Long Quick wit Poems
Long Quick wit Poems. Below are the most popular long Quick wit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quick wit poems by poem length and keyword.
I write like bakers bake
my rhymes make earth shake
Going into contest with me was your biggest mistake
I control the earths plates, tectonics, your rhymes are bollocks
I cause land slides and earthquakes
I don't hate but I do devastate,
Is the rhythm of your rhyme hidden?
I'm going back and forth with my decision
I'd like to think it's something I'm missin'
but I cant see it in what you've written,
You stagnate rhymes
I contemplate the punishment for these crimes,
don't harp that you'll defeat me
I'm a giant you can't even see me
Now back and forth like red and meth I hand you over to little missy,
you pissed us both off so we share a rhyme to make you look silly..........
Your rhymes don't even matter
my pockets is gettin' fatter
Yours getting flatter
When you heard the glass shatter
That means me and my homies gathered
Now you bout to feel the wrath of
Somethin' that you wished you hadn't of
And all I can say is back up because I'm bout to act up
It might not concern you but
I'll thermonuclear burn you, you're a human sacrifice
Cuz I be smashing mics with the Passion of Christ and
Stay fully loaded, equipped with action devices
Me n trim shady here to party like Tom Brady
We stay cooler than an Eskimo baby
V is for Victory, we mastered your trickery
Tryna clock like dickory, get smoked like hickory
So please stop the bickery, you can't get rid of me
Fire colabs from here to infinity
you heard her infinity
even with a radar and map you cant find our reality
we're in another galaxy
you've barely the ability of a fetus
how dare you compete with us
and this U S U K special relationship isn't putting you at a handicap
it's natures act, you can't rhyme or rap
put your dick between your legs and make a tail
walk away with your head down cus your insults fail,
the only insult that landed is that you went up against us
with terrible stale dribble
that you squiggle
all brainless and minimal
like an unevolved mammal
writing without the opposable thumb by miracle
sounding dumb and undesirable,
when I read it I became miserable,
I desire a quick fire high flyer
like me with quick wit that aspires but you were dire
and dim, you aint no Trim,
you're a fool who should return to school.
collaboration with Brenda Chiri
first and third Trim
second Brenda
You think you're Godzilla
but you're just a Gorilla,
that's what happens when you've got gonorrhea,
my skin colours vanilla
my skills are killa and real
you're run of the mill, a fail
can't you tell you didn't do well,
that Kartel manure smell
of Kountry music don't sell,
a wannabe that wants to be on X Factor
in a field riding a wrecked tractor,
tracks that no mind will capture,
you're no rapper, a can't act actor and no rhyme writer
with poor rhyming from your core
the fact is you naturally bore,
getting done by amateurs
that means s**t for sure and below my stature,
take a step back and see the big picture,
there's no record label coming for your signature,
you should turn around and head for the door
and not turn this battle rap into a war,
snore, pass out snore music,
20 years and there's still no use for it,
your rhymes are insignificant
your average skill's no different
stop thinking you're magnificent
and realise you're just a hunt.
Yet you think you're good,
umm missing a nail or screw
let's face facts your music is poo,
can you not make a beat with flow?
Your music makes me sit in a seat depressed and low
through ignorance your skill's seen no grow,
so excuse my rant but your music is pants,
professional status, you've got no clucking chance.
You're so unlikely to upstage my quickly written
lickety split thermonuclear lit quick wit
with whatever you pick
to pull out your bag of tricks
because I'll make it unstick
quicker than thumbs can click through your music,
making videos in which you go on the phone,
cliche prone, stereotype replica
look at ya forever inferior,
making out you've golden interior,
but Postman Pat out delivers letters
and is better with more under the hat
you've empty space where your brain sat,
writing rubbish, getting fat,
one year in I'm getting published
you skank like a grandad with one wish
you long to be served a contract,
take note of the situation
you've been rhyming for a generation,
and you'll never be a sensation,
just a symbol of humiliation,
........ cus Rosko thinks he's the dogs bollocks,
while the rest of us just think he's bollocks.
That's all bossco, that's all I have to country cartel you.
