Long Gargle Poems
Long Gargle Poems. Below are the most popular long Gargle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gargle poems by poem length and keyword.
Gargle, glop, burble and glug,
The sauce in the bottle was glued.
It oozed so slow, not wanting to leave,
To cover all of my food.
A thump and a thud with a thwack on its base
Didn’t convince it to ooze any faster.
I guess it really didn’t want to cover the peas,
The chips, the mash or the pasta.
Then an idea popped into my head
To persuade it to flow like a stream.
I could gently warm it, with a little hot water,
Make it foam and simmer and steam.
Yes, it splashed, it flowed, I had broken its hold,
It would satisfy with a flavored up quench.
Then with one last wallop, the sauce flew from the bottle,
Far and wide, splashing all over the bench.
Not-So-Heroic Couplets
by Donald Trump
care of Michael R. Burch
To outfox the pox:
kill yourself first, with Clorox!
And since death is the goal,
mainline Lysol!
No vaccine?
Just chug Mr. Clean!
Is a cure out of reach?
Fumigate your lungs, with bleach!
To immunize your thorax,
destroy it with Borax!
To immunize your bride,
drown her in Opti-cide!
To end all future gridlocks,
gargle with Vaprox!
Now, quick, down the Drain-o
with old Insane-o NoBrain-o!
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
NOTE: The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch
Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!
Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch
BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?
Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch
Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.
Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air
Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch
A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch
Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.
Keywords/Tags: Donald Trump, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, couplet, humor, humorous, Clorox, Lysol, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, America, USA, giggle, political, natural disasters
Falls flowers
On the road to Bolequeime on the way to a German supermarket
that sells proper Teutonic sausages as autumnal flowers blossom,
some of the blooms sit on white plastic chairs wearing shorts.
Sometimes a car stops, no, not a man in a white van, a big car a businessman
on the way from his office stops getting quick blow-jobs.
Best this way no need to undress an act that causes people to stare.
The human blooms have water bottles the gargle; no one here smells like rosebuds.
They used to, in the summer gone throng nightclubs and the beach
but only slow walking men fill the bars and beach.
Like a beautiful weed, they trek inland, sit by the roadside and wait.
The flowers look nice in fading light, but not if you know what love is.
the weed of autumn sits by the verge, sells despondency
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill.
First I googled it, having never really heard that term before.
The “grist” part had conjured up for me
images of grisly scenes like in a horror movie
in which all that remained of dead bodies
was the ghastly gristle of victims killed most gruesomely,
the parts of them ground up inside a mill!
But no, a gristmill is nothing so sinister as that!
“Grist” is just another word for grain (the grain for grinding into flour).
A gristmill, therefore, is the name for the machine or for the building
where the gristing is performed!
Strange that I’d only heard it in my region called a mill.
If the word “mill” denotes the place for the grinding,
isn’t it redunant to add a word
which also is as repugnant as the word “grist” seems to be?
Or maybe it’s only I that find the word so ugly -
ugly like the words gargle, gagging, maggots or mucus.
Funny to think that since my ancestors likely worked in gristmills,
my maiden name might have been “Gristmiller” and not Miller.
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill, but ended up with this!
June 2, 2018 for The Gristmill Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Sex Advice For Men
Wear double rubbers 24 hours a day
Don’t have sex in boxer shorts
If your woman is pretty, do it in the light
If she is ugly, do it in the dark
If she is so so, dim the lights and pray that it’s ok
Bazookas are too tight for a vagina
Dynamite is dangerous
Never open up an umbrella inside of her
It is bad luck
Erotica has a time and place
We all know that salty but not unpleasant taste
So remember to brush your teeth and gargle
And say grace before and after every meal
Use butter in bed but never margarine
Peanut butter and whipped cream are allowed
Turpentine is prohibited
Never ride your wife like she’s a horse
Unless you saddle her first of course, to avoid divorce
The best advice to give in these holey matters is
Check for all the right body parts
If there’s too much apparatus down under
In the lower extremities
She’s a he
Never have sex with animals with or without your zoo shots
Sex with one woman at a time is advised
You don’t always have to wear a tie
Unless you intend to marry
When you take her on a date you have to wait
When she turns red, push the green button, (cash)
If that doesn't work, use the jumper cables or cable TV
Take her dancing, spin her around
It’s like rotating the tires on your car
Women with athletic skills and acrobatics are the best
Stay away from girls without a pulse
It’s the same as having sex alone or something worse
Laying down in my queen sized bed
All kind of painful aches
inside my head
Looking up my room slowly spinning
Last night I drank and drank
My thoughts I'm WINNING!!!
