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.
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
On Sunday I went to the movies,
A space that the theater now shares
With a church that was holding a service
On the second floor, right up the stairs.
As the clerk took ahold of my ticket,
I noticed the welcoming sign;
So a person who entered had choices –
See a movie or seek the divine.
There were mouthwash and mints in the bathroom
Which the church leaders sweetly supplied,
Though I have to admit I was baffled –
Would a gargle make virtue implied?
As I fixed on the coming attractions,
While relaxed on my faux-leather perch,
I supposed I was one of the sinners
To the worshipers up in the church.
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
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
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
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
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
There was a young woman who yearned for a mate.
Sadly cat food was all that she ate...
The cans with seafood she clearly favored and from
this diet she never wavered.
Many thought her an attractive gal, in spite of slight
whiskers and her woeful meow.
None dared go close as her breath was so foul..
Come night on a twinkling star she would wish.
At the break of each dawn she'd gargle and swish.
Regardless she always reeked heavily of fish.
She couldn't rid of this seafood scent which seeped
thru her pores and wouldn't relent, so she
moved outdoors and bathed at a brook.
One day she got snagged by a golly whopper hook.
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?
Above...
rain and thunder
starts to upset the stomach of a now souring sky
it prepares itself to release a few tears
upon those seeking truth for their lies
in the distance
a white dove cries.
Thunder strikes up a conversation
clapping rudely, during the rains flawless audition
i stand amid not to be judged
but to be cleansed
by my own remission.
to fear, means knowing how to love
in the distance it cries
the white dove.
Those who seek out these healing waters
peace, they shall find
but the lost refuse to drink
and prefer to gargle from the man-made pool
of illusion and lies.
sadly, they never learn to fear
in the distance the white dove cries.