Long French fries Poems
Long French fries Poems. Below are the most popular long French fries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long French fries poems by poem length and keyword.
It was a Tuesday night and dull boredom had set in
‘ thought I heard my ol’ car say: “Take us for a spin!
Go pickup Bobby Mac and maybe Cindy too,
‘Cause it’s Tuesday night … and there’s nothin’ else to do”.
Bobby Mac rode “shotgun” with Cindy in between
While I gripped that steerin’ wheel, and drove through Abilene
We stopped ’n got some soft drinks an’ an order of French fries
Then off we sped again - crusin’ ‘neath those Texas skies
Cindy’s eyes were sparklin’ when Bobby told a joke
Once I had to stop the car, ( ‘cause I had spilt my Coke!)
Then Bobby Mac, he asked me: “Just what can this car do …
Can it reach a hundred … or maybe go on through?”
I turned around and cruised on down to Ol’ Comanche Road.
I was rev’in’ up my engine, while the dual exhausts bellowed
I popped the clutch - tires protested with their clouds of smoke
Horsepower erupted through every bore and stroke
The needle on the dashboard gauge was approaching one-oh-oh
And then I felt that right front tire when it decided to “let go”
It happened in a heartbeat, but slow motions’ what I see
For now I’ll relive that awful night for all eternity.
And Cindy has no sparkle left within her big brown eyes
And Bobby Mac’s no jokes to tell ‘neath those Texas skies
While I sit here on this cloud with Bob and Cindy Lou
… Now and forever more … they’ll be Nothin’ Else to Do.
Don’t speed.
When I eat salt it awakens the boys
They talk to the tongue, making all kinds of noise.
One bit of sugar leads to sixteen bits of another.
I learned this the hard way, warned by my mother.
Sugar and salt, the two things I love the very most.
I eat them with chocolate, on peanut butter toast.
I cannot get enough of salt or sweet things.
They are going to kill me. So ding ding a ling?
We have to die of something? It might as well be salt.
I love potato chips and French fries, and a big chocolate malt.
I cannot get enough of cake, pudding, ice cream and pie.
If I cannot have them, frankly, I’m ready to die.
Mom don't feed me veggies
Don't put them on my dish
French fries and a hot dog
Is now my only wish
Mayonnaise smothered Tater-Tots
Sure would do the trick
Peas Broccoli, spinach too
Just will make me sick
Carrots, I can't stand them
Oh please, for goodness sake
Don't hide them in a muffin
Or in some kind of cake
Don't add them to my juice
And think it's gonna fly
I said I don't like veggies
I'm telling you no lie
I'm glad you're being sensible
In honoring my wish
I also won't eat liver
or any kind of fish
Sure, I'd like some candy
Perhaps a slice of pie
Ok, If I have too
I'll give this vegg a try
There was a man, most infamous, named James French.
As a mere child, he stabbed a man he thought
was flirting with his mother. Later he
tried burning down a school house, but then got caught.
I read with interest of this criminal
whose history I wish I knew far better.
He’d asked for hypnosis to understand
the way he was, and sent many a letter.
No matter, he was given no replies.
Three times to mental hospitals he went,
but always Mr. French they claimed was sane
till murder had him to a prison sent.
It was the 60’s, and in Oklahoma
(in fact in all the U.S) there was a stalemate
on whether to have death sentences or not.
James’ request for death would not abate.
Twice his sentences for death got overturned.
At trial three, James pleaded for the chair.
Denied execution, he killed a cellmate
who’d angered him; he then got what was fair!
His death by execution thus got scheduled,
and he became the last one of his time
to get electrocuted like he wanted
because he fought to get death for his crime.
He said he died for his beliefs (not murder).
Under his circumstance, I find that oddly wise.
Though not exactly his last words, James told the press
his last words he would say would be “French Fries.”
Pointedly poignant points portend pointillism.
Pontiffs pontificate pointless pointers ponderously.
Pompous poems populate Pompei pottery potently.
Porous *********** portrays Portuguese porta potties.
Poppies pop Popeye’s popular popcorn.
Populist populism pots ponies properly.
Blithering blather blots bloody bleeping blips.
Bloomberg blogs bleach bleating bloated blinks.
Bluebloods bloom black blackberry bloopers.
Bluetooth blizzards blame blurry blackboards.
Blithe blighted bladders blatantly block blades.
Blazing blasts bleed blooming blenders.
Fumbling fumes funerals fast.
Feuding fluid furniture flutters flaps.
Fighting flatulent flamingos flounder.
