Long Garters Poems
Long Garters Poems. Below are the most popular long Garters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garters poems by poem length and keyword.
The Real Housewives
Sorry
Reality T.V Housewives
What's that all about
Happy Wife
Happy life
Jesus Christ
Thank God for Nannies
And Cleaner's
And Make up Artist's
Imagine any of these
Without the 3 R's to fall back upon
Rich's
Rrendering
Rhinoplastey
And a cheating Husband
All of the diamonds and all the plastic surgeons
Can't polish a turd
Even if it's covered in gold
Mutton dressed as lamb
Doesn't make a housewife
Real housewives are loved not built
Are Mother's
Not Reality Consumerist martyrs
Dressed in overpriced garters
With fake teeth
Fake smile's
Fake Boobs
And even faker marriages
With bleached and trimmed undercarriages
Slam
Sham
Film flam
Acting like there **** don't stink
Because they are so full of botox
They can't even blink
Can only be watched with the aid of a stiff drink
The mind boggles
How low can we go
Watch the show
Kim (one of my BFF) brightened with inspiration, “Oooo! Send him a sexy pic!”
“I’m NOT going to sext a guy out of the BLUE,” I grumbled, indignantly.
Kim turned to her phone, “No, No, of COURSE not.” She said as she texted.
“Come on” she said, as she pulled me off my chair and out the door. We raced over, on foot, to my friend Bili’s house (two houses away). We entered without knocking (as usual) and ran upstairs.
Bili lay on her stomach on her unmade bed, fiddling with her phone, ankles up and crossed but she twisted up to attention when we came in.
“What should we do first?” She said, as if there were a million things to do.
They set upon me and had my regular clothes off in a heartbeat. Like all makeovers, this had a prelapsarian purity - the ritual stripping down to blankness before rebuilding.
They quickly went through about half of Bili’s closet - selecting just the right combination of trashy and classy clothes designed to seduce.
They finally settled on a black slip under an ivory peignoir, stockings with garters and black strappy heels.
Kim twisted my hair up into a loose “Gibson Girl.”
“Hold still,” Bili said, as she grasped my chin and expertly blended red, gold and black glittery eyeshadows followed by lip liner and gloss. “This is just a quickie job,” she reminded me.
I stared at this strange version of myself in the vanity.
Kim frowned and looking around, she spread a pink scarf over the desk light to give the room a rosy glow. They went into studio mode - posing me in various ways from coquettish to bored lounging - suggesting expressions and taking endless pictures with my phone.
Finally, they were satisfied and handed me my phone.
“Shall we go through them?” Bili asked
“Naah,” I said, “I’ll go through ‘em and pick one - or two.”
Later, at home, I looked through them - I looked SO different - and I had to admit - sexy even. But was that ME? I cringed, what if my mom saw these trashy, Kardashian-like photos somewhere?
I never sent them. I thought I’d have to explain it to my girls.
“HA!” They laughed, “We KNEW you’d never use ‘em” Bili said, as Kim shook her head “Nope.”
“It was fun though!” We all agreed.
.
.
.
NOTE: This is a pre-pandemic story from August 2019. I was 15 - the idea wasn’t to seduce this guy, it was to get his interest so he would ask me out . =]
Ashley best describes himself as,
Cheeky, funny and also happy as,
He’s a student at South Bank Uni,
Of sports coaching in London city.
He is a very keen table tennis player,
Started playing in primary, 7th year,
And just missed out on London 2012,
But was at Rio 2016 with his helve.
2013 and Ashley won many bronzes:
Italy, Hungary and had Czech ounces;
So in 2014 Ashley won UK nationally,
In class 8-9 singles, phenomenally.
Then breakthrough: Slovenian Open.
In the team event, you’re no token,
And at the Cote d’Azur International,
Ashley won 2 bronzes medals brutal.
In 2015 he won in the team events,
Had Italian, HU, CZ and DE tents,
And in Denmark reached the quarters,
At the European Champs, garters.
In Copa, Costa Rica, in the singles,
He took silver in swift class 9 jingles,
And in Rio made the quarters, team,
With K Daybell. He’s Erbs palsy lean.
Gentlemen, raise your glass to the British institution,
Breeding the champagne elite with seamless execution
Exclusively tailored for the clotted cream of the crop
With privileged patrilineage as the firm backdrop
The bespoke cradle that nurtures elite evolution
Crafting leaders of Britain's unwritten constitution
Renowned for ‘hoorah’ high spirits and notoriety
Crowned on high pedestals in moments of sobriety
Vandalism explained briskly away
Upper class boys club spirits sashay
Entitlement says, "turn a blind eye"
The Club, “purely hearsay, by the by”
While the common personage may humbly sip tea
Tailcoats stained with joviality, champagnes spree
Aware the law will not have their ‘guts for garters’ *
In recognition of gab and bubbly barters
Once they graduate with the superior scroll
They enrol with honours on parliaments roll
Embracing all their fine manners and etiquette
Hogging the political scene, lest we forget
And through the vast ancient chambers and corridors
'Bully, Bully, Bully' seeps slyly through the pores
Where the brotherhood debates the law of the land
Holding a flute of the finest champagne to hand
*Guts for Garters – Meaning to punish severely
Date: 10/04/23
Contest: Bullingdon Boys
Sponsor: Joe Maverick
****s Gluts
Societal Stutter
More Cuts
Suicidal Splutter
Serfs Ruts
Should be wary
Weary of the scary
Leery lairy Dairy Fairy
Utter Nutter
If's But's
Gutter Mutter
Tut Tutts
Because of their ilk
Silk road's now
Bow..cash cow
Kowtow to
Road of Milk
Nadirs Clutter
Wing Nuts
Flitter Flutter
Garters from Guts
Soften your butter
Everything shudders
Will explode
Due to the udders
Rivers life
Givers rotten
Nature rife
Delivers from
Strife forgotten
Moolah besotten
Milk powder
Or
Seafood chowder
Dairy highway dismay
All day diner
Cosplay for our new
Crueler ruler.. China
Hip hip Hooray!
