Long Prix Poems
Long Prix Poems. Below are the most popular long Prix by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prix poems by poem length and keyword.
Brigitte my love
Our Country suffers of many debts
The people are restless
Whatever shall we do love?
Ah Macron, we must think past the cookies
The solutions are complex, answers evasive
Let me speak with Marie Antoinette, she shall know!
Queen of Navarre, By god we shall be saved!
Marie, Marie Antoinette our people are restless
Our republic is in debt. these are crazy times!
Whatever shall we do?
I am fed up, allons-y
Ah fear not, if they have not bread!
Let them eat Nutella!
Lower the prices
Nutella for the masses!!!
Marie, are you sure? very very sure of such things?
Oui oui, on with it, my father was emperor of Rome
Nutella will calm the masses
Come here Nemo. taste, see even Nemo is tres happy now!
And so France lowered the prices of Nutella
Thus began the nouveau French Revolution
Riots in the streets, brawling in the magasins
The uprising has began, we want our Nutella for free
The masses rose
Nutella for all, Nutella for sans prix
We are all somewhat fou for Nutella you see!
And so the masses fought each other for Nutella's liberty
Nutella one and Nut Ella all!
I swear to your Brigette
We should have given them Macarons!!!
People remain civilized with cafe and cookies! n'est pas?
Emmanuel my love, fret not
The revolution shall be quelled
Qh I have the perfect person for this
He shall restore order to our dear republic
Prey tell Brigette? Who could do such a thing now
Riots everywhere, the masses fight each other daily?
The streets are not safe
There is a shortages of Nutella now, we are doomed cheri
Non non mon amour, I shall call Alizee
She shall sing us out of the terrible mess
She is the mistress of Doug McMillion
This man can save us all!!
Brigitte, who is this man you call Doug?
Why Emmanuel he is the president of Walmart
He has squashed many Black Fridays rebellions
He shall save us all!!!!!!
From these unruly unsavory Nutella shoppers!!!!!
Vive la France!
Vive Alizee
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri
C'est ton droit et ta liberté
Translations
Allons-y = Lets go, pronounced similar to Alizee
Magasins = Stores
N'est pas is written on sound should be "N'est ce pas"
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri = Eat your macaroon cookies my love"
C'est ton droit et ta liberte = Is your right and your liberty
A profession that's not the norm.
It borders on the absurd.
In the mountains and down the hollers,
powerful engines could be heard.
I decided to try something new.
Put my driving skills to the test.
Driving from Harlan County to Asheville,
It didn't end well, you might have guessed.
The city fathers got together,
figuring how to make it all work.
Everyone involved in this illegal trade,
from the mayor to the town clerk.
The hillbillies brew the dew.
Most of it safe, some burns red.
Uncle Jessie tried it once.
His eyes rolled back and he dropped dead.
Billie Ray had a hot rod '50 Ford.
Was a race car, lost more than it won.
We popped the trunk, man it was huge.
Perfect for the nightly Asheville run.
In the trunk was a steel tank.
Loaded hooch made the car ride low.
Truck springs took care of the problem.
Now the truck no longer hauls cargo.
Beneath the rear bumper were nozzles.
A switch inside made the oil flow.
When a revenuer was chasing you,
in the rearview, was quite the show.
I always wanted to drive.
Thought this life would be exciting.
Told to keep away from this game.
It's dangerous hauling white lightning.
Blazing out of Harlan County.
At first, it went fairly smooth.
Problems I planned for didn't happen.
I got settled into a groove.
Bo Duke, he would've been proud,
when I jumped the gap at Cumberland.
Crossed the stream at Maynardville.
The engine died, it's not going as planned.
I finally got it restarted.
Pretended I was driving the Grand Prix.
Ahead, I saw the tail lights of the g-man.
Oh, snap! they're supposed to be chasing me!
I pulled off the exit for Knoxville.
Checked the map, found Kingston Pike.
I heard this in a song before.
Outside of Bearden, they were planning to strike.
Kept going in spite of the tune.
There they were, waiting to spring.
Blocking the road, no way to get by,
I lost control, spun into this big electrical thing.
The car quickly caught fire.
The door was jammed, options were few.
It was like an atom bomb going off,
when the flames caught the Mountain Dew.
The next night, my funeral was held.
Played a song about some bird in a tree.
