Long Mutton Poems
Long Mutton Poems. Below are the most popular long Mutton by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mutton poems by poem length and keyword.
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day!'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight,
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
*******
...a tribute to T.S. Eliot's 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night.'
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day!'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight,
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
*******
...a tribute to T.S. Eliot's 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night.'
Which speaks: or yo whom is in
concern
competion among contenders
to be champion one must
wait his turn
ranked among the best one must
chore and labor
to stand head tall above the rest
one must toil and labor
The Guild
Heritage and influential figures
steeped in the majesty of greatness
they wonder where the real men are
then among the frails of competition
the rival and wrest to be
inline of greatness
yet only one can stand tallest
as Champion.
The persona and person
the man and the mystique
in the community of these people
where the Chore to create the image before you
a contested pride
a person to rival and best
then to be annouced as
Champion
The Pro Grade style or Genre
were the uniquness of many combine
and fuss to create a show where
combatants Wrest and are Out Wrested!
e of the Anceint order
The ingredients for the Champions dinner
include.( for the Champion and his Party
of Ten or fewer then 19)
Groglegs
roasted grapes
1 horned sheep or mutton
hind leg of a deild Ox
wine
Dessert( Molded Cookies with fillings
excluding only creme< must be
with fruits and nuts)
Cakes and pies are prohibited)
Usage of cakes and pie only
if married or
intending to marry)
Dessert wines
all pastas are to contain at least
five cheese
three meats
and vine ripened tomatos
and olives which oils have
been pressed by married women.
waters are to be chilled and not frozen.
A;; seafood is
to be grilled or roasted
a measurment of potatoes
are as follows
usage of potatos are limited
by size
fewer than five should
fit into
a normal sized mans hand
otherwise the starches are coonsidered
prohibited and unuseable.
Unripened tomatos are to be fried
with feta as a condiment
and the usage of garlic is advised.
each woman is to be cloded as
so
they can be adimed
as an ornament for the newly
crown champion.
Others will not be allowed on the stage where
the Champions party shall dine.
the combatant who has been defeated
in the match which has crowned the Champion
must wear the Garment of Who
to be revealed as submissive
Such is Casears orders"
All Combatants must be at least 21 years of age
or risk the wives or future wives heads
to be shaved
for the duraation of 366 days!
The implosion of a thought is neither a shred or a shard. In fact it is surely a pulsation of a wisdom whirlpool? Really? How rather radical. And amusing to the laughs of the rhombuses who gather with rhinos to celebrate the correct correspondence from a diagram which has been deleted by a diaphragm. No condolences required in a tepee but echoes of deaths can mean the picking of fruit would become timely,important,and long overdue. Oh dear. How unfortunate that a printed skirt can collapse on a beam like a fly on a wall. It is imperative to note that doctrines are not fables nor are they of importance for they merely feel that they are. And now it is the gatherings of the mutton mutations who are ingesting but losing wool due to the wisdom of wind capsules. Wow . The flotation of heifers timed is an undignified duty to an orbit of an orb and an orb can cast aspersions so never argue with an ambidextrous shrew in a multi coloured cape. And a four gee sim can always placate and be more interesting than placing order in a misty mansion. But misty mansions were supposed to be respected. Yet folk trample and tread and feats by fairies are often unnoticed by small footed monkeys. Balance not a tome whilst on a step ladder. And always bathe in a light fragrance for air is importance to balance,stabilise and renew. Such a groundsheet sewn. And even a sultry hairdryer gets weary when catering for a cantering follicle. So go dust that tree. And iron the gardens. Rest assured that a four footer will grow. Good. Godly given gratefully greeted greatness. And a tree sap to sip. Not to spill. Line up the priests are out. Linking lineage. Then? And a cosmopolitan cosmic cosmetic clap. Bang. Oh. Oblivious to none is agreed by some so throw the leper in the bin. Radical ridicule rather ravenous raping ruling rods reeking. And a little fly to the sands of time. Great isn't it? No. For that is an Orpheus snail that is barking and a cacti jumps up and down. Downloads are a programmable prison then. Fornicate not with an thistle. And carry a weapon to a gig. Guiding giving grabbing going gone. Gits. And a 190,000,987,567 tall pansy. Great. Greater the greater the greater greets. Garnished. Under siege. Vehemently z
Form:
Meat galore going for cheap in the stores, meat galore piling up on your shore. I cannot believe that the world is starving when tons of chickens and assorted meats are scattered everywhere in the street.
