Long Groupies Poems
Long Groupies Poems. Below are the most popular long Groupies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Groupies poems by poem length and keyword.
...He looked around frantic as he struggled to breath.
“It’s all happening at once, I just can’t believe…
I know that they are all waiting, will want to record,
but right now it doesn’t seem so simple any more,
with all my family’s been saying…don’t know what to do,
and I’d hate if all this took me away from you!”
She stroked his hand and said,”Jack, you have to relax,
you have the chance to make music, that is a fact.
You tell me it’s what you want, so I think you should sign,
and not pass this up waiting for a better time.”
He said,”But if we go on tour, you know what that means?"
She said,”I know, but I’d never impede your drams.”
So Jack left with the band, and it was bittersweet,
they soon cracked the Top 40, which was no little feat.
Black Jack and The Shirkers would soon go platinum,
known for hypnotic hooks and songs of drink and fun.
Jack was modest at first, but soon embraced the fame,
all the parties and groupies who sere so far from tame…
Yes, the albums and the riches piled up in droves,
there was no sort of indulgence he did not know,
he had a big mansion, he drove fancy sport cars,
no one could image he’d ever go this far.
But as his twenties rolled on he soon started to see
deep within him a cold, growing despondency.
It started as a trickle, a fatigue he couldn’t shed,
them slowly grew until it filled up most of his head,
the gnawing sense that all of this was just skin deep,
before long it made it hard for Jack even to sleep.
The shrinks couldn’t help him, the gurus just annoyed,
so he thought back to the last time he’d felt real joy.
He realized it was that last night that he had seen Kay,
about no other woman had he felt that way,
for all of the drama he’d had his senior year
he remembered how with here there had been no fear,
just a quiet acceptance, she’d listened and cared,
and that was how Jay found himself going back there.
He was twenty-seven, eight whole years had gone past,
and he knew it was crazy, but he had to ask,
had to see for himself if some small spark remained,
if she could still see the real him through the trappings of fame.
It wasn’t all that hard to find her new address,
so he worked up his courage, and put on his best...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
When I was fifteen my friend 'Riff' and I
started our very own garage band,
and for the first year we truly stank,
but I've always been a dedicated man.
I pushed Riff, and we quickly got better,
soon started writing songs of our own,
got a drummer, 'Bomber,' and bassist, Caplan,
folks were downloading our songs to their phones.
Soon we attracted big league attention,
and at twenty I signed us to a deal,
our album sold big, our downloads bigger,
all of our rock star dreams become real.
It was at this time I sat and thought
of the musicians who had gone before,
the mistakes and pitfalls that had dogged them,
and would be the end of many bands more.
I had no desire to exit this world,
as had the great Bonham and Mercury,
made myself a goal, even wrote it out,
I would moderate my debauchery.
This was no easy thing for a young man
now living the celebrity life,
it's not like I didn't sleep with groupies,
hell one of them would become my wife!
But I tried to avoid the easier ones,
which is a difficult thing to do,
could you turn away a smoking hot girl
wearing just a smile and tattoo?
But more often than not my will won out,
an I always used good protection,
no use throwing all your health away
in the name of temporary fun.
And it isn't like I did not drink,
I have always enjoyed a cold beer,
but I'd get drunk no more than once a week,
and hired drivers to assuage our fears.
It's also fair to say that I smoke some pot,
though honestly, it was never my thing,
but I used it to draw a hard line,
because the hard stuff was damn frightening.
The result was that I managed to keep
my head despite all the money and fame,
unfortunately I just kind of assumed
that all my band-mates would think the same way.
I guess that's a common human mistake,
as Caplan's problems soon would attest,
he wasn't satisfied with Mary Jane,
and was soon fond of heroin and meth.
He missed interviews, he even missed shows,
even woke up naked in Central Park,
whenever he was called out about it
he'd say,”Guys, I'm just having a lark!”
But it got so bad that Caplan was fired,
on him we could no longer rely,
a year later he overdosed at home,
only twenty-seven and he died...
CONTINUES IN PART II
We big, tough, well-thinking male bearberries blew and we snarled and we spouted and we blew.