Over and out, they call me Sue.
i.
what am i, what am i?
tea, tea, for that would i die --
cup after cup after cup of vanilla chai.
the romance of caffeine,
the lull of forced time awake;
the feeling of falling in the night,
when your body starts with a quake.
what am i, what am i?
books, books, for them would i die.
o, to curl in my bed, to have a good cry.
here to mask the frustration of a boring life,
arthur, his knights, and a good, long, strife.
what am i, what am i?
loneliness, loneliness, for her would id ie.
i've always been told i'm far too shy.
sensitive as a mouse, picky as a bird--
who cares to speak if their words won't be heard?
ii.
what am i, what am i?
to that, i answer, many a thing.
i am the battered scribe next to the shining king.
i am dreaming of all the fish in monterey bay.
i am thinking tiredly about the end of may.
i am hiding my face in the picture you took.
i am a crude laugh and a shrill, "made you look!"
i am my favorite mug that always burns my hand.
i am the scratched CD of my favorite band.
i am turning the corner in tears & hitting my head.
i am thinking of ways i could wind up dead.
iii.
what am i, what am i?
why, i'll tell you.
my life is made of blue and gray.
i am no she, he, or they.
i am made of those moments in the wood,
when your words will undoubtedly be misunderstood.
i am her gifts, her endearing eyelashes,
the roll of his shoulders, his tales of car crashes,
their quick wit, their excited chatter,
the cringe i cringe when asked, "what's the matter?"
iv.
what am i, what am i?
some could argue i don't know.
too young, too brash, and definitely too slow.
but some could i argue that i do
because i know that i am not a 'who'.
i try to take moments and grab them ;
grip them tight & close to my chest.
i pile the memories up and sit on them
like my own beautiful bird's nest.
i feel only frustration, gratitude, and nothing at all
i open my mouth to speak with unconscious gall.
v.
who am i, who am i?
you tell me, please do.
chances are i know less than you.
you have a name, a life, some cares;
you are eager to pay society's fares.
vi.
so.
what of people who are what?
The howling winds of March
Furious gusts of air
mightily blow bestirring anchored poet
sitting comfortably numb
securely strapped in his hard to maneuver
easy bath chair
while all around him debris
strewn helter skelter everywhere
heavy objects unmoored
pirouetting topsy turvy
defying laws of physics
cue Adam Smith
courtesy his invisible hand
eulogizing, kickstarting, and regulating
unseen cogs and gear
in order to avoid being plucked up
analogous to whirling dervish
ye dear reader best don
top of the line name brand ironware
to fend off soundcloud
analogous to webbed
whirled wide rooky banshee
hounding kingly bishopric
inducing royal knightmare
whereat pawns called play
as damage control representatives
ultimately linkedin to medicare
for bodily harm suffered
and property destruction
doled out courtesy Nationwide Insurance,
nevertheless yours truly
experienced heightened anxiety
cuz I accidentally, casually, easily,
et cetera eavesdropped,
though a polite gentleman (boot no scholar)
loud talking policyholder
anyone could easily overhear
their strident vocalizations
and they owned chutzpah to *****
re: me for listening to conversation
threatening with abominable language to scare
living daylights, which nearly caused
writer of these words
to soil his underwear
such vociferous threats
wrought quick thinking defense posture,
whereby my ordinary shy demeanor
empowered after downing
powder milk biscuits
(cuz heaven's their tasty)
and declaring warfare
against being bullied
versus suffering as token scapegoat
most every year
from boyhood until emerging adulthood.
After crafting above lines
current generated via whoosh;
I sat mine hind quarters
(otherwise referred to the tush),
which signalled to Doctor Quackenbush,
(id est Groucho Marx)
not deficient with quick wit
whose hook, line and sinker
word of the day namaycush
helped one environmental seaman
high (fish) tail to Hindu Kush
where removal from madding crowd
spiritually inoculated one
with a profound hush.
I know six languages,
The one I write in
The one I speak in,
My mother’s words,
My father's verse,
And those of my brothers.
My mother speaks quickly
In baking terms and 80’s slang
She speaks in sewing materials,
Starbucks orders,
And references to Bon Jovi.
My father speaks with nature,
I just happen to hear him.
He converses with trees,
And pebbles worn smooth by time.
His language is filled with bar chords,
Childhood lullabies,
And culinary jargon.
The words he shapes are crafted by knowledge that I won’t admit I see.