The loaded truck overturned spilling packages of meat on the ground, lining the sidewalks and filling the gully, everyone is moving in a hurry.
The truck driver was lucky to come out alive so he calls the people to have a feast with the raw meat. He said that he could not reload the truck because the meat had picked up dust and the insurance would pay for it, and so he waited for the wrecker to come and pull up the truck. People start jumping in bushes loading their bags and boxes and anything that they could find to stuff the meat.
Let everyone come and eat, pull the covers off your feet, sprinkle water on your face and get ready to start a brand-new race. There is plenty of meat to eat, pork chops, veal, and beef, mutton, pork ribs, and whale, kangaroo meat cooked with brown rice and delicate frog legs sent as a gift from Paris. Let everyone come and eat there is plenty of meat to eat.
The dogs are barking, the roosters are crowing and the hens are dining and romanticizing. This is the period for the hens and so you have leave the lion's den before the clock struck ten.
The mice are running around on the floor and they are climbing through the door, they are running up and down the wall with food in their mouths and cookies stuck in their throat .When the hens are away the mice will definitely play, puss in boots has several meals to choose and just as I speak of it the cat captured it with its swollen lips. Let everybody come and eat.
Mr. Charity is no stranger he is a mega donor you will not be short of anything when you move in with the timing. There are lots of things to share but Mr. Charity is on the run because has accumulated a fortune in the hot sun.
He has created fake web pages to channel money from all races, he has a secret bank account to run short errands in the town and when he accumulates enough, he stuffs his gut and run and the website disappeared. Let everyone come eat, good meat is wasting in the street.
TRIMDON GRANGE EXPLOSION *
( 16 FEB 1882, DURHAM, ENGLAND )
Noo March is heor and the wind she’s cowld *
But the sixty nine sowls divvent feel it - strange
Theor noo wheor they feel nee cowld and nivver get owld
Since they gave theor sowls at Trimdon Grange.
Last month on that bad sixteenth day
Owld Widow Burnett went to church to pray
For the three fine sons she once cherished
Noo, aal too soon, they hev aal perished
In thet dusty pit the rolleyways worn’t proper wattored *
And in the Harvey Seam - a thoosand foot doon
And three miles lang - that’s aal thet mattored.
The goaves * wor filled wi’ gas and the dust wes aal around.
They winnet be gannin yem nee maor *
Nor scrannin theor supper o’ pan hagglety *
Nor hengin theor coats yon under the staor
Nor scoffin theor bait and sugary tea
Wor footbaal tyem’s gannin tiv miss the lads
Joseph, Geordie, and James and the fower Broons
We’ll nivver forgit what gyems we had
And when we skelped Hartlepool Toon *
At Durham Big Meetin as the bands made a start
And the teams showed theor best to the crood
We were cowpin wor creels in the clart *
and shootin the odds o’ Hartlepool oot lood.
Oh weel, they left hame that morning to eorn theor daily bread;
Noo theor scrannin in a place where danger is nee maor.
Sixty nine men and boys wor numbered wi the dead.
Aye, death will pay us aal a visit : they hev ownly gone befaor.
…………………………………………………………………………
* One of the worst coal mining disasters in England
* The dialect is known as “Geordie” and is still widely known today in the UK. It
is the dialect of my own childhood, sadly now heavily overlain with standard English.
* Watering kept the explosive dust under control
* A goaf was a working gallery in the mine
* Pan hagglety - a fried mutton dish
* The Trimdon Grange soccer team beat Hartlepool’s team the previous year.
* They won’t be going home any more
* Doing somersaults on the muddy ground
A chimney on a low rise standing sentinel
On the loosely scattered outskirts of town.
A reminder of an old house built by hand,
The home around the hearth long fallen down.
The silvery frost covering the remnants
Of the old broken place spilled on the ground,
No room hereabouts for cheap sentiment,
It’s bleached broken bones now earthward bound.
Wandering through someone else’s ruins
My imagination starts to take hold.
Discovering relics from times long since past,
Anonymous, broken, rusted and old.
I spy a grand old wood fired oven’s legs
Sprawled akimbo all four across the floor.
With its door ajar and enamel cracked,
It’ll provide them warmth and food no more.
The floorboards cling to the twisted bearers,
Bleached pine timbers cracked, warped and twisted.
Only wind swept and no longer mopped with pride,
Their gaps now hide rabbits no longer hunted.
