the counter
And asked, “Where is the jar?”
My daughter’s eye caught mine
And she instantly knew
That this was no ordinary
Meat and Potato stew.
She ran into the bathroom
Her face turning green
As she quickly zoomed
Bypassing her scream.
And while she was retching
I quickly followed behind
And while she was queching
I spoke to ease her mind.
“Your meal is bladder free.
The jar’s on the garage shelf.
Come, look with me.
You can see for yourself.”
And when she saw the jar
Her eyes met mine.
I could tell she was beginning
To feel just fine.
She went back to the kitchen
And I did some retching myself
Because I had just fibbed
About that jar on the shelf.
The bladder in that jar
Was an old one of mine
And dad’s had been cooked
With potatoes, carrots, and wine.
So the moral of this tale
Is to say, “Thanks, but I’ll pass,”
When given a memento of yourself
From the hospital staff.
Answer: Person who had the gall bladder removed was my cousin. The hospital really gave him his gall bladder to take home in a jar. He really set it on the kitchen counter. (Ugh!) His wife made him move it to the garage.
But, my friend said, if Goldilocks was alive today her story would be different:
we’re just so used to the fairy tale message, the simplified right and wrong of it.
Women today are too afraid to walk the streets at night,
let alone enter a house with three grizzlies hidden out of sight.
And if a girl is attacked it’s considered her fault, the victim is blamed -
can you imagine the vitriol she’d face, the shame nowadays?
Let’s not forget Weinstein’s penchant for a golden blonde,
something no doubt that bear trio would be equally fond.
Sure, she might get some sympathy and be #metoo-ed,
but the ‘Good Morning Britains’ of the world would lead a feud,
debating whether she’d lied about knocking and fibbed about porridge,
because what’s a girl/woman/other if not a manipulator of knowledge?
(And don’t get me started about how’d she be judged for discussing a miscarriage)
Just picture the slander, the slurs and **** shaming that would spread
when it was leaked to the press that she’d tried and tested each bed.
“One wasn’t good enough obviously, so she had to sleep on all three.”
“Well then, what did she expect? She had it coming to her, didn’t she?”
So, my friend said, of course her story would be different today:
a cautionary tale teaching girls to never be alone, make themselves prey.
Because it’s a man’s world after all, and boys will be boys - it’s a game hitting girls to flirt.
Goldi’s true Lock then is the society she lives in, measured by men and the length of her skirt.
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
Do these glasses make us look fat?
Who looks worse, me or Matt?
I looked up to do a quadruple take.
A mistake I did not care to make.
Why are zebras so hard to raise?
They gave me a nod, Ted gave some brays.
We look silly in these glasses, right?
I did not want tears, pouting, or a fight.
You all look great, I fibbed through my teeth.
Dick scratched his tummy with his hoof showing us beneath.
We don’t believe you, we think we look chubby!
This was stated by their insecure leader, Tubby.
You look marvelous, terrific, I lied.
I wanted to get away, run back inside.
What do you think? She always says that
I gave them a wave, thinking they did look fat.
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
(and felt neutral about stitching
together gainful employment)
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
Life lesson learned meant blurred line
between mendacity and truth
courtesy upbringing mommy dearest
if repeatedly drummed into me noggin
brutal honesty will bring nothing but bupkis,
or if you prefer the Yiddish spelling bobkes.
!!!CAVEAT LECTOR!!! This one's a bit naughty, dear readers...
You've heard of Snow White
And the story reported
Of the seven wee dudes
With whom she consorted.
Well, here's the actual skinny
On what really occurred,
Just another example
Of how stories get blurred.
The facts are quite shocking,
Some may be offended,
But read on, if you dare,
Discretion much recommended.
The dwarves toiled in a mine
And got dusty and sweaty,
Then they'd rush home to Snow,
Willing, able, and ready.
They played sex games with prizes,
Who was best, who the worst,
And poked good-natured fun
At who dropped or "popped" first.
Their sylvan life was idyllic,
The fringe benefits great,
One romp after another,
A real ménage à eight,
'til the vain evil queen
Asked her mirror, who said,
"Hon, your huntsman fibbed big time,
Fair Snow White isn't dead."
So she dressed herself up
As a hag and went callin'
With a web of deceit
She was sure Snow would fall in.
The crone gave her an apple
Her kind deeds to repay.
Snow took one juicy bite
And swooned dead away.
Now, here's one of the falsehoods
I'd like to correct.
You don't need to be Einstein
These dots to connect.
Snow didn't succumb
To poisoned pomme, as they say,
She was just plain exhausted
From "playing house" night and day.
The dwarves were sad but decided
A good thing was worth keeping,
It's not necrophilia
If the body's just sleeping.
