Long Knicks Poems
Long Knicks Poems. Below are the most popular long Knicks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knicks poems by poem length and keyword.
One, two, three, four
Hardwood seeds planted on the floor
Trying to get to the final round
Championship bound
Who is your pick?
Cavs or Knicks
Garden parties are always filled with fame
WKRP broadcasted CBS’s Street manipulated game
Late night tape delayed
News wondered if Vietnam POWs completed the trade
Newly launched ESPN, soon took charge
Captaining the NBA barge
Cruising a hoop dream
Love Boat holiday network floated up stream
While Peacock’s spurs shine
Thundering, shaking the western spine
Enjoying an entertaining time
That cannot be declined
Or denied
Since the audience will find
Two winners survive
Not saying their seasonal goodbyes
Wanting to extend
And defend
The scoring message they send
Larry O’Brien’s trophy is for the best
Acknowledging acing basketballs premier climatic spring test
‘We are the champions’ winners will sing
Sporting awarded new flashy rings
Say senora to the winter blues
And welcome summer leagues with air condition that is cool
Chinese people everywhere
Are cheering for the Knicks.
They’re rooting for their favorite fan,
Who’s managed to transfix.
Of course, they want their team to score
But whether lose or win,
They’ll get the thrills they need
By chanting for their own J. Lin.
For Jeremy, a Harvard man,
Is living, breathing proof
A brainy Asian athlete
Isn’t anything to spoof.
I get the Chinese mindset
And I understand their pride;
Since folks like them in sports are few,
Their joy is justified.
It feels familiar, ‘cause I knew
That feeling, oh so rich,
When years ago, I got to see
A fellow landsman pitch.
His name was Sandy Koufax,
His religion one I share;
And every Jewish baseball fan
Of that was well aware.
When you’re in the minority,
It really feels so good
To celebrate a star who comes
From your part of the ‘hood.
My bladder behaves through the night
Each morning my flow is just right....
But throughout the day
There is hell to pay
It's bursting; I cross my legs tight
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
Ladies and gentlemen please feel free to join in, send me your limericks by soup mail or in your comment as I will add them to the poem
In order to keep all my friends
I refrain from doing the bends
No trips to the loo
I hold in my poo
And strap on a pair of depends!
WRITTEN BY T S POETRY
10/10/19
Super Girl she had buns of steel
Clark wanted to make them a meal
He played them like a flute
Until she let out a toot
Then he couldn’t seal the deal!
Written by Richard Lamoureux
Half an hour since her last patter-pitter,
and she’s facing the next bladder-splitter.
If she runs or she leaps,
something critical seeps,
and you’d better stand back if she titters.
Written by Nina Parmenter
While driving I often need to pee
When bathrooms are miles away from me
I step harder on the gas
hoping my urge will soon pass
While speeding towards the nearest tree
When out golfing and ready to tee
I sometimes feel a strong urge to pee
with no bathrooms near by
I throw my golf club high
while I run to find the nearest tree
written by Tania Kitchin
From dawn till two I’m on that loo
Black lace ‘n silk won’t see me through
Need porous panties
Huge knicks; no scanties
In need of help ~ what should I do?
Written by Ann Gilmor
When I go out I hate to drink too much
Because I'll have to go potty and such
On a day I don't care,
It's plastic underwear
Lace with thick liner, to catch water rush
Written By Alexis Y
I’m in a slight poetic fix,
For surely it’s expected
That I will write about the Knicks
Or else be disrespected.
See, for me, this team is local
So my loyalty is due,
Though no cheering, loud and vocal,
From my voice will come on through.
I’ll watch tennis games for hours
And some baseball here and there,
But it’s not within my powers,
Citing basketball, to care.
Still, to hear a drought has ended,
Fifty-three long years of thirst,
Revelry must be extended
As that pent-up joy’s dispersed.
New York City’s set and ready
For the ticker-tape parade
And the sky will rain confetti,
All poetic doubts to fade.
"Christmas is in our grasp so long as we have hands to clasp" from the song "Welcome Christmas" from "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas"
What is (or was) Christmas all about?
For one thing, for two weeks...school is out!
First, the countdown was to the last day of school,
next, the number of days to the actual Yule.
In the family car to see Christmas lights,
candy cane lamp posts among the sites,
then across town to see Grandpa and Grandma Hicks.
Grandma crafted many holiday knack-knicks.
But it wouldn't be Christmas without...
Candy canes, popcorn balls, everything dandy,
Grandma's toffee, SoCal's chocolate See's candy,
Cookies in the oven, I can count up to ten.
Pretty soon out will jump gingerbread men.
and how exciting it would be
when Dad brought home the Christmas tree!
which we would soon industriously adorn
with a string of cranberries and puffed popcorn.
At night when the house was cozy and dark,
we'd play Christmas songs, cut the lights for a lark,
and shadows created by the blinking lights
on the walls, would make kaleidoscopic delights.
We'd turn on the tube when prime time was near,
and watch the boy dentist and Rudolf the Reindeer,
and then Snoopy and good 'ol Charlie Brown,
and Mr. Magoo playing Scrooge with a frown.
My Grandma and Grandpa would come, Christmas Eve.
We got to stay up late, but we'd sleep 'fore they'd leave.
On Christmas morning, my parents would never wake.
We'd wait to open presents; how long would it take?
When they did, we would jump and shout -
we'd have all kinds of new games and toys,
baseballs, basketballs, footballs for four boys -
and possibly records, old seventy-eights
with cartoon pictures on their vinyl plates.
One day it would be over, and I'd be in school.
Was there a Santa? Was I played for a fool?
Was there a Christmas? Was it really real?
Yes - proved by Aunt's fruit cake in the frig, hard as steel!
Three, four, or six
Which one will fix
And even the eastern final score
Making sure
New York will advance
In the best of seven dance
No longer the higher seed
Knicks now need
To win away
For anyone to say
Bring on the west
Who they select as the best
Spurs or Thunder
Visitors no longer wonder
Were they going to blunder
Fumble
Turn humble
Tumble
Then crumble
Instead
‘They stole a win,’ skyscraper islanders said
Message sent
Time spent
Giving the impression
A ‘how did they do that’ confession
About simple mistakes messing
Quite a lesson
Playoffs are here
And so is the post-game cheer
Get near
Toast with beer
We are almost here
Champion is going to be crowned
Creating celebration all over their NBA town
They’re bargain basement bimbos, checkout chicks:
they know me, but I don’t recall their names.
“Good morning, sir!” Oh, no – the same old fix!
Unrecognizable, these dime-store dames!
Guess Karen? Sharon? Best not play those games.
Ignore her utterly? I wouldn’t dare.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m nobody’s Ving Rhames,
George Clooney neither. Pass me on the stair,
You’d hardly notice me. I’m barely there!
If I played Center for the New York Knicks,
or had the chutzpah of a Jesse James,
I’d understand it. Big in politics?
No. Humble teacher, me. I have no claims
to specialness. My somewhat boring aims
include (the sort of thing you, too, will share)
avoiding small embarrassments and shames,
to get through life unbuffeted by care.
Why hit with “Hello, Sir”? It isn’t fair!
But girls are all extensions, highlights, flicks,
and knowing this protects me from the flames!
I scrutinize her curls and bangs and licks,
and then I say, to cast away all blames,
and neutralize the misery that maims,
“It’s you!! I’ve always loved the tops you wear!
Are those new glasses? I adore those frames!”
(It works, if you apply a little flair!
And then the clincher.) “Have you changed your hair?”