Long Slurped Poems
Long Slurped Poems. Below are the most popular long Slurped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slurped poems by poem length and keyword.
A squirrel named Lou lived up a tree
with tastes refined as tastes could be.
He’d sniff acorns, then pout and say,
“Again? I had those yesterday.”
One afternoon he found a plate
of spaghetti—fresh, al dente, great.
He twirled each noodle with such flair,
like a tiny chef with perfect hair.
He slurped a strand, then struck a pose
with parmesan dust on his nose.
He’d scamper off, then shout, “Encore!”
and steal lasagna from your door.
One day he tried a ravioli~
declared it “too square, too holy.”
But fettuccine made him sing,
and penne made him do a fling.
In the outskirts of a dirt-laden country road
it snowed, hailed, sleeted, and again...it snowed.
Day and night, Mr. Snowman guarded the cozy homestead,
as the Jones', inside, slurped soup with homemade bread.
Entrusted with a pipe and shovel to protect the sheep,
Mr. Snowman's chubby cheeks couldn't keep
from being dusted, smothered, completely covered.
Neither the smoke nor the digging tool could be uncovered..
...until midweek when a beacon from the sky
sent forth absorbing light, almost blinding to the eye.
Mr. Snowman's shovel doubled over with a sudden scrape,
as he seemed to be moving, but into a different shape.
Returning his pipe and shovel, with a rockful of cheer,
In reverse hibernation, he whispered, "See you next year."
3-11-19
the dogs were happy
did not have to dig deep
in bomb craters and
makeshift graves
they licked at pulverized bones
and liquefied brains
slurped up the proceeds of war
and roamed the street
sluggish and flatulent
saliva dribbled as well
from the industrial military complex
fused joy with sore fingers
from counting the money
Dmitri wondered
what had become of his folks
and where the flowers had gone
before he pegged his rag doll
to a skull bone that floated
in a sewer of lost hope
his young soul was confused
with reality and fake news
and yet his scarred mind
was never far from revenge
as he waded through carnage and destruction
he found remains of his pet
and smeared a bloody reminder
on his feverish forehead
picked up a land mine
and bode farewell to one of his arms
because the weapon exploded
never one to cease with belligerent ease
Summer in the Seychelles and the weather’s scorching hot
Sid saw Santa sailing, in the harbour on a yacht
Although he wasn’t wearing clothes that Santa Claus should wear
Sid knew him by his bushy beard and flowing snow-white hair
He knew him by his glowing cheeks and by his bright red nose
He knew him by the way he wore some tinsel on his toes
Young Sidney pondered hard and long and wondered what to do
Perhaps he’d go and volunteer to be part of his crew
But seeing Santa sitting on the poop deck on his own
Sid made it his decision that he’d leave the man alone
Slowly sipping soda Sidney slurped his ice cold drink
When Santa turned to Sidney and he gave the boy a wink
Then all at once the boat rose up, and to the sky it reared
A thunderous roar a puff of smoke and Santa disappeared
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.
Vaquero In the Club
"Saxophonee Smoothie"
------------Vocal Book--------------
Story by Gruff Beatez
and the Fine as GalCrooners
---------------------------------------------
By: Yisirih Auhsahrych
----------------------------------------------
walked in the door
everone turned to see
this sweet thang
I had with me
fella came up
said "hooga-hooga"
we walked right by
she is such a looker
get to the bar
even woman taking glances
she sit's down
ah-fella came
take-in chances
said what a woman like
you doing with a (Bleep)
like this
I shugged it off
wasn't looking
for no beef
song started to play
"ole gal" grabbed her hand
let's dance Sugga
I dance like a man
she say Honey is
it okay
I say gone get it in
they out there
what they call that dancing
dude liked my suit
what that tropical wool
the best mister i said
he turned back playing pool
I got in line
to gett-ah drink
slurped it down
heard a noise
chic slide in
like they in a sating rink
my lady
fight doewn on the floor
cussing and carrying on
told that Gal she was a whore
said she gotta man
she don't roll like that
she got up
and said where my man at
I took her hand
walked out to through the door
here comes this chic
the one she called a whore
what she do
she said she had( ki$$y) in her hand
I told her i was with you
I already had a man
-----------------------------------------
we found she had a new drink that had
a Kit Kat Bar in it
the woman thought the other to be
flirting. The Fella wore a three piece suit with
a matching hat. The night lights made them
think he was a cowboy. Her skirt was so short
you could blooming and rye
from either side. Yeast-rolls is what
the Fellas called it.
