Long Prissy Poems
Long Prissy Poems. Below are the most popular long Prissy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prissy poems by poem length and keyword.
Illustrious? Too sophisticated.
Advanced? Sounds too modern.
Awkward? Not in the mood yet.
Animalistic? A nice ring, bereft of a special ring.
Will consider it for later though. Jotting it down now.
I could cut up some onions. I got up early to cook a roast right?
I get up from the chair, and my muse bops me on the head,
A light smack. I know, I tell her. I will be back in two.
It is actually ten minutes later. I had to cut up the onions and the roast.
Antiquated? Too prissy.
Profound? Dharm it! You already use profound in every other poem.
Pollutive? Is that even a WORD?
I will set the crockpot on high.
Trixie gets out her machete and leers at me, really mad now.
If you use that, I will not help you at all, I warn her,
So she files it back in her knapsack, and starts stomping up and down the paper.
She is storming angry when I return, I know because the paper is torn into
Teeny, tiny bits, I pull it back together, trying to read it again, as I recopy it.
Plain? Too plain.
Demonstrative? Circle that one. I like that one.
Delectable, delightful, deliriously diabolically, do-able.
The D words are here, and they are dancing and prancing.
Discerning. Where did that come from? Trixie helps me scratch it out.
Hey! Were you going to put the meat into the crockpot?
INSTANT brain stop.
We come to a screeching halt.
Dhramn!
I take Trixie to the kitchen where she hammers on Joe’s head with her axe.
Unfortunately, he does not feel it.
No one else here can put roast into a crockpot?
I invited my oldest daughter to dinner for her half birthday.
It was highly embarrassing when she wrestled me to
The ground for the check, and I landed in some guy’s lap.
Sorry, I said. “This is my daughter.”
She glared at me.
“Why did you do that?” she asked me.
“Why did you bite my hand?” I asked back. “I have not had a tetanus shot.”
“You had one last February, remember?”
I suddenly remembered who FORCED me in to get one, because she did
not (prissy voice now) “Want her mother to get lock jaw.”
I had screamed and wailed and begged and sniffled and sobbed.
It did me no good. I got the shot that hurt less than my wailing and sobbing had.
“And could I please have my credit card back now?” I asked Miss Aggressive.
The waitress turned and looked when I said that, so I stuck out my tongue.
I had told her up front I would be paying, after all.
“Do you want to go shopping?” my daughter asked.
“I can’t,” I replied. “You have my credit card.”
So we looked at the dessert menu, but everything
was costly, and we both knew we would end up on the
floor again, maybe in sumo diapers, and we were too full
to wrestle without guaranteed bouts of flatulence the next time.
So we went to her house and watched six TV shows she wanted
me to “see” in about forty-two minutes.
Oh, my, you ask, how does anyone watch six TV shows in less than
an hour?
Easy when your daughter has the remote, and fast forwards through all
the parts she already saw that were “too boring to see” which means you
get to see some of the beginning, maybe a minute in the middle,
and if you are very lucky, the ending. Another enjoyable evening
with an assertive-borderline-aggressive-beyond-belief daughter
who obviously takes after her daddy’s side of the family.
I took her gift back, and went home.
It might be her birthday, but she did not deserve a gift,
due to blatant arrogance and having to be in charge of me.
No one else EVER tries to be in charge of me!
I dread the bleak dark end-of days when I end up at her mercy,
days in the future, when I cannot see out, or walk or talk, and she is my jailer.
Maybe she will deserve this birthday gift next year but I doubt it.
I have brought this birthday gift over six years in a row, and as
you can see, the less-aggressive one still has it.
the word **** was used liberally in the Victorian days
It meant fornication without marriage
Those people wore prissy clothes, but they came off quickly
and often
They were scoundrels
the women were more sensual than the men
I know, it is hard to believe
Stressing the word hard here
everyone used the word
children and chickens too
it was a word that had no particular connotation
not a good word or a bad word
no feelings to the word at all
a normal, everyday word
used by grandmas during Sunday's noon prayer sometimes
then one odd bloke Henry Stewbody, decided it was a bad word
a word he wanted to ostracize and blame for his own shortcomings
yes, I do mean SHORT comings
very short
he got angry about them, so decided to take it out on this word
Since he was a lexicographer, he could do it too
Henry Stewbody had it banned from the dictionary
Other lexicographers took note
thought he knew something they did not know
they also had it banned.
It became the most banned word in the world’s history
No one knew it was because Stewbody was a quick comebody.
No one suspected
except his two ex-wives
but they were too busy enjoying their new dillydallies to care.
our porch is a mess
falling apart
I do not notice it
until the week before we have company
too late to do anything about it now
when did the three pieces of gingerbread fall off?
Where are the missing wind chimes?
I note that it is rather shabby
Some of the boards are warped,
pieces of the railing are falling in
We are not the prissy types
some people would be horrified by this shabbiness
You have heard of shabby chic?
This is shabby EKE!
dead mouse I just noticed
We have hobbies, interests,
Jazzing up our dilapidated porch
is the last thing I want to do.
I do however get rid of the dead rodent.
