Long Fryer Poems
Long Fryer Poems. Below are the most popular long Fryer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fryer poems by poem length and keyword.
My fellow countrymen, the President, Politicians, and pulpiteers Though not in a cave like Rip Van Winkle, I must have fallen asleep in "indifference and over-business". It was more than Van Winkle's 20 years, because prior to my sleep, I knew an America that dreamed of chickens in every pot; of carports, garages, and picket fences; of a good education and catching the Joneses.
It appears I am awaking, not from, but to, a nightmare; and to what am I opening my eyes to see? Me thinks it's not 'my country tis of thee'; not a chicken in the pot or fryer in the skillet. But I see leaders in the kettle like a frog, where the fire is turned down low and heating slowly. Like the frog, they are relaxed and comfortable. Oh Lord, if they only knew the manner of the frog's demise.
I see changes, and multiple evils have been removed. Recovery and relief have been appropriated and dispatched for the poor. Reforms and revivals have periodically visited us from above. I see blessings and prosperity beyond comparison; melting pots of dreamers and immigrants still dine at our tables. That's part of the American beauty.
Oh America, we are busy face-booking and twitting; But we must realize that we are also bleeding. I weep for what might lie ahead for us. I grieve for what we are becoming. I fear for us, though not of guns and nukes from afar; But for rivalries in the white house and the halls of congress. And I fear for our pulpiteers who also relax in the kettle like the frog.
07312017cjFBPH; August Standard Contest, Brian Strand Part fiction
Would you go swimming or fishing with an eighty foot strong hook, flippers, a basket hat, and a toothbrush tail? Bullfrog wants to. He wants to consistently visit the waters to engage in the flow and ebb and weave of the stylish currents. Duty bound so duty is and all flotation tanks that arrive on a ceiling are to be thus acknowledged. Carrier pigeons make very dramatic circling loops but circling a pair of pans is akin to dripping a sauce heavily over a tissue. Ok then. Perhaps it is the formality that is the formal but not the formerly formed first. And beware of baked rations of cabbages at this time. Fir they can rise and rise and rise and rise. So all you sea urchins, emeralds, garnets of tree clusters, and ilk hypothesise this scenario. In under one word. Or in a sentence of six characters. Here is the title to ponder. 'If nine elephants ate a cake with no icing would the rhino still be envious'. Scores will be given to any emblematic and meaningful answers. The rule is not to swear and curse for both are insufficient to a language lean. So don't lean heavily upon amplifiers, pool tables, breasts, sea horses, tails, or any related articles resting in fires and bins. Surplus to requirements is a large wad of mismatched print that portrays fresh cream and butter like lards and fats. Critical caressing creating crossing chaos. Chat chat chat and then cut chop. No chip shop in their right mind would sell multi corroded mouldy non sparkling potatoes in a fryer. So leap then. Longitude latitude is neither an attitude nor a mystified contemplation of a sausage roll on a shelf. Ok then. Tell it to the feathers, mystic beak in realm, tell it to the cloven hooves trotting in the towns, tell it to a block of frozen ice, soon to break and thaw, and don't forget the number two waiting at the door. And now go bake a cake using a lorry, a car and a huge seventy acre highway. Hahaha bread is giggling to the toaster. Hahaha postures of pigs parading and paragliding too. Hahaha missionary muscle mass musical effect. Passing. Xxxxx hypnotherapy Z. That was a bulletin from 9905829405.0 from the p Y Q REPORTING ON A NEW NOTE FLICK, z
Form:
Let me tell you the story of the pie piper
Had a flute he played so said the flyer
The town we lived in was on fire
Our situation was grave and dire
That is why we needed to hire
This one and the only pie piper
With his flute through the mirk and mire
He conjured pies from the sky and higher
We needed them to sell enough to retire
In fact we were set we already had a buyer
What happened next was unforeseen John Dryer
Although he did show up it was in two nights not the prior
We agreed to his terms...he was preaching to the choir
Then the pies happened all kinds right out of the fryer
What I tell is true I am not a liar
Don't believe me just ask my sire
Fruit Pies of all kinds
Meat Pies great finds
Pizza Pies blew minds
Weird Pies with rinds
But then
Just then
The tide turned
We got burned
Trust unearned
Yuck he churned...
