Long Queue up Poems
Long Queue up Poems. Below are the most popular long Queue up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Queue up poems by poem length and keyword.
We British love to stand in queues
We are known through out the world for it.
It must be something in our genes
We have tried all the other means.
Nobody teaches us what to do
We just line up when we see a queue.
The trouble starts with our foreign cousins; they look on us amused,
Then they walk to the front, ingnoring us and bypass all the queues.
Excuse me Sir or Madam, we say but you should be at the back,
‘What on earth for when I can walk in, you know what you can do with that!’
Fury starts to raise and feet begin to tap,
I am sorry Sir/Madam, but you must join at the back.
The door opens and we see just what we are queuing for,
It is the ladies services but then she grabs the door.
Our foreign cousin jumps in, what a nice neat trick
And locks the door behind her, it was ever so quick.
There is a murmur from the queue,
I’d tell her off if I was you.
Don’t you worry I’ll do that when she comes back on out
I’ll stop the lady on exit, but then I here the shout.
You’ve missed another spot you dolt, just let the woman go.
Oh not again why was I so slow.
So to all our foreign cousins when, in England you arrive,
Please don’t forget to queue up here, if you want your holiday to survive.
God Save the King! So echoed round
the village halls, the pubs, the streets
the day our Charlie Prince was crowned.
Homes decked with bunting, cake, and treats.
We celebrated with a rave,
or knees-up, as my grandma said;
with piped music via short-wave.
At two pm, it went ahead.
They closed the street the coppers did.
Then out came tables, plates, and chairs
lace runners, doilies, too, amid
assorted china tablewares.
The caravans and four-by-fours
were parked elsewhere to clear the way,
they even shut the local stores
and closed the schools, hip hip, hooray!
Outside of number seventeen,
twixt the sausage rolls and jelly,
rested a crocheted King and Queen
removed from atop the telly.
Not to be beat, at twenty-two,
they placed a lifesize photo out;
which overlooked the cheese fondue,
soused herrings, and some sauerkraut.
Betty and May sang old-time songs
atop a shaky stage, arrayed
with bunting; made from their spare thongs;
while Ruth, the ukelele, played.
The Aussies were there, well, on screen.
Bobby, Kenny, and Aunt Maud too
to toast the King and mourn the Queen
with tea (and a tinny or two!)
Simon and Peter went all out,
made a spread called L G B tea;
with brightly coloured cakes throughout.
Open to all, as it should be!
Douglas and Rex from forty-eight
sat with Lil as she won her prize;
for the most original plate,
coronation jerk shrimp surprise.
Prizes too for best-dressed table,
front door, and garden gate, won by
Teddy, Fred, and Aunty Mable;
all well-deserved, we can't deny.
Captain Brett (self -titled we think)
gave a roaring one-gun salute
sporting a coat of dazzling pink
over his Royal Navy suit.
Thalis, made by Shrimati Nath,
were such a delicious hit they
caused a queue up her garden path.
(They paired well with Andre's Cabernet.)
We kids, long past our sugar high,
so full of cake, shrimp, nans, and stuff,
were told to say a quick goodbye;
we'd been awake quite long enough.
As the sun set on our nation,
Old Fionn Byrne began to sing,
a joyful amalgamation;
Danny Boy and God Save the King!
Oh the joys of an airport trolley
I try and push it oh what a folly
The wheels always have a life of their own
I’ve not got off the ground I just want to go home
I want it to go left but it goes off to the right
I give in to its stubbornness; I really don’t want a fight
At last I reach the check in I can leave the trolley behind
Farewell you metal monster you drove me out my mind
I queue up at the check in to get my boarding pass
Hope they don’t scrutinise my photo I really look an ass
No I’ve not got any liquids and I packed the bag myself
Oh damn I’ve left my travel sickness pills on the kitchen shelf
Now its through security oh how I do hate that
Remove your belts and boots, your scarf and your hat
Make sure you put your liquids in a plastic bag
Without my Oil of Olay I look a real old hag
In the departure lounge your pocket takes a hit
Have you seen the cost of a cuppa – it takes the mick a bit
You sit around for ages and hope that there is no delay
I just want to board the plane and go on holiday
Herded up like cattle when you hear the flight number call
I climb the aircraft steps carefully so I don’t take a fall
Squeeze into the aircraft seat and buckle up your belt
Hope the pilot knows their stuff and your last card’s not got dealt
Finally the plane takes off and you are in the air
Thirty minutes flight time for an exorbitant fare
Finally you land and you reach your destination
Time to relax and sit back and enjoy your vacation.
Jan Allison
30th April 2014
What if....?
