Long Punters Poems
Long Punters Poems. Below are the most popular long Punters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Punters poems by poem length and keyword.
Fatima was always dressed up fittingly as any occasion called for
Today one might call her a performance artist but she was
A hippie and child of God always good for some drama though
Was not taken seriously in the reviews in the Paradise Gazette
All she wanted was to be seen as playful serene and sophisticated
First thing it were dates that started the show in the garden
And she had never performed in the nude let alone seduced
She played Hamlet and Noah Mephistopheles and Juliet
Let her hair down to climb down from Babylonian towers
Her repertoire was enormous and to her chagrin so was her bust
‘They always look at my bosom and never hear a word that I say
Fake voyeuristic news and when things go wrong I get the blame’
She was made for the stage in the Big Apple not dated palms’
Tried olives but they were too small and peaches far too symbolic
Bananas were phallic and there was no couch in the garden
‘Fatima at her best again a gorgeous woman with forbidden fruit
But she covers up and her sidekick Mohamed bears the cost
She must reveal more of her natural talent and not hide her loins’
Her mountain quivered in disgust of the lecherous media and
Pressed for fame she developed a different plot with a twist
‘Mohamed let’s be traditional and awaken the punters with apples
We could juggle and whenever we drop one we’ll take off some clothes
The last one with fancy knickers gets to skin the snake as a prize'
High into sensational air they went but could not catch the globes
It was not divine as such but they created the first nudist camp
Once all garments were ripped off the good Lord smiled as they pleased
History must not be falsified and the legend carried on for millennia
Evangelists spread the message and facebook has millions of hits
Finally the audience got a full un-redacted view of naked scripture
Fatima was a transgender man and the serpent had a pearl for an oyster
01st Agust 2019
What are the world's current requisites?
Is preferable to intelligence than bellicosity.
We should stoop our heads like wind chimes,
Additionally, supplicate our Almighty God.
It doesn't matter if you approve it or not,
Ultimately, the answer is in your hands.
With a little blot, you cannot go wrong,
Regardless of what you might do.
Others will be exonerated and scrutinized,
It's almost as though they're finely rung.
Consider them as if they are pleased and jubilant,
When you stand together, you will be magnificent.
I'm aiming to lessen my rating and increase my love,
This action should be carefully examined.
Being exempt from the requirement to assign a score,
As a consequence, the path will be unambiguous.
Punters, first and foremost, notice your spirit,
In the long run, you might consume the right to see.
That every one of us will provide his fair share,
As a result, harmony will be defined by no rules.
2nd place contest winner
Written: March 24, 2022
Your Peace Message To The World Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Into the lane
come wind, impetuous rain.
Trees are now a threat,
gesturing wildly, angry,
promising to snap,
eager to pounce,
to crush in an embrace
of leaf and crusty bark.
The village fête, though,
is like the show:
it must go on,
it must go on.
It’s fixed in time,
it’s preordained.
Brave souls
staff the stalls and serve,
to raise the funds
to fix the roof.
Spattered souls – pulling
their cardigans closed, tugging
their knitted hats further down their heads –
bravely measure out the day
in collected coinage
dropped into biscuit tins:
the target must be reached.
Cricket’s off – rain stopped play;
back to the crease another day.
But the ladies of the Guild
fête the thinning punters
with bric-a-brac and homemades,
with orange juice and lemonade.
It’s a parallel world –
the other one’s not here today.
This is all there is.
For this day only,
this is our fête.
Meat Market
They sit on window sills in Hamburg Amsterdam and many beautiful Cities
Legally ‘freed’ they take part in a shady economy of flesh lust and domination
Skimpy dress bare buttocks and bosoms with red light advertising their ‘virtue’
Pimped and pumped out it is business as usual tonight and the punters arrive
Many are most recent imports from Eastern Europe snatched under false promise
Of valuable jobs now bereft of their passports and drugged to dark eye balls
They stand in dark alleys or prowl the streets offering rough rides and adventure
Hand out release for a tenner blow foul members like good sex slaves would do
On the passenger seat they take men to new heights and submit to exploitation
The point of service for entry is all good and if its not the front passage its dearer
Without protection the purse opens wider as the clients take their greedy pick
‘Some goods are beyond the sell by date’ but look now ‘Two for the price of one’
Some of the women and often young girls end up stitched up and dead in a ditch
But who cares they are only whores not pretty enough to be escorts or call girls
A vile supply and demand economy unregulated like neo-liberal infection below
‘The tart enjoys it and she can be proud to get stuffed by the great guy I am’
Modern day serfdom with no power of love but bonded in sick love for power
03rd June 2019
An institution for the average man and also for the Toff
The gun blasts, the gates fly open. They’re off.
Eight magnificent Steeds already to win the race.
Trampling all before them, galloping at full pace.
Jeremiah takes the lead, closely followed by Your Grace.
Simply Simon at his heels, True Tess is gaining a place.
Here comes My Hero, a grand, black stallion gaining on the pack.
Flight Steward, Flame and Conroy are positioned at the back.
Stampeding round the bend, bulleting on the outside
True Tess the small grey filly, taking the lead with pride.
Manes flying in the wind here comes Conroy flying round the pack.
Now in second place, the odds thought him to be a hack.
Clumps of turf take flight from the pounding of the hooves.
Horses surging forward at an almighty pace, none wanting to lose.
