Long Leprechauns Poems
Long Leprechauns Poems. Below are the most popular long Leprechauns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leprechauns poems by poem length and keyword.
At last it has arrived,
let there be no doubt.
That everyone goes crazy
at the Christmas staff night out.
Now Santa took the sleigh.
He did not stop to think.
For that was very foolish
with all that food and drink!
Tooth fairy looked real nice
so did the pantomime dames,
but Grinch was asked to leave
for calling Santa names.
The leprechauns told anecdotes
in the spirit of Bob Hope.
The snowmen all got stoned
by passing round the dope.
Santa told rude jokes!
and some were even funny.
But everyone avoided
that randy Easter Bunny.
Jack Frost he was concerned,
told the Elves what he was thinking.
"That Santa"s getting drunk,
he is doing to much drinking."
When the meal was over,
the MC he did stand .
"Will you welcome live on stage,
The Boogie Man and his band."
The celebrations ended.
"Get on your merry way."
Santa staggered out
to try and find his sleigh.
The reindeer headed home
they knew the way to go.
They did not stop to think,
to take it kind of slow.
Santa started singing
a chorus of Wild Rover.
When flashing lights appeared
and he was soon pulled over.
"Lets see your drivers licence
and please put out that ***."
"Step out of the vehicle
and blow in to this bag."
Oh Santa was locked up.
You should have heard him wail.
"You have to let me out,
you have to give me bail."
His sentence will be soon
lets hope the courts a fan.
For what will happen next year?
If he gets a driving ban.!
Poor old Santa Clause
it is a sorry tale.
He got community service,
instead of going to jail!
By all means leave a carrot.
A glass of milk I think.
But don"t encourage Santa
by leaving out a DRINK!
© Ned Flanders
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
The King dares not defend her.
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the Saints will soon surrender”.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
and even less, a gender.
The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
but kneel as Chaos enters.
They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
defying life’s tormentors.
The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
when blessing doomed dissenters.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
the Stones stir, staring at her.
And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests refuse to christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
yet No One looks to listen.
The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Nighttime brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals.
Continued in Part 2
If your favorite color is green and of the Emerald Isles you dream, you might be Irish. If when you kissed the Blarney Stone you knew at las you were at home, you might be Irish. If you believe in leprechauns and fairies and hidden treasures that lay buried, you might be Irish. If you like your lasses bawdy and tell jokes a little naughty, you might be Irish. If you can dance an Irish gig and at the pubs the whiskey swig, you might be Irish. If your mom cooked an Irish stew and you just happen to be Catholic too, you might be Irish. If your last name is Fitz, Riley or O'Keefe, your most definitely Irish, good grief! If not then just for this one day, we'll say your Irish any way. Happy St. Patty's!
A funny thing happened to me the other day
I started seeing leprechauns on the freeway.
They pinched my cheeks and giggled in my ear.
I was driving fast, but they kept getting more near.
I turned to the purple glittery unicorn in the front seat.
Asked him who invited these creeps? They are simply not sweet!
The unicorn said don’t blame me. It was probably the bear.
The grizzly in the back seat flipped his claws through my hair.
My speedometer said ninety, and the car was shaking now.
I was wishing for a cop to come and haul me off, somehow.
The leprechauns put their fingers around my hazel eyes.
Guess who? They asked. No big fat surprise.
Who else would distract me this way when I am learning to drive?
My driver evaluator dove onto the floor with a really quick dive.
You are not going to ever pass, she said, if I have my way.
Just another crummy instructor, from the DUV this weird awful day.
When the clock strikes midnight,
When so late it is in the night
I usually rouse from my sleep
And enjoy some moments of grace, with my own friends of keep!
Fairies, goblins, elves, leprechauns, why maybe even the devil
They all come out from under my bed,
And do bid time to keep still
In their games, they keep me all attracted!
From midnight till the early hours of dawn
I forget that I need to sleep, why I even forget to yawn
We sup, laugh, love and dance
A waltz, a tango, all forms of art do flow in great abundance!
With their magic sticks, fairies allow us to make noise
Without anyone getting to know our poise
With their tricks, goblins and elves, have me holding my breath
With their watchful eyes, leprechauns keep my bedroom, from spies, safe!
Sad I really am, when they bid me goodbye
Teary is my heart as I watch them, fly to the sky
Hopefully, say I to myself, they shall come back tonight
Hopefully it was not a dream I made at the strike of midnight!
Sam Adams
was a paranormal researcher
he was searching
for mystical creatures
that he was sure
still existed somewhere.
The banshees, bigfoot, the centaurs,
the demons, the dragons, the giants,
the hellhounds, the minitours, the leprechauns.
The snowmen, the unicorns, and yeti.
Sam Adams found a book
the legendary infamous necormicron.