Looking around the room feeling so dumb
Can barely move legs
I'm weak & I'm numb
The smell of alcohol
A liquor stench on my breath
Don't know what I was trying to do to myself ..my health
Silly me... in the bed
Losing my sanity
The smell of cigarettes my hair/ my clothes
The smell of Hennessy Vodka and Moscato up my nose
All I know right now my Brain cells dead
Can't say that I was spiritually fed
Time to get up brush teeth gargle and bathe
I have to rollover
This is the story of my hangover
When handsome and shouting cowboys flirt
with gorgeous gals galloping on wild horses,
they won't catch up despite their manliness:
women know what they are after and resist.
The mid-August sun is scorching, and dust rises
amid rust canyons, making trails of their escape;
youth is precious to them, and these girls seek romance,
not marriage to bear many children and feed their mouths.
We see romance blossoming between two roses,
expressing anxiety and their longing for kisses;
and the only time they cry is when brief showers
from the South pelt on their gleaming petals.
When small brooks gargle down steep, rough boulders,
the dehydrated hunters take a break while cicadas creep;
and doing so they lose their catch and indulge in daydreams:
soothing shade is tempting, they lower their hats and fall asleep.
There are no snowfalls in arid deserts, and that infuriated explorers
seeking gold to be carved out of the Colorado and Arizona hills;
young ladies sought romance, not marriage, which demanded trust,
and whenever tough times came, they weren't willing to pay the cost.
Humpenscrumy Bubblahoot ruttletoo
Gulping chomping vayvaycrootoo
Nostrils flaring bumpun fiddle trung
In the holtapolta garden flicker mung
Wags and woofs crimba tungee moss
Trabble fongslulu around wastry gross
Scratching terthy cangs of drigglyfrock
Zinging away buggly condrax chucrock
Trouble drouble lumps of quundoo drip
Chonky tinkhiss phantals gotsog flip
Naughty Hoodlecuttu blurglur changqa
Doodle goodle cups of hot pot fangqa
Weary treary shall I picksert quartee you
Or my nimbla golta rasdinga suits two
Gobberwarts of gargle entralunk hunfdy
Bhronking daddan goodbye fat wunfsy!
*Written by a really sad emotional Vogon dog owner when his Bubblahoot vayvaycrootooed.*
May 23, 2020
Vogon Poetry (really bad poetry) Quoopisk Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Team PoetrySoup
The barman was a chimpanzee
With a sad old wise old face
He ran the themed franchised bar
At Fat Sam’s Dancing Place
He swung his cocktail mixture
Jiggled it and deftly caught it
Your drink was ready and mixed
Before you’d even thought it
And he kept a special section
Where you could sit and think
And he always with discretion
Topped up or replaced your drink
The waiting staff were android
Gorillas attended the entry door
With only humanoid beings
Allowed in from that dance floor
Sometimes the barman did a cabaret
White tied lounge suited with a cane
Once did a mean mean take off
Of the Duke Big John Wayne
I am told that he even once
Though to be sure I wasn’t there
Used a hat stand in lieu of Ginger
In a tribute to Fred Astaire
When the going was too hectic
In that galactic mixing place
You could draw so much comfort
From that friendly kindly face
If too many gargle blasters
Were scrambling your head
That chimpanzee ensured
You woke up home in your bed
And he never told gossip stories
And he never forgot a face
He ran a bar of perfection
At Fat Sam’s Dancing Place
Try his drinks of true distinction
Try superb food designed to thrill
At the one and only universally known
Superb Chimpanzee's Galactic Bar and Grill
Written: November 17, 2025
****************
The night used to gargle with garrulous joy—
canorous crickets, a capacious choir
beneath the diaphanous veil of dusk.
Now, only the hissing of wires,
the gaseous hum of machines
careen through the cloudscape.
I prowl the porch at the moon’s behest,
a flaneur of vanished felicity,
searching for the fetching fipple-song
that once gamboled through the grass.
But the calyx is closed.
The petiole wilted.
The elixir of sound—evanesced.
Where once the heron slept
and the wisteria wore its tiara of dew,
now lies a threadbare hush,
a dismal hex of silence.
The garden, once gaudy with chirps,
It is a byzantine grave of elision.
Did we disassemble for too long?
Rake too deep?
Abase the earth with hubris
And flapdoodle dreams of dominion?
Did our egregious hunger
for luster and control
writhe the world into quiet?