Two years younger than me is an entirely different language,
Though one I understand.
Covered feelings form a language
I used to know quite well
Spoken in anger
Or begrudging hope
He lives in a pixelated world
With his eyes glued to a screen
He speaks in accordance to what is thought,
Usually not his thoughts guiding his actions
Strict participant in social norm,
Too much is said about what he hasn’t done and not enough about what he has
The youngest speaks in an entirely
Too innocent language
One I have come to detest
For the unwelcome flashbacks it brings
I don’t speak his language
Doubt I ever will again.
His quick words are full of legos,
Cartoons,
And Kung Fu Panda.
His actions are a reminder of a song I have forgotten.
I speak in limericks,
Dramatic monologues,
And Iambic Pentameter.
My words are full of colors and grasped by few
For they float by much too quickly
Full of mentions of J. K. Rowling
And pop culture. My wonder is stuck
In the impossible,
For I have yet to believe it is so.
I speak in song lyrics and quotes.
My words are full of grudging resilience,
Quick wit,
And sarcasm.
It does not matter what language we speak,
Or what percent Irish we think we are,
We are alike on what matters,
Like our love for literature,
Our patriotism of Gryffindor,
And our intrest in politics.
The languages we speak tie us together,
They are what make us unique.
Joyl, and her sister Tevera, were sitting at the fireplace.
Sharing secrets,
sharing their live, in retrospect to what the other encounters with each sibling.
Tevera, the oldest, knowing the most of life, is wiser, so is more gracious with her tales.
While Joyl, in turn, shows much enthusiasm and looked over much of the things.
The days that passed showed them so much about themselves.
So many things
they had never known, and would have never known if it wasn’t for Petrik.
So spontaneous a creature, without a minute’s warning would rear his head and spark the
imagination.
Petrik was, for the most part, helpful, with a quick wit, and even quicker temper.
If one of the girls shall speak harshly to the teacher, Petrik would give them a rap on the ear.
When he was
most angry, he would be so mean as to put glue in their hair, an impossible feat to
overcome.
But, all be would do was whisper the one word in each of their ears, and they would be
alright.
As simple as it is, it was so very hard to do when it actually came to achieving the one word.
It was now, both staring into the fireplace, that they recalled that word, and what it meant to
each other.
Joyl says, with
much ease and in a carefree tone; that it was simple the word she lived by, the word
everyone should strive to achieve with themselves at least several times in their life.
Tevera was very thoughtful about her response, once cannot simply chatter their life away.
Her reply came as gentle as a springtime flower, smiling at the sun.
I have now
become what he spoke, what he breathed into me, I am now so passionate about the
gentleness people can achieve, that the word has become meaningless, and only the sound
gives me pleasure.
The feeling, the heartfelt emotion, the simple complexity, and he will always be remembered.
Form:
I know how to live off the land
I'm a survivalist
I make do with whatever's at hand
I'm a survivalist
It's a mindset,
it's a lifestyle
You must have a soldier's discipline,
be able to endure hardships for a long while
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for guile
I can ascertain your true motives,
sense the truth behind the smile
I was trained to be a scientist,
I was trained to be a fireman
I was trained to be a field doctor,
but right now I'm a lumberjack
swinging an axe in my hand
I worked on a railroad,
I worked in a cooper mine
I worked at a shipyard,
I was a mean cook when I did a little time
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for those corporate city slickers
I can deduce your true identity,
sense the lies behind the smiling boot lickers
I was trained as a scout,
I was trained as an engineer
I was trained as a wrangler,
but right now I'm a mechanic
fixing a truck with busted gears
I worked for a big law firm,
I worked as a small company machinist intern
I worked at a high-tech factory,
I got recruited by a low-level military attache
Those are just a few of my credentials,
but here is what you really need to know
I'm a student of studying people,
I got a quick wit, but I like to appear slow
Being in the big outdoors
is where I really feel most at home
I love to test my skills at surviving,
I love to operate my satellite phone
Check the cloud patterns,
constantly scan the terrain
Calculate the tide shifts,
learn every animal, know every grain
