Long Parody Poems
Long Parody Poems. Below are the most popular long Parody by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parody poems by poem length and keyword.
What if I can see it, smell it, almost touch it,
That gilded throne where I will proudly sit,
Would people think me mad,
Is my ambition so preposterous and bad.
And why not me, have I not earned this crown,
Someone not worthy of that queenly gown,
Bejeweled and composed for all to see,
My vassals all around, bowing deep to me.
Naysayers bleat I'm just an empty ship,
With lights and streamers pretending to be hip,
Without a cargo or destination clear,
Sailing in circles relying on the wind to steer.
But if we're given to analogies, what if I were a Trojan horse,
With clear intent and undisputed course,
Where guile and purpose rule the day,
The aim to soundly win not merely one to play.
Demean and underrate me at your peril,
I can pivot between angel and pure devil,
While my laugh is designed to be disarming,
It masks a side of me considerably less charming.
Everything I've wanted I've achieved,
A trajectory few would have believed,
Do you think I'll stop at this last jump,
And in so doing fully flatten Trump?
sun …
glints off sweaty trickles as
they plop … plop …
little lad’s littler fingers tickling a
tide pool’s papery face
things of mysterious intention, darting
there to here to there …
wide eyes wider in amazement
tiny thrums quick’ning
dividing breaths
like swells divide the time
and tides …
a splash and a grasp, tightening
some small watery beast
cold-red cheeks blooming wide to
parody the dazzled bay
grins and giggles to mock the black-backs
for this shrimpy monster, squirming
is the prize of a wee fist
gamboling its way to
proffer some mad-mommy shrieks -
slimy and squiggly and
oh, so wondrous!
hunter, home from the hill
Ahab and his white sea demon
perfectly prideful,
invested surety of a silly smile
warmed by the sooty
afternoon …
sun.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 9, 2024
ever his little girl ...
she knew her daddy, suitably
the demons, the defeats, the drudgery and dreams
(dreams, deep and delirious,
as substances imposed)
no year of hers was
sans disappointment or broken vow
his life - a Stradivarius without a master hand
the edge of creative brilliance,
rusted by tears …
potential of a rare and exquisite temper
ravaged by emotional paralysis and chemic parody
little to redeem, and naught
meant for pride
still …
love saw fit to hold his hand, cooling
as his last breath left the day
only her lips, the grace ...
to kiss his eyes.
( • Faux colors & other blather-lather tongue-lash trash promos • )
_____
For why?
(Imported cheese skewa's mo' mid-night doo'az) . . .
how sand cups da' nuts • O' thou bendi bêãch • for which the dubious shark-sighting reports exkuz-us have proved clueless-
a tropical topic of serious scientific inquiry / relational chem-bo's whacking the hippocampus.
Imagine then the kaleidoscopic cacophony of tropical haiku bursting from my mold-dented ottoman’s baby-breath foot-washer elocution's 'lectrocutions, eclectic electric bill's submersible subjects ~ ( surfer fluidity? ) Superfluity ( you Dimp! ) Unbound!
OR
Soupify our autumn alum-drummed luminaries with kung-fu cryptic-dues for pool-side doggy-print prints and herr' burgermeister's onions on the half flip-side because "Stupification®" has got to be that new restaurant on La Brea drive!
Ring-a-ling "Dog poo!"
Get out'a my yard slacker
Fence post rendezvous
. . . And how'd you get my phone number?
by Lingua Lacuna
Notes:
_____
Entropys' Centuries; Lingua intones, The aroma!
Dude; he assures the man in the mirror, and the glare!
.
One More
Ingredients are a funny thing.
Timing is probably more important.
But it is hard to say really.
I cooked all day, but…
I wanted it to be perfect, but…
I thought I had it, but…
The turkey refused to get in the pot.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
I guess I did not blame him,
as I would not have thought it
the best idea.
I let him out of the cage early.
I wanted to get to know him a little.
I wanted this to be a mutually
acceptable event.
Yet, explaining that you have a plan,
in which one of you will not be
okay with the outcome,
never goes well.
I am here to tell you.
Clearly.
He looked at me,
now free from the box.
He could see the window(open),
the door (ajar)
and the floor, was just washed.
In an instant I realized,
The ingredient had found,
a reason…
not to want to be cooked.
Maybe many?
Turkeys fly, no lie.
Not fast or slow, but erratically.
First a smoldering present just for me,
on my shining surface.
Plop.
Then a squawk,
that I had not realized,
I could understand, as if in English…
I will not repeat…
for mixed readers present.
Off he went.
High and low, and in between.
He knocked off things I had not seen.
Trouble on the rise, trouble already risen,
feathers and flying not the same,
as any other caged bird,
as this one knew,
to be free,
he had a clue.
So he flew.
Overcome with anger
He grabbed a knife
Ran to the front
Of the auditorium
And lunged at the little clown
In the centre of the stage,
What followed was a violent struggle
Between the little clown
And his assailant
Screams and cries
And what appeared
To be a fatal stabbing,
But this was all an act...
The hysterics
The screams
The cries
The knife,
Even the little pool of blood
Trickling from the centre of the stage,
It was all an act...