But those danged dandelions obstinately kept their tops on, no matter how much we did fuss.
Come on fellas, I said to my fellow bearberries. Here is just what we’ll do…
“I’m not taking them!” I screamed at B.B.2, our leader, a passive little cuss.
I was talking about those damned tiger lilies, our groupies.
I am so sorry Tiger Lilies, he told them. It’s just us bear berries today. He shot an apologetic look to T.L. 1 and T.L. 402.
I am sick and tired of my whole life being video- recorded by those selfie-taking nut-buckets, I told him, indignant, and with an angry face.
They will clean your house, wash your floors, pay your bills, wax your car, and do your laundry, said B.B. 2.
I don’t care if my house implodes on its dirtiness, I retorted. Just keep them in their place.
I was talking about those damned tiger lilies, our groupies.
Tiger Lily 58 sneaked back into the Bearberry Lodge, where Tiger Lilies are never supposed to be.
We did not see her at first as she used her invisibility tablet to reach us; I felt her heat on the back of my neck, before I saw her.
She began to give me a really nice, warm, massage and sweet backrub which was the best I had had times three.
Wow! What is that? I asked myself, as I began getting tingly and happy all over, and down under.
I guess I was talking about these wonderful tiger lilies, our allies.
My dad had told me a long time ago that the best pairings in the meadow was always a BB and a T.L.
Who are you? I whispered to Tiger Q. Lily 58. I am your soul mate, she responded, can you please meet me at 2?
Where? I wondered, and she immediately conveyed that she would be at northern rise of Bunny P. Hill.
I will be there with my matching rings, I told her. Are you ready? Yes, she agreed. No one else will do.
I am now hitched to a wonderful tiger lily, and all my mean thoughts
toward T.L.'s seem pretty damned silly.
(And I don’t care whether or not the dandelions ever lose their
tops. They are of no use to me now.)
Dated: May 12,2018
This is a parody of "I can't Dance." by Genesis.
Metaphor junkies
spewing their dung
actin all holy
like they've written in tounges...
Can anybody
interpret that (Bleep)
explain the poems meaning
with a comment that fits...
Then say, I can't write
or compose
demi-gods are out there
always breaking my (Bleeps...)
They say, I can't write
or compose
so I'm just sittin here typin anything...
Contests
really tickle a muse
seems the hosts
and poet are truly confused...
A muse ain't fickle
just knows what it likes
if you can't relate
then yours may take a hike...
They say, I can't write
or compose
tappin on this keyboard
till my fingers are numb...
They say I can't write
or compose
so I'm just sittin here typin anything...
Metaphor groupies
bow to the ground
ain't got a clue
of what the poem expounds...
But it's got image
and metaphors too
though I've seen better
on the walls of a loo...
They say, I can't write
or compose
everything I pen
is either weak or cliche...
Yeah I can't write
or compose
so I'm just sittin here typin...
Yeah I try to make it right...
Put the verbiage, in its proper place...
~Note~
I also write on another site as RunningWolves . On that site there some really rude poets who think they are Gods gift to humanity. They think everything they write is a masterpiece and are not shy about belittling people who's comments on their work aren't good enough for them. So, I wrote this for them.
So this has nothing to do with anyone on PoetrySoup.
See, I never claimed to be a poet, nor to have anything that even remotely resembles talent. I am just an simple guy playing at poet. anything I do that even seems like a talent is really just God's way of keeping me from making a total fool of myself... I guess you could say its on loan from God... Thank you!