Jockeys standing upright, leaning forward smashing their whips.
Jeremiah responds to the whip with an almighty lunge and trips.
The horse recovers, but all others pass him by, at least he wasn’t hurt.
Joyful screams from the punters as each horse puts on a spurt.
Simply Simon trapped against the rails pushes his way between a gap.
Racing with the pack, hurtling against the wind the jockey loses his cap.
Its anyone’s race as the galloping group head into the straight
There’s a oneness between each horse and its Jockey mate.
Wails from the crowd are heard, some had bet just on spec.
The crowd are on their feet as two horses are neck and neck.
The thunder of their hooves sending sparks My hero crosses the line.
A whisker in front of Tess. A photo finish sends tingles down my spine.
My ticket says Tess To Win, the track is silent for results of the race
The Marshall makes the announcement. Its my Hero in 1st place.
Sponsor Brian Strand
Contest Name A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE no 1219 -- 23 May2023
WHAT KATIE DID
Katie had jogged my elbow at the poker table
I tried to snatch back my chips but was unable
And I guess I was causing some sort of hiatus
A bet’s a bet, quite irrespective of one’s status
My pleadings were drowned out in that babel
Could I lose all that money sent over by cable
Other players showed no evidence of amity
Their gain will be my loss, and a real calamity
A bet once placed, is like making a contract
By now, any smile on my face had cracked
To regular rich punters a loss doesn’t matter
But for me, it’s my world that could shatter
I held my breath at the the fate I was dealt
All could clearly witness the pain that I felt
The highest bid that I had apparently made
My hand that must now have to be played
Perhaps the others thought I was a kidder
But it’s what a high bidder has to consider
The DJ shuts the fader by mistake,
yet speaks his words in slick and practised tones,
but doesn’t hear them coming through his ’phones,
berates himself: That’s quite a gaffe to make.
That’s five whole seconds, nothing but dead air.
I’ve dropped a clanger. This is just not done!
The programme’s live, it’s not a trial run.
The punters might retune and go elsewhere.
But more important is that what we give
distracts, amuses, offers light, bright, trite.
Dead air is not an option. Get it right!
They need our pap: it tells them how to live.
Although this little lapse is but a blink,
it might just give the punters time to think.
Harold Peters led a very secret life
Totally hidden from his own dear wife
He didn’t work selling quality pork pies
Just another of his devilish devious lies
To conceal the fact when he wasn’t there
He worked in a circus as a dancing bear
He looked so genuine in his bear suit
All the punters thought him so cute
As he waltzed and stepped with skill and ease
That his performing bear never failed to please
And at the right time he would bark and growl
Causing some of the delicate to blub and howl
And show real true fear
Cos the bear was so near
Just an added piece of thrill
And fine tribute to Harold’s skill
He only got the job as a favour from a mate
When the pork pie factory finally shut its gate
And he needed money to make ends meet
But thanks to his skill and twinkling feet
Elmer the Educated Bear of Dance and Fame
Fast became a world known famous name
And Harold earned enough for a faster car
And smoke best thigh rolled Cuban cigars
But very best of all his own sweet wife
Enjoyed more of the better things of life
Inside his suit Harold smiled with glee
As he took his bow on one bended knee
Ah the pleasure and the joys
Giving fun to girls and boys
One last twirl and Harold’s away
Another dollar and another day
Tonight he though he really must try
To remember for his wife a small pork pie
She must never find out when Harold wasn‘t there
He was the World Freestyle Dancing Champion bear
And worst of all, she would think him rude
Cos inside his suit he was in dressed in the nude
The quick fix had worked so
She slipped the needle away,
Her little liquid friend that helped
Through each long working day.
A toot of the horn told her
He’s out there with her lift
For her to work the punters
From the pub leaving shift.
Only a whore they said
When the body was found,
A battered shop mannequin
Lying on waste ground.
With their numbers cut the
Police couldn’t do much more
And, as the papers had said,
She was only a whore.
Somebody said there
Was a child somewhere
Quietly and efficiently
Taken into care.
Three girls at the funeral
Hardly a significant memoriam
Then she was ushered off
To the local crematorium.
A cup of tea in a cafe
In memory of a working mate
Quickly slurped down as
The afternoon was getting late,
The girls went back to work:
With their habits to feed
Any fear they may have felt
Overcome by addiction’s need.
Not high class call girls
With upper class clientele
Just a poor exploited women
With only one thing to sell.
So, Austerity still rules,
Unfair decisions are made,
And poor women are still driven
To the rough end of the trade.
I have bought in boutiques
on Carnaby street,
stopped in stores galore
on the Champs-Élysées,
shopped 'til I dropped
on Madison Avenue,
and, what's more,
I've been seen to arrive,
fashionably late, on Rodeo Drive,
but one thing I hate,
and doubt I'll see, or there'll ever be,
as there's not much call,
for a linear row of shops downtown,
in a small Möbius strip mall.
Tho' Johann B. Listing (1808 – 1882),
rediscovered the non-orientable surface first,
Mr. August F.Möbius (1790 – 1868)
published his findings earlier and, well-versed,
Euclidean geometry taught he,
while, his wife, Dorothea, danced provocatively,
in pole position, at a nightclub naughty,
and, where out at night, on a fun day trip,
paying punters paid to ogle and view,
the ever-arousing Mrs. Möbius strip.