Long Hissy Poems
Long Hissy Poems. Below are the most popular long Hissy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hissy poems by poem length and keyword.
Bazbally…inspired and fired by venerable Peter who does attack the arty farty and gives flak to the illuminati Papal cabal party and also banal Baz for well just being cack & tarty..(he christened it "Bazbally")
Latest pundits gambits
Now spits from pulpits
At first plenty of plaudits
A mystery tapestry knits
Well we were the pits
Early hurly burly flits
Hasty but tasty titbits
On a whim best Test bits
Bazbally’s greatest hits
Magic to tragic habits
Us prissy about its zits
Fame & then hissy fits
Grim became dimwits
All the same tatts on ti*s
Can't tame the squits
Blame big name gits
Insane vain inane remits
Twa*s annoying as nits
In a latrine our game sits
Willy nilly silly billy skits
Alpha male tale derails splits
Ben zen again got the sh**s
Nation shrinks in Baz’s mitts
Identikit kinks but no edits
Cheeky winks at us Brits
With flash brash affidavits
Stinks thinks we’re all twits
Series sinks through the slits
Fans issue cease & desist writs
All along Key & ECB also culprits
They gave out Bazbally permits
Should vanish banished hermits
Then the wrong Kiwi quits!
Marvelous Minnie had a hissy fit and threw her lamp down the stairs.
It hit an elf, a gargoyle, and four children dressed as Goldilocks and the Bears.
They ran up to see what was going on in the Witch’s crazy old mind.
I am sorry, she said. I did not think ahead, this was truly unkind.
And so they forgave her, but the next thing she decided to do….
Was to throw stuff out the window, and a couch landed on two.
They were shrieking and screaming and wailing to beat the band.
I don’t even care, she said. I thought their motives were underhand.
Come on! Her Auntie Feefife said. Give them a break, they turned into curd.
Transmogrify them into something else please, their squawking is rather absurd.
Bookends prop to order and bring to attention a rampant,
bedraggled rabble of books, to parade upright and aligned.
Big and fat, tall and thin,
ditty, witty, flitty and ponderous tomes all squashed in, buttressed.
Books do well without bookends
But bookends topple over without books to hold.
A parasitic dependency like ticks, lice and bookworms.
Bookends lie, at both the beginnings and ends of books all lined up in a row.
Bookends like hands, love to hold books. They simply adore them.
But unlike hands, which drop books to applaud and clap a good read or scratch,
Bookends just pine, sigh, whimper with no books to embrace and hold.
Like spoilt kids they chuck temper tantrum fits, get hissy, fall over and wobble.
So remember to keep your bookends happy with good reads to bed.
Remember they need books to survive and prosper.
But beware, bookends like to skip the plot
By shuffling the deck of 'The End' and 'In the Beginning' of random books.
It's a melodrama. Try to picture the drama queen
A bit actress lying on the floor in her final scene
Her lips trembling, tears running down her face
ruining her makeup in a gown of satin and lace
You won't win any Oscars, Honey. Not this time
Take lessons, hon. You can't act worth a dime
She's quick to blame everyone, but not herself
She claims innocence, but she's an imp, an elf
She's been insulted, but that's a falsified claim
Seriously, is she for real, or is warring her game?
No one has called her cruel names, not one of us
She's just a sad soul to have created such a fuss
Some poets are thin-skinned and misunderstand
that comments made are not given as a reprimand
But lo and behold... she sure came out swinging
like a bat out of hell with her accusations slinging
So lady poet, try and get a good grip on your life
No one is out to get you or cause you bitter strife
No one has rattled your cage or crushed your soul
and no one is bullying you with the acts of a troll
Your mean-spirited diatribes should reach an end
Maybe then you'll feel better; able to comprehend
You keep blowing a whistle without a good reason
and you've made yourself a victim of poetic treason
I'm wondering why you think your views are fine
and I should not be allowed to give voice to mine.
I didn't call you ugly names, neither of us did that
so stop clawing at us like some hissy spitting cat
It haunts you like shadows inside your imagination
So let it go and stop the outlandish discrimination
Don't you see that the delusions inside your head
are figments in your mind; things that you dread?
It’s impossible to stay
any length of time in the garage
without feeling lonely – which I am not,
only crowds bring me loneliness.
At one time, I had planned to drink a bottle of bourbon,
and smoke an expensive cigar in that garage,
then blow my brains out.
That was when the cancer diagnosis
dropped into my lap like a dead bird.
I wallowed in a hissy-pool of self-pity
until I sensed that even the lonely garage
begged me to shut the hell up.
We have mice, and sparrows,
the mice live quietly raising mousy pipsqueaks
that pip and squeak behind deeply piled boxes.
The sparrows are peripatetic,
coming and going at will,
don’t ask how, it’s a mystery.
The garage has this one mood
that does not change with the seasons.
It makes space for me despite the lack of room.
It sighs when I sigh,
It casts a mirroring shadow,
makes that shadow whisper into my ears.
Waits patiently
for me to say something out loud
then it gets quiet,
a sense of being found, but still lost
steals over me.
It’s then, at those times, I still wish
for a good smoke and a bottle
of Kentucky moonshine.
Bookends call a gaggle of bedraggled books to attention.
The big fat tomes, short stories, paperback,
are all pulled into line, toe-to-toe buttressed on parade.
Books need bookends to get propped up and be seen,
to get up out of bed, get dressed and be presentable.