any superstitious peasants
out there tonight
TV junkies gossipy groupies
smooth talking saxophonists
am I talking too fast
for couple's therapy
uh oh here comes
another scar on my head
the optimist would say
the scar of opportunity
fortunately digression is an art
that never plays for keeps
you don't want to become
the unwitting tool
of smarter people do you
you do
it's your worst nightmare
instead let's play museum
you have eye
you have other eye
you will however need an augury
let's step onto the showroom floor
where we have our latest models
Bill the mechanic seer
could tell your fate
from a pile of tossed grease rags
he was right almost every time
he even told 3 circus anteaters
they would run for President
and they did
Edwina the cleaning lady sibyl
could swing a vacuum bag
round her head and tell from the
dust cloud if you were gonna die
from gall bladder or aphrodisiac
Zaza the 1 trick pony
could hoof the innards of a road kill
and you'd find love
an astronomer named Ziggy
told our planet that a big rock
was coming from the sky like a freight train
that's why I'm appearing before you
in this ethereal minimum medium
you'll have to forgive me
if I show a lack of enthusiasm
for this dangerous matter
I may have fallen captive to the tow
of the clandestine echelons
working their hands like bug legs
in a sign language
that horrifies the deaf
I've scanned this
for alien message implants
you won't need a map of area 51
just a chicken wire cage
which is always as refreshing as
another lash of the cane
take permission out behind the toadstools
and put a bullet up its shirt
they just hand me the script
and I broadcast what I'm told
radio free Carthage
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
For those avid crossword groupies of which I are one,
I'm offering free of charge vital data to add to your fun.
So you're stuck on 15-down for the name of a barren of mules!
Groups of creatures you can now name if you use this set of rules!
A group of apes is a shrewdness and a gang of asses is a pace.
Tigers are a streak and you'd better streak should they give chase!
Can you believe that skittish plovers are called a congregation?
(I wonder, perhaps Baptist, Lutheran, Catholic or other denomination?)
You might see a cackle of hyenas or a tower of giraffes at zoos,
Or if on a Kenyan safari a bloat of hippos or a fleet herd of gnus.
The name for a prickle of porcupines is an appropriate moniker for sure!
A sleek bunch of ferrets is called a business, and, why, I'm unsure.
Pesky squirrels are called a scurry and a warren is for rabbits.
(There are many warrens of rabbits due to their promiscuous habits!)
Badgers are grouped as a cete and leopards are known as a leap;
Moles are known as a labor and a herd or drove identifies sheep.
Parliaments of owls meet in trees and eagles in convocations.
Jellyfish waft about in smacks and peacocks strut in ostentations!
Screeching cormorants are a gulp which sounds mighty weird.
Steer clear of a crash of rhinos since they are to be feared!
Charming finches are called a charm and larks an exaltation,
Turkeys a rafter, frogs an army and starlings a murmuration.
Locusts are known as a plague and cockroaches an intrusion.
An unkindness of ravens and their raucous caws just causes confusion!
Groups of humans are known as Republicans, Democrats or Nazarenes,
Jerks and morons but this barely includes all human species by any means!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
After my years of struggle, playing small time gigs
Right place, right time, I hit it big
No longer will I face the rejections
I now have an accountant doing my financial projections
I make money, number one on the charts
Love them, leave them, breaking the groupies hearts
I have my paternity insurance through L of L
It keeps me from any shotgun wedding bells
Now my future looks so bright
It is my destiny to be in the spotlight
I am called a marketable commodity
Not a one hit wonder as you will see
Just got a call from my agent, now I'm back on the road
Never want to lose that hunger, always go for the gold
My next big hit will be better than the last
Orange juice and uppers keep me moving fast
In between shows, I sleep during the day and party all night
There is so much pressure to remain in the spotlight
There is no other career that can compare
The amps booming and the smell of weed in the air
To this way of life I have become a slave
The doctor tells me if I don't slow down expect an early grave
I am living my dream being a part of the lifestyles of the rich and shameless
Gotta stay on top, who has time to take a rest
If you can't be famous, be infamous, I believe that's right
After a taste of it, you're addicted, you would sell your soul to stay in the spotlight
I salute Mick, David and Axel and all those other die hard road performance
junkies
I went from a nobody to a star, but was never anyone's flunky
I want to be like Hall and Oats, a non-stop hit machine
I can't stop, I can't rest, there is no in between
With the access to all the drugs, booze and women, it happens one night
Eventually we all fall out of the spotlight
spoke kin like
a true non establishmentarian.