Quickly they began to really fall
Then all the children started to bawl
It was a disaster all in all
We tried to leave but moved at a crawl
Who would think of such a thing
We could hear the town bells ring
All others knew to stay in with this warning
This turned out to be a terrible morning
Actually changed into a kind of mourning
The sky was now brown in color
You could smell the wretched odor
We had not considered cow pies
Nor all the pests mostly black flies
Literally the **** had hit the fan
So much for our supposed brilliant plan
12~10~2014
Rhyme Scheme: aa aaaa aaaa aaaa aa
bbbb cc dddd eeeee ff gg hh.
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Contest Name: Plentitude of Pies
Christi’s Chicken
In the event you may want
Something more before
I can return,
There’s some of my famous chicken
Here somewhere
Behind the milk, (in the yellow Tupperware).
Remember how Christi
Would beg and plead
“Make your chicken please!”
The rare times I came home?
I thought of that this morning
When I turned the fryer on.
The chicken is here,
The recipe is still the same,
Although I’ve tried a time or two
To take something out, add something new,
I always find that I come back
To the way I made it just for you.
The chicken is here.
Should you prefer something else,
There’s lunch meat on the second shelf.
You’ll have to thaw the bread.
I regret that it’s not fresh
But I rarely use enough
To keep it here that way.
In the event you find
That you get bored
Before I can return,
There are some of my old poems
In the parlor by the chair
(You’ll find the shoe box there).
Remember how you used to plead
“Write something for me please!”
When I would call each day?
I think of that each time
I put my pen away.
The poems are here
And the style is still the same,
Although I’ve tried a time or two
To take something out,
Add something new
I always find that I come back
To the way I wrote them just for you.
The poems are here.
Should you prefer something else
There are pictures on the second shelf;
Moments frozen like the bread
From better times when love was fresh.
We did not use it quite enough
To keep it here that way.
Enjoy the chicken.
Form:
I'm on stage
Sweating
Voice tonging the drums
My screams are performing **** with the horns
Sexing the strings
Necking the rhythm section
Grooving on the spot
Getting hotter than hot
Rolling my hips while the lights are on top of me
Snapping my fingers like a deep fryer be poppin' grease
All the fellas wanna shake my hand
All the ladies want to be in my palm like a fortune teller's grammar
The smoke filled room is filled with chairs but everbody just choose to stand up
Tapping their feet
Clapping their hands after they've captured the beat
FEELING GOOD!!!
That i'm a man that just so happens to understand
That the boss been working you a little too hard
Or that I done went through too much hell to find heaven in you
I don't mind turning you a-loose
But I just can't let ya get too far
Don't be nervous
Just let
Go of your worries
Cause they don't make good pets
And you can never tell when and if they're coming back again
But you know that the good times will just pick up and go
I don't need to see no scholars or doctors when I'm running a fever with a sore
throat
All I need is a bottle of vodka or gin and peppermint for the common cold
Either I'm not your preacher,teacher,doctor,or healer or I'm all of the above
Turn on your radio,play a tape,spin a record,put on a cd,turn on your TV or
You might be lucky enough to come and see me down at the club
HEy hEy,
"I'm Your Blues Man"
You were born in December
And you wear your trouble like a rough petrifying plum and carry the sadness of 1000 unsung voices
That's about as much as I know about you
Where are the poems about the sorrows of ordinary people?
You are 23
And gazing upon skyscrapers
You breathed in the air of a new America
And searched for your mother's eyes across the canvas of solemn Church ladies
To deal with your depression, you bought a new air fryer, a CD player and unused glassware that still lingers in the depth of our kitchen cabinets
You won't let us touch it
You are 25
And endure the searing of knuckles into skin
Like pillars of stone
A tightening grip around your neck,
hot breath from lips of silk and honey
You are 31
And your hands can heal broken bones
Ready to intrude upon unsuspecting colds, unsuspecting falls and unsuspecting men
Elegant in their form and function,
they create beauty out of nothing
and hold the bronze black skin of my face with calloused fingertips and so much love summer blooms from my cheeks
Black mother's hands are unyielding
You are 37
You bathe the boys
and groan at the sound of me
You are 38
and sorrow follows you into every room like a dark silhouette
You are 45
and have cut yourself in half
Your body ages
and your anger burns into a seam
Your CD player has broken
It is easy to become a praying woman
“Do you still love me?”