Likewise, bookends need books to lean against
or else they topple over in a huddle.
They pine, sigh, moan and whimper,
with no books to embrace and cup one-handed.
Like spoilt kids they chuck temper tantrum fits,
get hissy, fall over, lay on the shelf and sulk.
So remember to keep your books and bookends
in happy symbiosis, with good reads kept to attention,
held in check by bossy bookend majors.
But, beware, those cheeky bookends tittle tattle at night,
and can speed read between the lines.
They skip the plot, and jump straight to
'In the Beginning' and 'The End'.
Everyone knew that there was something amiss,
but no one was stirred enough to even lift a fist.
Patriots and paupers alike saw no such enemy on their list.
They were surprised that someone ascended from the abyss.
They were rendered helpless, unable to resist, and had
no allies with any ability to assist. They stared in disbelief,
constantly asking, "What is this?", but no one answered from the fog and the mist; nor would there be a Knight in
shining armor coming to the rescue. And now, their once
freedom-bearing dream was fading from the scene. Like
Ancient Rome, Acirema did not go dark overnight. But there
was a gradual trod, committed efforts, and shifting priorities.
Common Sense disappeared and they dismissed the difference
between wrong and right, before the darkness blackened the light.
There were too few warriors in their midst, and most
of their worshipers would simply hiss. When they realized they'd been deceived with a kiss, with a child-like tantrum,
they had a little hissy fit. But like Judas, there was no exit,
the dye had been cast, and a way of restoration did not exist.
Yes, after many years of division and hate, it was now too late.
There were guns, tanks, and troops stretching for miles and miles.
There were masses of people and a large scattering of paper files.
It was a clear and slightly windy day, although sunny and mild. There
was a myriad of crying eyes, and in vain I searched for just one smile.
Acirema was later sentenced to death after a hasty kangaroo trial.
062221PSCtest, Let Er Rip #3, John Lawless
Fiction
It starts small~
a sigh sharp enough to slice drywall,
a muttered well I never,
then a dramatic shuffle of papers
that did absolutely nothing wrong.
Then the arms cross.
The eyebrows rise.
The soul leaves the body
for a brief smoke break.
Suddenly this fully grown human~
tax-paying, grocery-shopping,
responsible-for-a-mortgage human~
is having a full-tilt hissy fit
because the Wi-Fi blinked
or someone said calm down.
There’s foot tapping.
There’s theatrical breathing.
There’s a moment where they stare
into the middle distance
like a pioneer widow
who just broke the last jar of peaches.
And you stand there thinking,
Lord help us,
the toddler has escaped
and taken over the adult body.
But eventually~
after the sighs,
the flutters,
the tragic monologue
about how no one understands
the gravity of the situation~
they return to themselves,
smooth their shirt,
clear their throat,
and say with great dignity,
“I’m fine now.”
I LOVE AND I HATE YOU THE SAME
How dare you love me, have you no shame? I'm not just touched I'm insane. I'm wickedly evil, a cheatin' lil' weasel, Jackass is my first and last name. I'm Joe Dirt when I flirt, Cousins Eddie of work, I aspire to the least that I can. I sure as heck ain't no Marlboro man. I smoke like a chimney, and drink like a fish, I'm a gamblin' man and also a snitch. I'm short, fat, and bald, I don't come when I'm called, I'm likely passed out in a ditch.
I love you and I hate you the same.
I just can't put out this flame.
I'm a low down, peckerwood, loathsome, misunderstood, weak willed, red pilled, rootin tootin, drinkin, shooting, down and dirty, 30-30, back alley clan rally, hillbilly, redneck, hick.
You're hateful and mean, birthing many mens' genes, and now youre hittin the wall. Gangly & toothless, spiteful & ruthless, you smell like meth and Pall Malls. Stripping's behind you, bills are all past due. You ain't nothin but a booty call. Ferally raised, dropped out in third grade, immune to morals, judgment, and mace. One leg is bowed, you sound like a toad, and you use saddle soap on your face.
I love you and I hate you the same.
I just can't put out this flame.
She's a botox, detox, skin n bones, silicone, Harper valley, mustang Sally, misfit, hypocrite, "Cops" show viral hissy fit, easy, sleazy, dollar store cheesy, hillbilly, redneck, chick.
We scream and we cuss, we never discuss,
we'd rather it come to blows. We don't clear the air, and we never fight fair. She stabbed me and then broke my nose. A sight to be seen, trailer park king & queen. We hail what brings others disgust. We're not worthy of love from heaven above. All we have left is the lust. I've been feelin sick, since your flame lit my wick. Penicillin just might do the trick.
I love you and I hate you the same,
I just can't put out this flame.
Fire
Dramatic much? One would think you were
the flame of Passion.
Shall I re-introduce you so that you can make
your entrance again?!
In your flashy clothes, that you
wisk down your runway, whoosh.
Are you gonna tell it once more, how the fuel feeds.
Your ego, burnt offerings consuming everything.
Burning the midnight oil,
by tripping the light-fantastic.
Shining. Me! I am the quest you seek and also the Bard
that shines light on the tail, the tale and your tailor.
Don't throw a hissy if you burn in the pit, out of prides-
travails.
Although the lines have blurred.
(Leos. Don't stare too long or hard.)
(You may get blinded by a dance of the seven veils)
( I love Leos. My Momma was a Leo, my main pride)
Copyright © Jude Herrick | Year Posted 2019