Wily wordsmith wields wisdom and wit
renders requiem welcoming thee to visit,
no matter foisting poetic riffraff (mine)
necessitates applying figurative tourniquet
to staunch potential
life threatening hemorrhage
oozing out fifty shades of
your gray cerebral moon unit,
thus best be extremely cautious
heed warning to preserve
self interest and quit
while ahead, i.e. stop reading
and surreptitiously exit,
now lest noggin contents
rendered into pureed blivit
causing irrevocable damage,
now just for fun grab
amusement park ride ticket,
and picture yourself
in a boat on a river
squarely bobbing along...
barely staying afloat
courtesy soaked sponge square pants
within skeletal ricket
tee skiff analogous to
time warped white picket
fence forever lost and seasick
out of desperation imploring malefic
powers that be while moored thick
within (think) Scylla and Charybdis
not caring a lick
despite super tramping cheap trick
worse fate than death,
where metaphorical flick
finds one human flotsam and jetsam (ye)
violently sucked into realm wick
head witch, which
in toto along metaphorical yellow brick
road nsync cues soundcloud
faintly reminiscent of Herman's hermit
mid nineteen sixties approximate
time Beatles made mop top headlines
both bands selling
one after another smash hit,
where half crazed lasses frenziedly
screamed and threw maniacal fit
activating advent of groupies
they made nun sense sickle habit
to shadow many rock and roll band
initially majority identifying as Brit
nowadays global musical hodgepodge
synthesized linkedin with fitbit.
Winning the Lottery
Yes, I dream of winning the Lottery,
Hitting the jackpot on a Saturday night.
Oh, it’s so wonderful to imagine,
So, I cross my fingers and hold them tight.
Our George bemoans his bad luck,
All these years, not even a Tenner.
He told me that a couple from up Orkney,
Won Five million, Mr and Mrs Jenner.
Now I don’t want a fortune,
Just to be comfortable, would be nice.
I could buy me a shiny new sports job,
Without thinking about it twice.
A holiday to the Island of Barbados,
Under tropical skies, that sounds grand.
Or perhaps a Mediterranean cruise,
Lazing on deck, getting tanned.
I would have to update my wardrobe,
With a suit from Ralph Lauren.
A few shirts with the label of Versace,
Oh, and Designer shoes by Donna Karan.
We may have to move from the terrace,
Buy a cottage in the countryside.
Or better still a bungalow by the sea,
With a Veranda, to sit watching the tide.
I could afford to have Guitar lessons,
Learn to play blues like Jimmy Page.
Imagine that, me becoming a rock star,
With adoring groupies at front of stage.
Now, I won’t see our Emily go short,
and I’ll give a bit to John and Jilly.
I’d better return Danny’s Lawnmower,
and give that borrowed Twenty back to Billy.
I could retire and take it easy,
No more working long shifts over-night,
Slaving for that Miserly McGregor,
He’s loaded but so flaming tight.
In truth, I’d leave without notice,
And tell him just where to stick it.
My wife say’s stop daydreaming Jim
You’ve never even bought a ticket.
Wily wordsmith wields wisdom and wit
renders requiem welcoming thee to visit,
no matter foisting poetic riffraff (mine)
necessitates applying figurative tourniquet
to staunch potential
life threatening hemorrhage
oozing out fifty shades of
your gray cerebral moon unit,
thus best be extremely cautious
heed warning to preserve
self interest and quit
while ahead, i.e. stop reading
now lest noggin contents
rendered into pureed blivit
causing irrevocable damage,
now just for fun grab
amusement park ride ticket,
and picture yourself
in a boat on a river
squarely bobbing along...
within skeletal ricket
tee skiff analogous to
time warped white picket
fence forever lost and seasick
out of desperation imploring malefic
powers that be while moored thick
within (think) Scylla and Charybdis
not caring a lick
despite super tramping cheap trick
worse fate than death,
where metaphorical flick
finds one human flotsam and jetsam (ye)
violently sucked into realm wick
head witch, which
in toto along metaphorical yellow brick
road nsync cues soundcloud
faintly reminiscent of Herman's hermit
mid nineteen sixties approximate
time Beatles made mop top headlines
both bands selling
one after another smash hit,
where half crazed lasses frenziedly
screamed and threw maniacal fit
activating advent of groupies
they made nun sense sickle habit
to shadow many rock and roll band
initially majority identifying as Brit
nowadays global musical hodgepodge
synthesized linkedin with fitbit.