I ask searching, for an answer,
Trying not to beg
Inspired by and dedicated to
Sara Kendrick and her poem "Chicken"
I once had a chicken
Came out of his egg kick-in'
He was the strangest thing , I've ever seen
This chicken had two necks but he only had one head
I'm guess-in' that's why he was so mean
I wasn't 'till much later
That a Chef asked the waiter
To go buy some chickens, at my farm
So I told him, as far as chickens
HE, should do the pick-in'
So he grabbed-up the fryer, in his arms
Although it was some trouble
He saw his profits double
Figure-in' to buy one and get one free
The Chef was really please
As he took that bird with ease
Then turned-up the stove a few degrees
He gave the bird a whack,
And there was a sudden thwack
As that little fryer's head, hit the floor
He thought he had struck gold
When he started to unfold
Seeing that the bird, had offered more
Two gizzards and three livers
Is what this bird delivered
And the Chef thought this made a darn good start
But further on inspection
There was a sad detection
The poor little Fryer had no heart
So I've learned, Not to be mean
Or you'll end up a cuisine
So, be nice and kind from the very start
Even if you're bless,
Having more than the all rest
Don't be a little Fryer with no heart
Pooper Scooper
Scooper Pooper
I like to watch my cat
tip its hat
in its tea.
but only for me
thats why you'll see me
Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high.
Thats why you wont find us
with a stigh
in our eye.
No it's not a lie
from this mouth.
Yea, thats what I'm talking about!
Dont sit there and pout.
You little nerd.
Go take a turd
In the cow herd
in the field.
Just keeping it real!
Dont catch a feel
in my dress.
Lets play some chess
like a geek
in a creek.
You little freak!
Go play a game.
Just do it for shame.
Not in my name!
You Liar!
Use a mushroom fryer
on a garage band flier
when you put it in a dryer
on low.
You really blow!
Do it on show.
I'll pay a dollar!!!
And I'll put it in the collar
of your G-string.
Aint a thing
But a chicken wing!
Go get some booty
From a frooty
tooty
cooty
Yuck Boys!
Biotch! buy your own toys
at the special shop
where you always drop
like a blow pop
on the floor.
Dont knock on the door
just ask for more
when you dance dance!
We're falling apart to halftime!
Dance Dance!
Underneath the cork tree
where we took a pee
for a two dollar fee
when we shown our butts.
Or how about when we scratched our nuts.
Your Nucking Futs!
By: Miranda and Trista
Form:
It’s Sunday,
and I’m drawing myself again,
third time this week.
This version features a haunted air fryer,
a coupon for free emotional labor,
and Janice—
the shoebill, wearing my ex’s hoodie
and threatening the moon.
She’s perched
on a folding chair I stole from a church basement,
clutching a Slim Jim like a relic.
Her breath smells like copper wiring and vengeance.
She doesn’t blink.
She’s been through things
I wouldn’t survive in metaphor.
Next to us is a gas station floral arrangement
wilting under fluorescent light.
In front of us is me,
in my paint-splotched pajamas,
asking Janice if she thinks
my inner child should unionize.
She says nothing,
just tilts her prehistoric head
and sh*ts squarely on my manuscript.
I call it divine intervention.
Later,
we walk into the city wearing matching trench coats,
one of us smoking,
one of us quoting Adrienne Rich,
neither of us offering apologies.
When the world ends,
it’ll be a clerical error.
Janice will fix it with duct tape and a spell
written in cut-up tomatoes.
I’ll be there,
editing the horoscopes.
And when someone asks
What kind of bird is that?
I’ll smile, say,
Oh, she’s mine,
we found each other in a storm.
If a grill you approach or you roast or you bake
Or you boil or you poach, you have made a mistake.
If you steam or flambe or you stew or saute,
I suggest when you're cooking you chose the wrong way.
If desiring a meal with its taste maximized,
Then one method's ideal: It is best if it's fried.
Fry in oil or choose fat or use butter or lard.
All when hot become grease for your recipe card.
First with cracker or bread crumbs the pieces you coat.
Then in fryer you plunge them and watch as they float.
See them crackle and spit till a rich, golden brown.
Then remove them and drain and voraciously down.
Whether dinner or lunch, it gives flavor its punch.
On a crispy piece munch while you savor its crunch.
With delectable, succulent meat that's inside,
Either treat your own palate or serve it with pride.
The aroma will linger and please or repel,
But with dishes delicious as chef you'll excel.
If you'd epicure be or would chase away blues,
Then from menus an item that's fried you should choose.
It will shorten your lifespan, nutritionists say.
But if true, it's a price I've decided to pay.
More than length, it is quality living I prize;
So I'm makin' some bacon with fritters and fries.