The car lights, they stretched for miles.
This life I guess was not for me.
Yours truly snapped, popped,
and cracked his crown out cervix
(I'll spare ye the bloody graphics),
whence obstetrician able, eager, and
ready underscored with italics
to pass (think football) garden variety
wrinkled newborn asthma
noggin heralded lix
plus deux orbits ago
sported an ordinary
uneventful, nonetheless miraculous
biological secrete reproductive tricks
immediately screaming
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (now pronounce as pricks)
also envision Dolby surround sound
nsync with spastic kicks
'o mine straggly mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix.
Within some nondescript
Cincinnati, Ohio hospital heed gypped
(i.e. none other than me)
thy young mother of prolonged labor
as his bony ass easily
slipped out uterine crypt
whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese
he appeared made rather dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.
Once placenta and fetal membranes
(unnecessary as wing ding)
discharged out uterus
after birth of offspring,
and thar weren't no more
major contractions in the offing
ma mommy lovingly did cling
to her bundle of joy and bring
maternal breast I ravenously
did suckle fortunately toothless
against her tender bosom trickling
(if mammary serves me correctly)
I presently recall no iota of inkling
what events transpired, nope
no recollection about me circumcising.
Moost likely I felt Jew bull lent
glad yours truly chose decent
mother and father, which opinion
subjected to radical change,
when as grown adult child
living nonsocial under
their roof forced to hire agent
provocateur to practice sparring,
when standoff event on horizon,
which eventually begat ultimatums
their red hot poker rage spent
belittling, cursing, damning...
quiet as Unitarian Church mouse content
internalizing later smoldering
anger I needed to vent
in retrospect diminutive little boy
tied to mama's apron strings
afflicted with mental
health issues inherent
of course hindsight gleaned
social, psychological, neurological...
healthy development got rent
asunder partly explaining
why I became indigent.
Buzzfeeding sustenance (eating/drinking) beyond point of satiation
Bloated swollen cheeks
analogous to first Chinese Brother,
who swallowed the sea,
now non sequitur
off beaten track i.e.
less apropos re: guarding
par for race course as if
ace driver won Grand Prix
latter referencing international
horse race for three-year-olds,
founded in eighteen sixty three
931 + 932 = above number
satisfying ghost of Fibonacci.
Original idea predicated whereby
all Americans heartily feast
(stuff themselves to the gills)
salivating cornucopia dime
a dozen lonely people
bemoaning holiday re:
traditional Thanksgiving time,
celebrating joie de vivre chime
wine glasses clink full house,
where ushers pantomime
proffer gobbledygook and
motion rapidly hungry guests
toward smorgasboard prime
tables for gluttonous
to commit punishing crime.
Tentative arrangement made,
whereby oldest sister, and husband,
(who live a jaunt away from Maple Shade
more precisely Woodbury New Jersey)
would swing by Schwenksville
comprising one car motorcade,
thence to shuttle 31.5 miles southeast
our mutual (of Omaha) friend,
I met when counted orbitz
during late 30/early thirtieth decade.
Offer to drive out of their way
presented, since our 2009
Hyundai Sonata did betray
accountability, dependability...
reliability oy vey
woolworth no more than
couple/few Benjamins
yet real challenge constitutes
yours truly, née
theme underlying mein
kampf pennilessness pray
I did (despite being orthodox
atheist) to no avail
relying upon social security
regarding disability (mine) Mayday
forthrightly, feebly, faintly...
calling before men
donned with white coats
came to take me away
to the happy home with trees
and flowers and chirping birds
and basket weavers who sit,
smile, twiddle their thumbs and toes.
Communication break down
compromised eating humble pie
regarding this ole man
upended above mentioned plan
whereby attending
hosted by: Gail la Dorfman
afforded rubber express
thus with Forrest Gump I ran
all the way across
Ocean thru to Japan.
One evening Bob nervously said
I kinda like three in a bed
She said I’ve got friends
And each of them tends
To share the desires in your head
The next night as had been arranged
His ankles and hands were in chains
His lady walked in
With Rodney and Jim
And that kinda messed with his brains
His girl was a leather clad gimp
And Jim looked a bit of a wimp
Rodney said ducky
Time to get mucky
But Bob was decidedly limp
*
Time to collaborate...
