Long Moped Poems
Long Moped Poems. Below are the most popular long Moped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Moped poems by poem length and keyword.
Gale force winds are expected; time to tie your knickers down
All heads bent, and everyone is pushing their way across town
Mouths are tightly shut, just in case their dentures out and fly
Ski goggles are on, just in case you get something in your eye
Skirts are all flying up with long hair that’s blowing out of place
Time you get into work your looking more than a total disgrace
Time is spent behind your desk rearranging all that went astray
Sat there hoping the wind has died by the end of the work day
Dinner; sat on the bench outside, eating someone else’s lunch
As the wind sends their pickle onion right into your own mush
The bloke sat next to you is eating your fly away in my face hair
Reinforcing that old saying, how nice it is for everyone to share
And, no worries about putting your left over rubbish into the bin
The darn bits just fly out again once you have so neatly put it in
Then it is all back to the office heads down and pushing through
As we clogged up the elevator without as much as a say, or a do
Then it is back behind the desk, rearranging all that went a stray
And hoping the wind has died down by the end of the work day
All signs are not looking good as the pigeons huddle on the ledge
Even worse when one drops off, because another in, does wedge
As 5 o’clock end of day arrives and no one is in a great rush to go
Stuck to their seats it’s almost as if the work force is on a go slow
One fresh air freak limbers up and starts heading for the exit door
Wow' one blast of hurricane winds and the guy was seen no more
The thought of settling down for the night was more than an idea
As we started to rearrange “We can do anything with bits of Ikea”
We gave the trouble of eating, to those brave delivery pizza boys
Though when we sent the orders in, the guys were a bit annoyed
It is not much fun delivering pizzas, on a light weight moped bike
One was lifted by the wind, once landed he was **** up in a dyke
The pizza boy arrived, and said that's it the wind has took my bike
We piled all the pizza boxes up, the pizza boy bedded for the night
Then the next day morning came, at last the wind had died down
Drama over we sent the pizza boy home with a tip of half a crown
Since July the elves and reindeer, even Mrs. Claus have been on Santa's back!
(Al Gore's prediction of meltin' snow nearly caused him to have a panic attack!)
It seems that try as he might, Santa encountered problems at every turn.
He's becomin' somewhat burned out and reachin' that point of no return!
Mrs. Claus berated him day and night for workin' just one day a year,
Insistin' that he get a decent job, get off welfare and off his fleshy rear!
She'd like to spend winters in Bermuda, the Bahamas or Kiribati,
But noooo, he goes gallivantin' all over from Argentina to Zimbabwe!
Don't know what's got into the reindeer but they're feelin' mighty morose;
Perhaps because of all the fame showered on the one with the shiny nose!
They've moped about, eatin' like army mules gettin' fat and slouchy.
The cantankerous beasts have made Santa terribly tense and grouchy!
Those good for nothin' elves went on strike causin' a slow down in work.
They're tryin' to form a toy makers union causin' Santa to go berserk!
Such sloppy work! Talkin' dollies counted cadence, "Hup, two, three, four!"
The toy soldiers cried, "I want my mama!" as they marched off to war!
Despite problems at The Pole he'll trim his beard and don his crimson suit.
He'll "Ho, Ho", eat dozens of stale cookies and be dusted with tons of soot,
As once again he'll mysteriously soar through space with the reindeer towin',
Delightin' boys and girls around the world with the toys he'll be bestowin'!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
It was a summer day dressed in boredom
For four suburban Ohio boys
Looking for some excitement
In their banal lives from their banal toys
We took some old models of Navy ships
To a distant wooded stream
Armed with a box of blue tip matches
And mason jars filled with gasoline
We loaded up the ships
Full of the flammable fuel
And set them adrift in the stream
Thinking we were kind of cool
Then Jonsey had an idea
On how to create an eternal flame
As he slowly poured gas from his jar
Into a ship that towards him came
Before the words escaped our mouths
That his idea was a foolish one
The flame shot up the stream of gas
And his jar he quickly flung
Some landed on my bare legs
Singing adolescent hair before patted out
Then suddenly I was aware
Of the words Johnny started to shout
“Drop and roll, drop and roll,” he did scream
I knew his instructions weren’t intended for me
I looked up and saw a dancing figure of fire
Doug was aflamed from head to knee
I was headed towards him to make a tackle
When he dropped and rolled on his own
The fire was quickly doused
But he was already severely burned
Doug bravely walked home alone
To tell a story that didn’t implicate us
As we watched hidden from down the street
His parents take him to the hospital in a rush
We moped in guilt for hours that day
Before we decided we had to confess
So we made our way back to Doug’s house
And gave it our very best
Doug was going to be okay
A few scars and plenty of pain
His parents made us make a vow
Never to play with fire again
I wore jeans the rest of that summer
To hide my bare, red legs from my Mom and Dad
They never knew the part that I played
In this saga that turned out bad
As future summers came along
We accepted the boredom quite solemnly
Not wanting to repeat that day
We tried to escape the banality
There once was a girl name of Faith,
Who was filled with beauty and grace.