Which many had dismissed
as nothing but a story
by Lovecraft and his fellow
demented writers.
Chanting from the book,
He opened the door
the first through
was the king of the unicorns.
He brought with him
thousands of his followers
who launched a war
against the modern world.
The unicorn and his army
quickly overwhelmed the world
appointed Sam Adams
as their ambassador,
the unicorn smiled
at his victory
it had been a long time
living in exile
in the other dimensions.
Sun is declining, beneath a blue Irish sea
With a fire to warm me' bones, in a cottage by the bay
And the coals to bake me scones,
Where the bracken turns so reddin'
Like a wildfire on the mountain
And wee nanny goats on rocky hillsides, are too many for the countin'
Heather waves in summer breezes...
And harshness bringin' winter's season
Thar' be waving sails upon the blue
And leafy shamrocks on the green
Where the rugged shores, and seagulls cry, and a sunset captures you
Granite stones, and bogs of grass, water gleams like shining glass
Friendly folks bearin' ruddy cheeks, and a colleen, fair thee lass
We'll tip our mug at village pub, and make a toast to St. Patty's kin
Let me sink me' eyes upon the scene of Irish rugged land
Upon the skies, upon the streams, where druid legends live
Upon the land...home of the clan, where me many roots began
Where the ole' pale moon at nightfall, scatters memories a'glowing
Of fair roses of Tralee, over garden gate, a growin'
Charming valleys, greener hillsides, fill thee heart of all 'me clan
Pick ye' a shamrock.... look for gold, shake yer' hands with leprechauns
Kiss ye' a Blarney .....Come to Killarny, come to all that's home to me
Where names of O'Reily, or McDougal where so many Mac' roots began
For Debbie's contest "Over the Rainbow"
I’ve been approached, to write this Ode, by Michael:
he wants me to identify three traits
of his. I told him, life is just a cycle
of ups and downs. I cited one Matt Gaetz!
“Don’t count on your intelligence,” I said:
you’re bright alright, but that is where it ends.”
“I need a friend to do this,” he admonished.
“You have,” I pointed out to him, “no friends.”
Internally, he’s clever: outside, dead.
If anybody phones him, he’s astonished.
“So tell them, girls mistake me for George Clooney!”
No way. “No doubt,” I said, “You’re polyvalent.
But as for looks, you’re nearer Mickey Rooney.
Yet I’ll concede your literary talent.”
He seemed appeased by this. “Brigitte Bardot
would love the chance to glance upon my sonnets,
and Sofia Loren says she’s read my plays.”
“You live on leprechauns and Easter bonnets,
you sad buffoon.” I truly told him so.
“The nineteen fifties were your salad days.”
“Those times are gone! Get with the modern world.”
“I’ve got a brain, and I can write a bit:
we need another quality unfurled.”
“There’s no more in your favour. That is it!”
We scratched our heads. We pondered. Nothing came.
“I’ll put up money …” “Michael, you’re absurd.
You couldn’t, if you tried, put up a tent.”
The bribing-plan was stillborn. In a word,
he hasn’t got a penny. All the same,
there’s no-one would deny … the guy’s a gent.
~Irish Blessings~
(Rhyming Couplets)
Again is another St. Patrick's Day
And we celebrate it in a grand way
We sure like wearing something green
And show it upon a shirt or a pair of jeans
There's something nice about this holiday
And lots of us agree that is a special day
When we can think for some good reason
About other things that relate to this season
Some people feel just like dancing
While making merry and all the way laughing
Some like watching for those jolly green little men
Leaping and dancing while carrying gold by the glen
St. Patrick's Day is a very happy day
Filled of fanciful fables the Irish way
Enshrouded in mysteries and fairy tales
One more than the other behind an Irish veil
So today is another St. Patrick's Day
Let's dance and be merry the whole day
Let's search for leprechauns and for a four-leaf-clover
And find rainbows even after this day is over.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2015
March.17.2015
IN GOD I TRUST!
Today’s the day to celebrate St. Patrick’s day, each in their own special way.
* *
Fine fields of green and cute leprechauns too
That Ireland is a wondrous place, it's true
The scenery, magical to the eye
Visited, saw it, adored it did I.
There's so much beauty of nature to seek
The mountains, rivers and flora unique
Seasons changeable, no rhythm or rhyme
Mild winters, warm summers, simply sublime.
Friendly folk, a best reception one gets
The moment onto Irish streets one steps
Irish eyes are smiling, one can't deny
They gleam alike shining stars in the sky.
Delightful pipe music, the river dance
Singing that greatly enhances romance
There one may sup the famous Guinness brew
And a comforting bowl of Irish stew.
One's never alone, when Ireland one roams
Treading the streets of the Irish green zones
The Emerald Isle has a welcome mat
Once been one’s sure to desire going back.
* * *.