Graphic, realistic
A very convincing piece of drama,
So much so
That when the curtains
Were drawn together
And the auditorium was empty,
The stagehands came
And carried the little clown's body away.
W.A CHOLT. Copyright Fergal O Reilly. 2006.
Posted 10th April 2019.
A boy King was born in Bethlehem piquing the interest of three very wise guys.
They came from the East guided by a mysterious Star streaming from the skies!
They got a fix on the Star with their GPS and with AAA aid, planned their route,
To make the trek to that unlikely place to see what the hoopla was all about!
They mounted their royal camels named Chrysler, Lincoln and Cadillax.
(Lesser breeds named Chevy, Honda, Kia and VW toted MREs and packs!)
Reservations were made to stay at Oases Embassy Suites along the way,
Ensuring they provided swimming pools and golf courses on which to play!
They took along a generous supply of gold, frankincense and myrrh,
And platoons of Green Berets as guards should any funny stuff occur!
Their route took them o'er mount and vale and through dunes of shifting sand.
Sans their GPS and I-pods they would've become lost in that desolate land!
As they neared Bethlehem, they enquired, "Where is this King of the Jews?"
They were told, "Take a left on Palm Mews, then a right to Holy Mews!
There you'll find Him wrapped in swaddling cloths in a modest shed.
There was no room for Him at Holiday Inn so He was born there instead!"
They paid their respects and presented their gifts as they knelt in adoration.
Learning in a dream of Herod's plan, they high-tailed it East in a new direction!
Herod tried to find where the sweet Babe lay and his innocent life destroy,
But he lived to become King of Kings regardless of Herod's nefarious ploy!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
THE PUSSY CAT AND THE OWL
(With apologies to Edward Lear)
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a Sealink Hovercraft.
They took some hash and plenty of cash
Wrapped up in a banker’s draft.
The Owl looked up to Telstar above
And played to an electric guitar.
“I’d like to take you to Capri Pussy love,
But the lead wouldn’t reach that far - that far, that far.
But the lead wouldn’t reach that far.”
Pussy said to the Owl, “It’s perfectly foul,
The discords you play on that thing.
But I’d still like to marry - it’s your baby I carry.
We’d better look out for a ring.”
They sailed that night to the Isle of Wight.
The place where the tourist goes.
And there on the quay, a Punk they did see
With ring through the end of his nose.
Owl said, “Do you agree to sell for 5p your ring?”
Said the Punk, “I will not.”
So, unable to wed, they cohabit instead
With a commune at Cowes - in a squat.
They dine on the floor and have yoghurt galore
Which they eat with a white plastic spoon.
Then - with a new partner each, they go down to the beach
And smoke pot by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon.
And smoke pot by the light of the moon.
20th December 2020
Parody of a Famous Poem contest
Sponsor - L Milton Hankins
Yes, I’ve done it once again
Removed a seeping cancerous pain,
Soleimani’s dead and gone,
The devil’s agent, the Ayatollah’s pawn.
Long the source of all things bad,
Few if any should feel sad,
If his passing caused a stir
His gruesome end aimed to deter.
Now a martyr for their cause
They’ll build him up like Santa Claus,
With waiving arms and raucous shouts
The world will see they’re no boy scouts.
My daring deeds on show once more,
They surely number by the score,
A man of steel and firm resolve,
Heaven sent to problems solve.
Yet the Media still won’t say
How great my feats are every-day,
A bunch of losers, leftie goons,
Their brains the size of shriveled prunes.
They’re now all worried by the path
Iran will take to show its wrath,
Bring it on and stand aside,
While I help our missiles glide.
If my message isn’t clear
To those that neither hear nor fear,
Mess with us and watch the show
As we make your backyard glow.
Written: January 14, 2026, for contest sponsored by Karen Jones
************
In this tristful age of waning meaning,
acrid winds rise from the world’s declivity,
We listen for a softer timbre,
a tone like cowslips glowing gold in dusk’s blue hush—
and still, peace hums beneath the din
The air grows redolent with rancor,
with hostile murmurs and contentious tongues,
Yet somewhere a winsome, limpid whisper
threads through the static like warm violet light—
and still, peace hums beneath the din
We wander through conundrum and quixotry,
our thoughts a woolgathering drift of smoke,
our hearts a chatoyant flicker
caught between shadow and ember—
and still, peace hums beneath the din
Two stanzas mirror each other now:
one for the mind, one for the marrow—
mind seeking cogent clarity,
marrow craving gentler gravity—
and still, peace hums beneath the din
We meet in the middle,
where synchronicity feels like scent-turned-sound,
like a golden chord glowing on the tongue,
like touch that tastes of morning rain—
and still, peace hums beneath the din
Peace is no barbaric banquet,
no officious promise wrapped in parody;
It is an evanescent shimmer yonder,
a quiet halcyon pulse beneath our stolid fear—
and still, peace hums beneath the din
And when the night grows thick as ink,
when even hope feels fake and thin,
peace rises—slow, buttery, bright—
a lantern of molten saffron
held in the trembling hands of dawn.
And still, peace hums beneath the din.