-----------------------------------------------
2 full kit kat bars broken into pieces
2 oz chocolate vodka or cake vodka
1 oz Bailey's Irish Cream
2 large scoops vanilla ice cream
1 oz chilled milk
Chocolate syrup (for drizzling)
Whipped cream and crushed Kit Kats
He was big, rough, burly, with tattoos everywhere you could see.
Up both arms, down his neck; a big boy, weighted two thirty-three.
I tried not to notice him, for I am afraid of bikers this size.
When he came to the bar, I actually began to rise.
Don’t let me scare you off, he said. And he gave me a wink.
This reassured me a little, I am sure my face was kind of pink.
I decided to stay a bit. He and the bartender exchanged a grrrr.
They were not happy with each other, and I thought a fight might occur.
He’s not that tough, the biker said, pointing to the guy behind the bar.
If you want. I can whoop his ass, and throw him pretty far.
No thank you, I said, trying to down my beer. It had cost me seven.
I wanted to get out of there before someone got shot to heaven.
Bartender was glaring at the big guy now. I envisioned my life gone.
I slurped up my beverage and headed out the door and way beyond.
Hey miss! Someone yelled behind me. I then began to run and duck.
“I have your purse!” the big guy yelled. I was horrified now, I suck!
Big yellow cat lying across a Harley stretched out, gave me a yawn.
The big guy handed my purse, and then the bike he soon jumped on.
That’s my big brother the bartender told me, a few weeks later.
He likes to wrestle with me in the bar. We call him Kitty Gator.
I've slurped chili from border-to-border and betwixt the roilin' seas,
In fancy five-star establishments and greasy spoon eateries.
I've sampled some that has caused anxious gastrointestinal uproar,
But I'm a glutton for the stuff and always go back for more!
I'll eat chili with or without beans, it really matters not,
Jes' so there's plenty in the pot and it's rather spicy hot!
I'll even deign to open a can of concentrate in an emergency,
But I much prefer a great chef's favourite and secret recipe!
Many are the chili cook-offs I've sauntered my way through,
Tastin' gawd-awful concoctions, my face turnin' a reddish hue!
Those guys toss things in the pot about which I wouldn't care to know.
Their recipes are closely-held secrets and there ain't no quid pro quo!
Now, usually I can tolerate chili from any hot and spicy batch,
But, boys, I'm here to tell you that today I finally met my match.
Satan himself must have brewed that beastly olio!
I gasped, shed copious tears and my ears assumed a ruddy glow!
I'm told its a social blunder to crumble crackers in your soups,
But what care I? I ain't concerned about jumpin' through no social hoops!
Some of the glares I get from folks are embarrassin'ly chilly!
So what! Me worry? I relish crumbled crackers in my chili!
My favorite dining place in town is a place called La Baguette.
'Tis a quaint French café and I haven't found its equal yet.
They serve the most scrumptious French onion soup west of Gay Paree,
And it is slurped by discriminating snobs as well as we bourgeoisie!
They serve other grub such as baguettes and burgundy beef stews,
Escargot, pate, salad maison and an assortment of cheese fondues.
And Monday through Friday they ladle bowls of soup du jour,
But each and every day they serve French onion soup for sure!
Eating French onion soup is a challenge and requires a bit of skill,
Especially, dealing with the stringy cheese in that delectable swill.
The glob of provolone clings like a boa constrictor to my spoon,
And dangles from my noble chin making me look somewhat like a goon!
De mal en pis (just when my dilemma has gone from bad to worse),
Faire bonne mine (to put a good face on matters) I tend to curse.
To save face, next time I'll ask the waiter, "S'il vous plait (if you please),
I'll have a bowl of your French onion soup sans that stringy cheese!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt,USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
In the realm of self-interest, a curious soul,
Could not adhere stamps, sans wit owning a role.
His tongue, like a rover in arid terrain,
Lingered on whimsy, a scoffing refrain.
Precision eluded, in blindfolded dance,
Tongue franking an effort, missing each chance.
The stamp, a library of lore unbespoke,
His tongue still meandered, lost in each stroke.
Like giraffes when they strain ~ reaching treetops,
His sealing endeavor was a clumsy hopscotch.
The stamp lay there mocking, a coaxed witticism,
Tongue still missed the mark, a terrible tourism!
Metaphors clung, but not on the letter,
A longing unfilled, his tongue never got wetter.
The envelope sighed, craved wit's lifting brew,
Yet his tongue frolicked, having wandered no clue.
He licked and he slurped, as though miming delight,
A grand postal crime, a federal plight!
Metaphors piled up, unsent missives distressed,
His sense of himself was a bewildering behest.
In the spirit of levity, a story confided,
A stamp unadhered, a metaphor provided.
When engaging with mail, overcome by caprice of,
Just leave the attempt and go buy self-adhesive.