First ‘up’... Jan Allison
Bob swallowed six Viagra whole
And soon was like a flag pole
Much to his delight
He stayed up all night
The threesome all enjoyed their roll
*
And from Tom Cunningham...
Poor old Bob was a pitiful sight
His girl decided to put things right
She produced a pump
And worked on his stump
And Bob was like a stallion all night.
Old Bob was so grateful for his girlfriend
But all things good always come to an end
With too much thumping
And all the humping
His thing deflated and started to bend.
*
And Belle Bellevue writes...
Bob went to see the doctor with his crick
Asking please could he do something with it
Doc gave it a jerk
That really hurt
But it became bigger after the visit.
That put a smile a mile wide on Bob's face
He strutted proudly all over the place
The more people looked
The longer he stood
With swollen head penetrating airspace.
Bob begged his girlfriend to bring some more in
The home fast becoming a den of sin
They came three by three
A sexy grand prix
Which ended up with Bob in a tailspin.
*
Mark Koplin adds...
Old Bob was a motherless soul
He liked bears, sheep and woodchuck holes
All three gave him a grin
On his chinny chin chin
Next time he’ll add a few moles
*
And Tania adds this...
Bob was enjoying being wildly bad
Posted a dating site with his fun add
So anxious he couldn't sleep
After being banned a creep
He was now left a frustrated poor lad
*
Since the bloody Battle of Hastings
When 'Arold got killed by French Bill
We've seen an endless invasion of French
And I've just about had my fill
Don't we have enough words of our own
In this wonderful language of ours?
- To seek and find le mot juste
Dunt take much linguistic power
It seems using French has been with us forever
Passed down as a fait accompli
Have we ever really tried to change that?
Or have we always said "C'est la vie"?
But, to think that some long-dead bon vivant
With a certain je ne sais quoi
Used his chic tour de force to put words in our mouths
To me, it's a shameful faux-pas
So, I think we need a tête-à-tête
To form a clique, to mount a coup
Working together, en masse, as a team
We'll swap "Bonsoir" for "How Do"
Then (haute couture) won't be setting the trend
We'll watch racing, not the Grand Prix
No more art nouveau, or cordon bleu
And say "Enjoy your meal", not "Bon appétit"
I never have the soup du jour
Prefer prawn cocktail to poncy pâté
And I'll sit in a coffee house or caff
But never go in a café
Some say I should let it go and relax
Say choice of words is all laissez-faire
But can I stay calm on this bête noire of mine?
No, mes amis ~ au-contraire!
At British Wimbledon let's use "40-all"
Instead of being at deuce
And what's wrong with nil instead of love
Or am I being obtuse?
I know that we'll get nowhere
I sense there's no going back
That it's like being stuck behind burning sheep
Trapped in a cul-de-sac
But I suppose that it is nice to share
Good ideas and a word or two
Like Liberté and Égalité
And that feeling of déjà vu
And with le weekend, le booking, le check-in, le spam
And countless more, I say with a grin
That when we look at our counter-invasion
Even the French agree that we win!
Young and single, just got a job in a neighbour town,
Thought I’d buy a flashy car so I could get around,
My boyfriend at the time said that I should get a Camaro,
It was new, orange and shiny, how could I be so narrow.
I crowned her Bess and drove her home with pride,
All my friends called, they wanted to go out for a ride.
Summer was so much fun, what a splash I was making.
Then gone, both summer and the boyfriend I was dating.
Winter rolled in with tons of snow and patches of ice,
Getting to work in my Camaro, was like rolling the dice.
Ol’ Bess would skid to the left and swerve to the right,
Wow, I held on to the steering wheel with all my might.
So I resigned that Bess was not good in cold weather,
Even with snow tires, she blew around like a feather.
Then suddenly a new quirk started as I turned on the key,
She spluttered, oh great, guess I won’t make the grand prix.
Bess would start well at times then for no good reason,
She’d stammer, then stop, reek of gas - in any season.
Bess and I visited many auto repair shops by way of a tow,
The carburetor was like a fountain, out of it the gas would flow.
Apparently a carburetor is needed to make Bess purr,
So I had it rebuilt, then replaced, oh the bills, what a blur,
Then a starter motor and strut, remember Bess is brand new,
After three years of aggravation, I traded her in, I was through!