Amongst the wooden wreckage lay scattered
Shards of brilliant and broken lead stained glass.
Elegant reminders of another time
when no-one thought this would come to pass.
A time when the front door was always open
And the pine rafters inside rang with life.
When a family filled the space with laughter
And gathered at the hearth in times of strife.
A battered and blackened iron pot upturned,
Rusted holes, cracked and weathered through.
It’ll never again be used to boil up
A feed of mouth watering mutton stew.
Handles, hinges, bolts and rusty nails too,
Lay in abandonment across the grounds.
The daffodils, jonquils and geraniums,
Now foreign to the garden’s new surrounds.
An aching head betrays a tired sadness
At forgotten scenes of decay and neglect.
Ignorant passers by cause me to wince,
As on this families history I reflect.
This one too from our sight they’ll soon remove
As progresses heavy capped boots march in.
The suburbs swallowing up our old farms,
As new histories in new houses begin.
I’ve come across many such sites of times past
As around the back blocks I’ve wandered.
If your eyes were open you’ll have seen them,
But do you care for our heritage squandered?
My auntie’s best friend Liselotte
Adores making sweet panna cotta
Auntie’s over the moon
Grabs an enormous spoon
Then greedily gobbles the lotta!
By piling sweet treats on her plate
Poor auntie starts putting on weight
She steps on the scales
Then curses and wails
Must diet before it's too late
Written by Jan Allison
Jan's Auntie has become quite a glutton
Feasting on panna cotta and mutton
Now her butt crack's exposed
I'm keeping my eyes closed
Zipper's broken, and she popped a button
She devoured the custard and the Chablis
She's drunk and ready to go Full Monty
Not trying to be rude
But her plump rump, nude
Would bring about nightmares to haunt me
Written by Lin Lane
1/10/20
Jan's huge auntie had a weakness for cheese
When offered seconds always said" yes please"
She was known as' big Nelly'
Because of her fat belly
And her large boobies hung down to her knees...
She went off with her friends to sunny Spain
But would have needed three seats on the plane
Although it was freezing cold
Nelly opted for the hold
On landing they had to use a large crane...
Written by Tom Cunningham
Jan's too full Auntie crashes on the bed
complaining her guts hurt from too much bread
she lands with a loud pop
expelling gas nonstop
and yelling that was a relief, she said
Jan's Uncle is so tired he wants to sleep
He enters the bedroom, the stench is deep
Auntie is passed out
snoring like a trout
He runs back onto the couch with a leap
Written by Tania Kitchin
She went straight back to see Liselotte
and ate MORE of that thick panacotta!
But she’s full of regret
for right now she’s beset
by a quiver that’s making her totter.
The doctor explained. “If you gobble
too much of that stuff, then you’re nobbled!
You can run, you can sweat
off the calories - yet
you will NEVER get rid of the wobble!”
WRITTEN BY NINA PARMENTER
Octopus spinning twisting terrifying tentacles.
Witty witch showing black magic doing miracles.
Vampires flying all around displaying wide wings.
Kids of ghost with long teeth laugh loud and swings.
Ghostly gibbous Moon peeps through clouds, winks wizard.
Nocturnal owl whirling eyes turns back to attack limping lizard.
Lovely lioness left lazy lion embracing lonely leopard.
Unicorn washing curvy horn in blood with glycerin soap
Demons playing tug of war with venomous python as rope.
Opponents were gang of giants: Scary monsters notorious.
Black spider crawling, jumping, running rushing ferocious.
Eight eyes of black widow sparkled through wide window .
Moon cast ghostly shadow on shrubs in adjacent meadow .
Weird witch cunning most sitting with scary ghost
eating rotten mutton roast and burnt butter toast.
Kids of ghost carve sweet swollen pumpkin
Valorous vampire , howling wolf jumped in.
Gang of ghosts danced merrily with kith and kin.
Vigorous going on scary Halloween dance
All are exulted , hated to miss the chance.
Kitty cat danced standing on its paws
exhibiting strong spiky curdy claws.
Violent viper, always hyper continuous shedding tear
' I love you, Dear ' to whisper close to my ears.
Jumper Vampire hugged me swift to inspire,
gifting me a shiny sapphire : Me about too expire .
Green-eyed black cat chasing macro mouse wagging tails.
Vultures and hawks coming in flocks ringing jingle bells
Me in party at haunted house trembling and heart fails.