Apocalypse Beans
Sometimes it seems
your chest is about to cave in.
You try to catch a breath but
your heart flutters like a dry leaf;
Just more suburban undulations;
Dressed down for a slow blues song.
Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire.
Life has such trying interludes,
when it seems you can’t go further.
You are so tired and scared,
you can hardly urinate at dawn.
Your mind begins to see
air movies of the dead ascending;
Crawling out of cracked tombs
dressed sedately for the soirée.
A million funerals go by with
skeleton girls sucking on pixy stix.
Madness angels in garters pass over
sleeping streets searching for blood trees.
Stallion-dressed men-dogs chase down
old octogenarians for bones and wisdom teeth.
Fear worms from hell come slinking,
Oozing out of a million eye sockets,
Sucking blood and brains sifting
through transparent wires attached
to rubber-hosed machines in musty rooms.
A million funerals moan inside the old graveyard
adjacent the First Methodist confines.
Gum-chewing embalmers gather
to sing a torch song to the driveling and the dying.
Sometimes it seems
I can hear the female choirs singing,
their high-pitched Latin refrains again.
They stand erect in the choir loft fingering missals.
The young girls up there,
wear choir togs and slithering plaid beanies.
They read the notes and eye the glowing boys below.
Jesus and the stained glass ghosts look up from earth.
Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire.
Their cackle reamed with burning forget-me-nots.
She does all the wrong things, her brother said.
He had been raised by judgers.
He was judging his sister on their meter.
There was a frown on his face.
She is unique, fun, her own person.
Has a hilarious sense of humor,
She is a feminist, a flapper!
This was stated by a distant cousin.
I met her for myself much later.
She was smoking, unheard of in 1929.
Her garters were showing.
Her legs were thrown haphazardly over a chair.
Her brother yelled something and she gave him a strawberry.
My friend and I laughed.
I was amazed by her.
A woman who followed no one but herself in 1929.
I was impressed!
It is the evening I have waited for,
stiletto heels three inches high adorned my feet,
real nylons hung from garters beneath a
skin tight, leather skirt of maraschino cherry-red.
A blouse of white silk, with a cascade of ruffles,
played peek-a-boo with my décolletage.
Outdoors, the rain pounded the asphalt
making the reality of his arrival even more bizarre.
A Harley barrels into the driveway.
Apparently, he thinks
he is Marlon Brando
and I am Stella?
I stand on the porch, a black umbrella
covering my new do, and watch as he
saunters through the puddles on the concrete walk.
The color of the umbrella my only
non-incongruent element in the frame, the scene made.
His smile was like a box of Chiclet's
on his clean shaven face.
He kisses me.
I lick the raindrop
from the tip of his Roman nose
and take hold of his Russian fingers.
He tosses my umbrella on the porch,
throws his black leather jacket over my shoulders,
lifts me off my feet, and carries me to the bike.
The sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops,
just in time for the neighbors to glare at the sight of my legs
reflecting on the bikes chrome work.
Shake their respective heads
and donate a few wolf whistles.
Ivie Twombley
1884-1913
Lottie Gordon and me were always together.
Joined at the hip, most folks would say;
You never met two ladies quite like us.
If you had known Lottie and Ivie,
The two of us at age 21,
If you had gotten to know us for our real selves;
Wild bachelorettes in french garters,
Roaming the Quaker streets and alleys,
Of Greenleaf, Philadelphia and Bailey,
Seeking out young mammon, and innocent kisses,
As we did quite regularly in 1905,
Why, you would have summoned our parents!
And the Elders of the Friends Church to boot!
Lottie and me were soulful sisters,
And best friends, especially in the snaring arts,
Trapping both wild men and civilized beasts alike!
It didn’t seem to matter one way or the other really,
Not after what happened to Roscoe.
We all knew someone murdered him.
As we both knew everyone hated him.
My Lottie, she never recovered from losing that man.
It seared my soul to see that girl so broken-hearted.
…I think of her all the time, even now in death.
She’s buried across Citrus Road in Clark Cemetery,
Over there by the old toppled stones,
And the high, giraffe-like, desert palms…
…The earth moves, my friends.
It moves without ceasing, without slowing,
We dead people can feel it rumble and grind and twist,
Rumble like an old machine in winter...
… I met my demise at age 29.
I died like Lottie,
Drowning helplessly,
Without being in the water.
And that is that.
A poodle lived in her shadow,
it was not ill-treated, just ignored,
its matted form
wandered around the house
looking to be noticed.
The living room
was littered with her underwear,
discarded bras, panties, garters and negligee.
I had no idea
why these things all came to rest here,
scattered around her like that.
I was an occasional pal of her son.
Once she fed a pink baby
from her own white flesh
as if not even noticing us boys.
The soft upholstery of the sittee
settled around her
proclaiming her sovereign presence.
The poodle hesitated to enter the room,
knowing, as we did,
we would never be part of her kingdom.