Floating flotillas flee flying flops.
Families foment future futile forms.
Freaky frozen French fries frighten frogs.
My mom
one of six daughters
a wild one not easily tricked
or oppressed
if she hears no she says what who and why
she makes noise when expected to be silent
the black sheep of the family
fire and fury in her veins
a rebel
ready to protect
Her beautiful voice
she can sing
I know because her
song beats in my memory
She can cook too
memorable french fries her grandchildren boast
fluffy mashed potatoes only a few granddaughters can replicate
Fried chicken not sure if this recipe was passed down
and the homemade tortillas mm mm good a necessity but a treat for us kids
so much more
but for me my mom gave me the gift of faith
My mom unique and my one only true Love.
Getting high off 'Mary Jane'
that pungent potent weed
sticking needles in your veins
and getting higher than you need
'Aunt Nora' wont let you blow your nose
'French fries' will leave you in its throes
Moonshine will make you slur your speech
and sobriety may be too far to reach
'Scooby snacks' is not an overwhelming joy
Your brain it will soon destroy
All of the above will cause you pain and strife
Throw them all out (Mary Jane too?)
and get high with a drug called life!
----
Street Name - Drug
--------------------------
Mary Jane ----------Marijuana
Aunt Nora ----------Cocaine
French Fries - ------Crack
Scooby Snacks----- Ecstasy
It’s one in the morning.
I zoomed into Lisa’s room
and threw myself on the bed where she lay reading
in a near virtuoso, Fosbury flop.
She bounced, jostled by my mechanical bed wave.
“I hate goodbyes,” I said, indignantly.
“You’re not strong on hellos” she said, not looking up.
“They’re so bone-marrow deep,” I went on, “they steal hope away.”
“Did that sound pretentious?” I asked her silence, a minute later, somewhat self-consciously.
Lisa took the yellow, #2-pencil out of her mouth—just long enough to answer.
When she studies, she chews on them, seemingly eating them like french fries.
“Yeah,” she says, “but I get cha.”
“I know,” I said, smiling at the ceiling, because in a rooted and real way, she always has.
I’d be a different person if we’d never met.
I feel very grateful for that.
“Your boy’s flown?” She asked, using her pencil to hold her page and finally looking up.
It was an ironic, near-rhetorical question, she knows he’s gone and she knows I know she knows he’s gone.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
.
.
Songs for this:
4am by girl in red
Don't Stop The Music by Rihanna
blushing! by BETWEEN FRIENDS
she ordered French Onion soup
with garlic bread
a sadal with a thousand island dressing
with garlic bread (instead of croutons)
french fries
and The Duck and Pork with Truffle oil
(with a Pionot Noir from Burgundy)
and a decatant Chocolate Croussaint
with a Orange wine (Monje) with
coffee
Both she and he smoked
a Arturo Fuento
They spoke of each sound being
intended for another purpose
meaning even the errored parts might
make the recording
when the song is mixed down t final track
might the absences of mind
(due to the excitement
of great food) After the first two songs we stopped
and di some excercise
for 20 minutes
before
he came back in with some
cookies and eggnog.
Just a little bit she said
not wanting to
eat to much. All this "Ole Timey stuff.
I thought you like me. "The Ring Exchange is strange
Misiter what is your intent.
I have another one of those cigars now.
I kinda like the flavor and scent!" Rum in the eggnog: Grip
acting cheap sniffin the Lilies I see,
Pour more in the cup My Mister
bump up the nog I give you consent!"
When I say Yuletime instead of yuletide you'll
know when I'm drunk!"
Diva Dame Misstress
the Grand Diva of
them all !
Far away by the oceanside I sit and watch the seagulls fly
inside a pale orange sun that has yet to warm a reposing sand
Over by the boardwalk the air still hums of yesterday's feet
two youngsters feeding pelicans perched on feathered height
The smell of fried shrimp coming out of a windowless kitchen
tall glass pina colada bottles with little umbrellas inserted in
down by the ocean the burgundy traces of a latent sun arrives
as we sip slowly, and eat quietly, atop the hotel peer
Its as if it happened yesterday but I can still smell the French fries
wrapped in plaid red and white paper drenched in crisping oils
Pungent odors of chlorinated water from the pool now all gone
replaced by freshly shampooed hair, and lingering sun tan lotion
Wearing a linen white dress and my recently purchased mala beads
I feel more Zen in my pinky today then I felt in a lifetime my friend
far away by that ocean it was the perfect vacation without any fear
when I stop to think of it I hope to return there some time next year.