She was lovely to see,
Each move poetry,
But she never gave in to the chase.
Now Faith had sister named Hope,
Who tried hard with her sister to cope.
She vied with her sister,
To attract the same mister,
But he didn't like women who moped.
Next there was dear little Charity.
Though sweet she was void of clarity.
Filled with innocent charm,
She entranced and disarmed,
All who met her found her a rarity.
Now there was an old man of great wealth,
Who it seemed was in declining health.
He did woo each sister,
Seemed this shameful mister,
Was a master of romance and stealth.
Each thought he was hers sincerely,
But the way he behaved was a parody.
He romanced Faith and Hope,
Each one hoped to elope,
But he died and left all to Charity.
I Never Even Realized
My Life Was Such a Shame
I Just Forged Ahead
But Everything Stayed the Same
I Thought I Could Do it All Alone
I Didn't Need Anyone
But Then There Came a Day
Life Just Wasn't Any Fun
I Moped Around Depressed
And Couldn't Sleep at Night
So I Started Drinking
I Was Always Too up Tight
Things Went from Bad to Worse
I Didn't Think That Could Be
But Sure Enough...
Soon There Was Only Me
I Sat Alone in the Dark One Night
Feeling Quite Sorry for Me
When I Saw a Ray of Light
So Bright I Couldn't See
The Voice Behind the Glow
Said Gently as Can Be
I Think It's Time We Met
Because You Really Do Need Me
That Was Years Ago
But I Never Shall Forget
The Way Things Changed for Me
The Night That Me and Jesus Met
In "The Shootist", J.B. Books is not feeling up to snuff.
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.
To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.
Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.
What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden murder of another.
There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word *****.
People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.
Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.
We were all on a turquoise moped on Interstate 635.
Mr. P.U. Fancy Pants Panda of course, got to drive.
He is arrogant, and thus is always the boss.
This was stated firmly by my pal Ross
Ross cannot drive, he is way too nervous and tall.
His hooves also land on both pedals, no help at all.
Meerkat is hanging on the fender by his tippy toes.
Snowy owl is getting exhaust fumes up his delicate nose.
Wait! Someone said, doesn’t an owl have a beak?
This made panda angry, he had given no one permission to speak.
Quite a day on the road with the gang who escaped from Michigan.
If you call me up on the phone, I can tell you this whole story again.
I crossed from Boston Common to the pub
on Beacon Street. A barstool, banter, beers
awaited me, for I was bound for "Cheers",
the suds-and-suckers landmark of The Hub.
But this was not remotely as I'd hoped.
So small and squat and square, and antiseptic!
A couple from Des Moines, and one dyspeptic
waitress in the "chow shack", neatly-roped.
The silence made me feel I'd interloped.
Twelve bucks a beer. As I morosely moped,
the woman I'd come all this way to see
(so blonde, so buxom, with such perfect skin)
was far too occupied to lunch with me.
Facades are only there to draw you in.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
It made me mad; I wished she was dead.
Took my anger to my Uncle Ned.
He started laughing, happy instead.
Most serious now, sick in my head,
Ran to my cousin, Goofball named Zed.
He chased me off, his face spitball of red.
With laughter shaking his feather bed.
I decided to sit in my little she-shed.
Devoured Ritz crackers ‘til I was fed.
Refused to talk to my Uncle Ted.
Who was spitting a story about Brother Ed.
I rode off on my purple and pink Moped.
Had an accident, needed bandage and a med.
The nurse who helped me was named Mrs. Ked.
Beautiful, she was a recent newlywed.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
I was shocked for a second, but then I read
A book, settled down, no longer in my head.
Seeing the humor of Ed, Zed, Ned and Ted.
The McCormick family loves wheels
We like bikes, trikes, mopeds and motorcycles
We like Fords, Chevys, Lincolns and Cadillacs.
We are also racers.
Others watch the Indianapolis 500
We like driving like we just left the pit crew.
Our ancestors started us on this journey.
We were having a race on Wednesday
When grandma got on a moped.
I am going to outrun these cycles! She said.
“Let grandma win! Let grandma win! “ we all yelled.
Unfortunately, the little McCormicks are competitive like us.
They outrode, outraced and outran grandma.
The last one to the finish line, she pouted all day.