Then Prince Charming found her,
Woke her up with a kiss,
And blah blah they lived
In storybook bliss.
What's never been told,
When Snow woke and was sitting,
She said, "No, not tonight, dears,
My headache is splitting!"
Then sotto voce, "Now, Prince,
Let me make you aware,
It's a significant fact
That dwarves are dwarves 'everywhere'.
Pay no heed to the rumors,
What they fail to instruct
Is that though the garden's been plowed,
This blossom's yet to be plucked."
The truth stood downcast in the lie
I know you’ve fibbed; I have the proof
You cannot look me in the eye
Still adamant you told the truth
I love to watch you backpedal
The truth stood downcast in the lie
Don’t lie to me… there’s no medal
Your mum you think you can defy
Did you eat all the apple pie?
(Crumbs are visible on your face)
The truth stood downcast in the lie
You grin and say the pie was ace!
You say sorry, and then we hug,
Your hunger you did satisfy
I ask you did you eat the slug!
The truth stood downcast in the lie
The truth stood downcast in the lie contest Sponsored by John Lawless
Title of the poem is from a line from 'Lyin Eyes' by the Eagles
32 syllables per stanza checked with how many syllables
07/27/16
I was trying to help the birdie the diabolical cat lied
I saw my parakeet Poindexter, shivering by his side
Then why does he look frozen with fear? I asked the cat.
I think he saw something awful, he fibbed. Maybe a rat.
I never want to see you open his cage again I told the cat.
My voice was steely, I was angry with this liar, Matt.
I won’t he fibbed, but I did not believe him at all.
I gave him away to my Uncle, who set him down in his hall.
There are mice all over this place, he told Matt.
You can eat any dinner you can catch, he told my ex-cat.
Poindexter was saved, and Matt is not as happy as he could be.
The moral of this story is easy: Do not lie to me.
She really wanted to see a ghost…ecstatically excited.
She heard this place had plenty, and a spooky atmosphere.
She’d have to pinch herself, ready to cheer…elated.
She’d spend a romantic weekend there with a freaking-out spouse.
He’s a scaredy-cat! He rarely finds anything funny!
He stutters. He’s bony. Of course she fibbed to him.
A mansion on the cliffs, buried behind briars and thorns.
You could hear the roar of the tide, far below, over the rocks.
Bitter thunder and lightning— oh Angela’s freaking stunned.
Couldn’t ask for a nicer day - husband’s a shivering bag of bones.
The thick, heavy door, with unrelenting ‘turn on back,’ opens
nonetheless. Angela prods and pulls her Jack, into the lair,
as the door closes and bolts. He’s crying like a baby, inside.
The romantic getaway’s bleek and dark, except for candelabra
here and there, in this statistically bad idea. Angela just knows
she’ll get a look-see at the afterlife - a welcoming sight.
Jack be nimble…Jack be quick…Jack wants to jump
over the candlestick and hit the bricks. Without a boo,
she tries to resurrect a ghost or two. “C’mon out! I’m
raring to see you. Don’t play hide’n seek. Show yourself.”
She’s so giddy with no care about her scared to death spouse.
Angela laughs as wisps of smoke take form, as snowy cotton
shifts, as the familiar “oohs” and “boos” uplift. Terrified Jack’s
in no laughing mood. He hides himself in the corners of the room.
Suddenly it gets very cold, and a very bold ghost has a hold
on a candelabra, shines over the face of Jack, “Don’t you worry,
son, this will make you crack a smile,” surprisingly reassuring.
The ghost grins, as he spins touché over to Angela, “Is this
all you were hoping for?” He bellows with his mighty flue,
turns gray-green, skeletal too, eyes out of sockets. Flames
of the candelabra catch her curls and girly-mustache too.
From the corner, a full-throttle laughter emerges from Jack
as Angela is laid out on her back. The specter adds a pillow
and a gravestone to the act. The ghost ribs Jack,
“I rather like your bones, son. Let’s see you rattle and roll.”
Welcomed out the door, Jack leaves without a wife.
10/13/2021
Chantelle Cooke’s Ghost Lace Contest
I was trying to help the birdie the diabolical cat lied
I saw my parakeet Poindexter, shivering by his side
Then why does he look frozen with fear? I asked the cat.
I think he saw something awful, he fibbed. Maybe a rat.
I never want to see you open his cage again I told the cat.
My voice was steely, I was angry with this liar, Matt.
I won’t he fibbed, but I did not believe him at all.
I gave him away to my Uncle, who set him down in his hall.
There are mice all over this place, he told Matt.
You can eat any dinner you can catch, he told my ex-cat.
Poindexter was saved, and Matt is not as happy as he could be.
The moral of this story is easy: Do not lie to me.