He is a pretty pink flamingo with attitude.
Choosing books to adorn his home according to mood.
Of course, the pink ones take precedent at his place.
He has immersed his home in the finest Danish lace.
He loves his textures; his persnickety aunts say with pride.
They inherited him when his mother began to slide.
She left him with them to raise, as they wanted to do.
They convinced him that pink was his color and hue.
Did he ever have a man around? Someone dared to ask.
Grandpa was dead, and father was not up to the task.
Mom and Dad were both drug addicts, not easily found.
He was lucky to have his eight prissy aunts around.
Porch is hilariously messy
Anyone else would be ashamed to live here. I am amused.
Vastly and proudly amused; it keeps away burglars, right?
And salesmen.
Green striped hose, red scooter, pink Barbie helmet,
Fluffy blanket, mean cat, selfish dog, dead mouse in two pieces.
Correction.
Headless dead mouse in two pieces.
Fluffy purple rug, desperately in need of a vacuum,
pile of catnip, sixteen pieces of lawn furniture, we never sit on.
As I am allergic to Shark, the cat, and my husband is too prissy
to be out here with a headless mouse.
Waterbowls, green with algae, look like typhoid fever soup.
Golf ball, bouncy ball, blow up ball, deflated ball, bowling ball,
ugly faded pink flowers probably full of wasp nests, garden shears,
one green garden glove, two empty Amazon boxes.
Hey, did they deliver something else yesterday?
I jump up and take a peek.
False alarm.
Last week’s dead mouse.
I had forgotten I put it in there.
I would have more to add, but I think you get the drift
and I want a nice warm bath….
My hair tries to define me
I laugh in her straggly non- curls
Hoping to shame me, she taunts me
About being messy and unkempt
Together we could be a social disgrace
except only she cares, wanting a brushing,
regular combs run through her, etcetera.
She is much more prissy than I am.
Unbothered by her begging and pleading,
I march on kicking the possibility of a well coiffured head
out of my way,
watching her hopes and dreams land in mire and muck.
She glares at me from a mud puddle
with ticks and lice hopping onto her.
I truly do not care.
Her cowlick promenades around
the bugs’ barn dance.
This does not concern me.
I will never define myself by my hair.
My hair tries to define me
What kind of prissy, prancy, fanciness is afoot?
I look down, afraid my wizened mouth might reveal something
I truly have nothing to divulge, but I act mysteriously coy.
She looks like a Cheshire Cat, someone whispers within my hearing.
None of them know that I have dog-ears; only my friends know.
Who?
I hear my name.
Two or three co-workers who rarely speak to me
Come into my office, under weirdly suspicious pretenses,
acting like buddies, four minutes apart.
I gloat in my spider’s chair, thinking of how I would
devour them if I was a praying mantis, wishing I was actually.
“What is new?” one asks me.
I pretend indifference. “You tell me,” I say.
I have never had this much attention.
I guess I should have my buddy, the police officer,
stop by daily, and shut my door.
She seems to have stirred
great interest.
Maybe they think I am more
than a pirate, a criminal?
I put on my poker face for
another round, loving my web today.
She’s a crone, I think, judging her dour disposition and prissy ways.
Discover by accident she is twelve years my junior!
Her face is pasty withered; worn, super freckled
Her neck not unlike the wrinkles of an elephant’s legs
How old is she? I query again, for I disbelieve
Anyone could look this hideous at this particular age.
I looked fantastic at that age; I can tell you.
Super fantastic, maybe even quad-super-fantastic.
I cannot take my eyes off her neck; does she not have a scarf?
If my neck looked half that bad, I would wear a thick black dog collar.
Her laugh is irritatingly baby-like, a silly chime-like birdsong laugh.
Surly she could have learned a better laugh by this age.
What’s going on? My husband asks, watching me watch her.
She is only fifty-five I tell him. So?
He does not get it, being a man.
So look at her. He wisely wanders away.
That night I walked by the mirror still scoffing.
The mirror called me back.
I looked at my neck and reached for a dog collar.
That was not enough, so I put on my executioner’s hood also.
Patent leather shoes dance my song
They hop and skip, and slide against the sidewalk
I do not care about the cracks or breaking backs.
I am Ginger Rogers, tap tap tap
Fred Astaire is astounded at my dancing prowess
I twirl. I whirl. I am living the 1950's famous dancer duo's life
I am Ginger and I am Fred.
I am whirling and twirling my happiness.
"GET IN HERE IMMEDIATELY!"
It is my mother's voice.
My heart begins beating double time.
I check myself as I walk.
My dress is still clean.
My long curls have not been completely shaken lose
Then I notice all the wet grey speckles on my brand new lacy socks
Uh-oh.
Sunday School starts in ten minutes
And now my twin will be the pretty one.
I will have to wear the plain socks
without the lace
I can tell by my prissy mother's face
That she was not as taken with my
Whirlish dervish mud puddle dancing
I stick my tongue out at my more-like-Judy-Garland face
after I change into the horrid plain socks
Not dancing now
All whirly-twirly gone.
Died a natural death
Sunday school
Damn
Place of
Shame