Guess a cool single girl may look good in a splashy sports car,
But if your car doesn’t start or run, you won’t get too far.
So I put on my sunglasses, look cool but feel like a real wart,
As I drive to work in sleet and snow in my old Ford Escort.
Written for Contest “Driving Me Crazy”
Won 6th Place
"Egin superbe a la robuste echine, par toi Marseille a pu au prix
d'un long effort, retirer des flots bleus, la celebre sardine
qui depuis cinquante ans bouchat l'entree de port"
--caption on a Vieux Port photograph
In the seaport city of Marseille there is a tale
of a sardine as large as a whale,"plucked
from streams of blue," as the French
succinctly put it, that blocked the entrance
of the Vieux Port for fifty years. Is it for folklore
of the fabled fish that a small green frog
takes residence in my breezeway? It's
not his fault if a need for salt
led him to linger beside my doorway.
He likes hanging out at the Old Port, grace
a' the photograph at my entrance, straddling
its frame, or dozing behind a decorated doorplate:
a miniature "maison" with Spanish tiles dubbed
"Familia Perez," appointing him resident frog,
main man of my diminished household, where
coming or going, we exchange small pleasantries,
(or I do). Civil land-lady to Family "Ranidae's"
amphibian animal. Let him stay, I say,
because I like his style. Too small to be called
king, I crown him a prince: His Highness, Lord
of the Breezeway. "Don't kiss any frogs
unless they're from Marseille," parting words
from a departing friend, so I don't pucker up for
this one. Big Frog, Little Frog, it's not the size
that counts. He's here to reinvent Pagnol:
Panisse and Fanny, a new, improved Marius
who left the sailor's life to find a wife--
chose me instead of the sea.
Yours truly an aging baby boomer
long haired pencil necked geek
trademark disheveled characteristics
whipsawed ever faster around sun.
He (best buddy and alter ego of mine)
snapped, popped, and crackled
firstly his crown out cervix
subsequently skinny arms and legs
(I'll spare ye the bloody graphics),
whence obstetrician able, eager, and
ready underscored with italics
to pronounce hosannas
regarding garden variety
generic wrinkled newborn
emerging out birth canal
asthma noggin heralded
scrawny newborn, now celebrating lxiii
plus deux orbits around nearest star,
which birth sported an ordinary
uneventful, nonetheless miraculous
biological secrete heave reproductive tricks
immediately screaming
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (now pronounced as pricks)
also envision Dolby surround sound
nsync with spastic kicks
'o mine straggly mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix.
Within some nondescript building
named The Christ Hospital
location Mount Auburn
Cincinnati, Ohio
(the buckeye state)
record number C57587
gingerly handled courtesy
Doctor James Mackay McCord
(ushering none other than me
into the wide webbed world)
bestowed upon bosom of Harriet Harris,
thy young mother of prolonged labor
as his bony ass easily
slipped out uterine crypt,
whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese
he appeared made rather dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.
Most people who meet her, consider her charming
But she has ghoulish traits, they’d find quite alarming
With her gleaming blonde tresses and sparkling blue eyes
Her cherubic features are just a disguise
For although she emits a celestial aura,
Angelic pastimes, quite simply, abhor her
Where other girls play with their ‘Barbie’ dolls
She has mystic wars with her hideous Trolls
Her peers, read Enid Blyton in Bed
She takes Stephen King, with his tales of the dead
And, when it comes to the movies she’s seen
A Nightmare on Elm Street, Hallow’een,
Poltergiest, Psycho, The Thing, The Blob too
These are just to name but a few
There’s nothing she likes more than a good ‘chiller’
With ghosts, ghouls and monsters, or psychotic killers
She watches the Grand Prix, to watch the cars crash
She loves to see the players fouled at a soccer match,
Ice skaters, she wills to fall flat on their faces
And athletes, when running, to trip on their laces
Yet, despite her having such a sick and perverse mind
She’s loving and caring, gentle, sensitive, kind
Unselfish and thoughtful, advanced for her ten years
Who on watching Disney films, has been known to shed a tear
Although she won’t admit to it, it’s only herself, she fools
And I wouldn’t change one inch of her, my ‘angelic’ little ghoul.
© Janette Fisher – April 1995
This poem was written 15 years ago when my youngest was 10 - she hasn't changed a bit!!!!