Death was a lottery,
With a Powerball price of a million dollars
Will people still queue up to play?
What if death was a clock, and you had one option
To either fast forward, pause, or rewind it; What will your option be?
What if death was a bank, and one could advocate with it;
Request death forgiveness, death deferment, or death forbearance?
What about death refinancing or death equity?
What if death was like a touch tone phone
And one could put death on hold;
Press zero to bypass mesmerizing angels of death at the reception;
And pally or advocate directly with death?
What if death was a court,
And one could ask for an interlocutory injunction,
Or death arbitration, death adjournment or deferment?
What if death was a wish,
Will beggars still elect to ride, or bolt like Usain?
What if death was cash and carry,
Will the rich, high and mighty,
Be so generous with their cash, as they are to brand names like:
Ferrari, Bugatti and Louis Vuitton?
Or will they chicken out like a cold Turkey?
What if death was a rain check
Will people Queue up to cash in on it?
What if death was like a set of clothes
And one could change from it
Like a Snake discards it's old and worn out skin?
What if death was a marathon
Who would elect to first breast the tape?
What if death was a school or an exam,
And one could do a remediation, carry death over,
Select another elective, or take a death sabbatical?
What if death was an essential commodity
Would you put it on layaway
And make installment plan ?
What if death was a widow,
Will people still accept a widows mite? What if.....?
Qualms, I've had too few to admit to you.
Scruples quadrupled, I've had some doubts as well.
Leaving me squeamish, uneasy, unwell.
I fear my regrets will breed and accrue.
Like palms, qualms are arrayed with spiral heads.
Their tough, frilly spiky fronds need tuning.
And rough scruples, misgivings need pruning,
As the spikes can get in your eyes and beds.
When qualms queue up like guests uninvited,
Confront and challenge them with steely gaze.
Eyeball to eyeball their gawk will erase,
Like gatecrashes they'll leave when confronted.
Qualms only succeed when you let them in.
Nip them in the bud, before they begin.
At daybreak,
I approach the beach across a soft hill of clover,
past sleeping Pandanus palms,
and down a small sand dune.
I am enveloped by sea wind.
I look up to a flight of swallows - symbol of returning.
They occupy the airspace of seagulls.
A kookaburra laughs, somewhere to land-ward,
bringing fond memories of far off bushland.
A Malamute passes beside me,
pulling a woman on a long leash.
If she had a small sled she could mush
along this perfect white beach.
Tall lady pines grace the shoreline
their skirts just out of reach of sea water.
Seagulls sit in small conventions pecking free donuts.
They queue up for cups of coffee; I imagine
their grey wings tucked through Aloha shirts.
A German shepherd lopes, wolf-like, scatters them,
they swoop out to sea, laughing.
They'll be telling the folks back home
of their close call.
Now the sun's rays have reached the high rises,
awakening diamond fires from glass windows.
On the horizon, sunbeams reach down in straight lines
like sun-pictures from a child's storybook.
My imagination runs wild but my walk has ended,
as I climb the wooden ramp - back to the street,
alive for what my day holds.
He bought himself a tandem
In the hope that he would meet
A suitable young lady who’d
Ride on his back seat.
He took it to the Dance Hall
But didn’t stand a chance
Cycling not seeming to fit in
With ideas of modern romance
He’d offer one a lift and
See her expression slip
When handed a bike cape
And a pair of cycle clips
Then he had his eureka moment
When he persuaded one to try it
Selling it as essential part of his
New Calorie controlled diet.
The idea rapidly spread
And much to his surprise
He managed to turn it into
A very lucrative franchise
He’s a billionaire these days
His happiness complete
As the ladies queue up
To ride on his back seat.
I wished to find the words for you - so beautiful and dear,
The pretty ones that you would be so happy just to hear -
And when I found the very bestest, selected just for you,
I’d put them into a poem’s lines, so they would ring so true.
It took time to find these charmers that like to hide from me.
“Queue up in a line”, I said, “so my beloved can see!”
But these dumb clods never do what I command them to.
This is the silly way they lined up to prepare for you to view:
“Soft like silk, a lullaby, a rainbow, an azure sky,
Verdant woodlands, a butterfly, snowy peaks, apple pie.”
“You must tell her what she means to you and what is in your heart.
I’m afraid this is not good enough, it’s only just a start.”
“We’re walking out”, said these dopes, “of your love poem, I’m afraid.
What you are asking of us stiffs is over our pay grade.”
It was then I thought, with these mad guys, I should make amends.
If I cannot command them, then perhaps we could be friends.
And so, my dear, it’s time I fear, to pause and to regroup.
Because these words have turned on me and turned this poem to poop.