I know how to live off the land,
make the land work for me
I make do with whatever's at hand,
let the land give me what I need
I'm a mountain man,
I live in an untamed world
I'm a different kind of animal
I'm a mountain man,
who's never gonna get trapped
by modern barbarians ever again
I was influenced by Basil Fawlty
that sarcastic humour really caught me
inappropriate rude crude and naughty
humour against stress which haunts me
I'm the sort some assume a dim bulb
even the spoons make a sharper knife
impulsive projections cause eyes to roll
a daily custom always part of my life
and yet people fail to see the sea
over there between the land and the sky
for the Wildebeest sweeping majestically
as though impulse is a thoughts finish line
I know nothing about the horse
a witnit flying pig in the water tank
thoughts follow impulse of course
my brain is working you Fawlty blank
That wasn't the fire alarm
yet it causes you to get gobby
you're Major with a firearm
shooting starlings in the lobby
So who wins these bloody mind games anyway
wound up telling me stop talking about the war
which they started when Poland saw an invade
"is this a piece of your brain?" as i pick dust up off the floor
A false sense which makes them hopeful
becomes a trip to see India at the Oval
they don't see the rat in me called Basil
biscuits cheese and a Lord Mulberry puzzle
I'm a good lad
a Waldorf Salad
the chef's gone home
rooms without baggage
if you can't hear me turn it on
blind with glasses on your head
you put my door in a load baring wall
"Hello Major" the Moose once said
i sit there for years doing nothing
when i actually need it for flames you place
and i have to use my brain and think
the bloody think will explode in your face
I know how to address stupid
even if i often appear confused
my small back road is your M1
and with quick wit I've won.
1. ? OK, I'm good to go ...
2. Satirical, ironic, quick wit, = critics fave +/-
3. Dad's magical, handcrafts a buck into luck plus 2 birds in a bush, $0.01
land + $0.99 houses--1950s+->. Mom's an honest woman, she married
Dad's $$ since she's a BIG spender--fed the starved, clothed the poor,
housed the homeless, OMG--oh, and Him too--He got the most.
4. The Word, its Exposure, and unafraid using ingenious efforts gifting His
truth to the masses. (Inked signs breath divine)
5. A past erases, a present tense being dealt, hopes in a future, and yon...
6. Lose those closest, here and there--bits of me, and the word just outright.
7. My publications grow, family successes, and talk of those pastime--in their
presence.
8. Time be toned down, time an instant's measurable, and time when they
say, "Good night," ... and it is.
9. USA's 50th State, Hawaii. Birthplace/Souper Tag Name, 'Hilo' (Sight may
affect pronunciation, High Low--an error. Its enunciation is, HEE-low.)
10. LAST NAME: (note the Haw'n accents)
WhatPleaserepeatyournameslowlyandpronouneitclearlythankyou
SUFFIX:
Iamsosorrymaybeweshouldtryspellingitstartingwiththefristalphabet
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Ancestral ties to climes' worth, heeds adaptive skills mid moving change as focus stead our needs; rabbits to tusked boars, oysters to tiger sharks -- pets were a deterrent, as animals were downed. My family and I, absent to time and place, we had a white Labrador, Bananas, was dearly loved for 17 years.
Reminded of a situation
definately not a trend.
Met this woman years ago the
mother of my best friend.
A tough cookie
who often cracked wise.
“Get up early to put one
over me,” she’d always advise.
Working alone after the too
early demise of spouse.
Running a bar not easy to
provide food for a house.
Son and daughter left early,
getting out of the way.
Quick wit would
zing, if hankering to stay.
Time came for passing,
instructions duly noted by will.
“Donate my body to science,
I can help someone who’s ill.”
Med students came to
know the body’s ins’ and outs.
Five years of their examinations
resolved any anatomical doubts.
Returning to family after
a well researched hiatus,
if not for wills, we’d all be
looking for someone to take us.
Bumping along on squeaky wheels
of a medical school gurney,
cremation was the next stop
on afterlife’s next journey.
A small unobtrusive urn
finally held the mortal remains.
Her way of eternally short changing
a funeral home’s gains.
Remains sat in that urn
first one home then another.
The state was not told she hitched
a final ride in the casket of her brother.
You just might be saying,
“stop, you’re making me ill!”
But, I’d bet five bucks,
she’s enjoying it still!
Memories will last with family
after we’ve no longer survived.
This eulogy a tribute to her final days,
I swear it wasn’t contrived.