Long Spud Poems
Long Spud Poems. Below are the most popular long Spud by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spud poems by poem length and keyword.
I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before
Then I started dancing around the room
Then I danced around the large ballroom floor
Discarding my broom, I began to bloom
Then I started dancing around the room
My youthful figure began a sweet bud
Discarding my broom, I began to bloom
No longer was I a rustic fat spud
My youthful figure began a sweet bud
Then I danced around the large ballroom floor
No longer was I a rustic fat spud
I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before
Date: 07/27/2021
Photo: #3
I used rhyme zone
Contest: Pantoum Rhyme 1
Sponsor: Eve Roper
1I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before 10
2Then I started dancing around the room 10
3Then I danced around the large ballroom floor 10
4Discarding my broom, I began to bloom 10
5
6Then I started dancing around the room 10
7My youthful figure began a sweet bud 10
8Discarding my broom, I began to bloom 10
9No longer was I a rustic fat spud 10
10
11My youthful figure began a sweet bud 10
12Then I danced around the large ballroom floor 10
13No longer was I a rustic fat spud 10
14I looked like plump Mrs. Potato Head before 10
I did check this on syllable counter and this is what I got so that is the reason I did not correct it.
I would like to share a tale with you
About an ongoing Spud feud
Between two potato families
And the shenanigans and antics pursued
We have the Tater Family
An extremely large family indeed
Round , robust, varied , versatile,
Availability always guaranteed
The Sweeties are the other family
Long, oval, tapered , also versatile
Orange and a little softer on the inside
Availability, sometimes quite the trial
Now, the Sweeties think the Taters common
Often heard yelling ‘You are rotund and quite frankly cheap and crass ’
Many of you are a shade of ugly unripe green
AND~
You are always getting smashed!
Well… ‘HALLO’ , responded the Taters
Have you looked in the mirror of late?
You are certainly no oil painting
AND~
Whats that weird hairy bit at the end of you mate?
The Sweeties retaliate with fervour
Well, at least, we are healthy, special and sweet
Popular, sought after and make a delicious pie
Known as POET-ATO …..a favourite with artistes!
‘Yeah right’ ….reply the Taters
Did you know we ARE known as the people’s spud?
Always available and at hand to help
AND~
To be quite frank Sweeties
When the male spuds wear their jackets….they are considered quite the Stud!’
Now, this feud may always continue
Their differences may always be their fuel
HOWEVER~
There is one thing they will always agree on
SPUDS RULE!!
There was a new potato that had just been harvest born
On opening his eyes a rooster crowed its horn.
He had grown rather quickly and grown rather strong
But that's when his feelings started to feel wrong.
Mr Potato had noticed he was feeling very sad
Sometimes it felt like, he was going slowly mad.
He was feeling confused and didn't understand why
Deep down he felt rotten, he just wanted to cry.
He discovered a big chip on his little shoulder
That grew too heavy to carry as he got older.
Then there was the urge to pound and to mash
That got quiet messy but made a tasty hash.
He gave a brill roasting when he felt mad
That was either good or extremely bad.
On the days he was fine he felt chirpy and crisp
Those were the days he fancied going for a dip.
When it was too hot he felt rather boiled
And when it was cooler he liked to feel the cold.
His skin went more brown when he got baked
His spud-kini gave him wedges - for goodness sake!
Mother Nature felt sorrow for this confused spud
So she sent a gentle breeze that felt like a hug.
It was important he knew, he is valued so much
He smiled and listened when he felt her soft touch.
"These feelings that you feel are normal you see,
For you are a potato these feelings come naturally.
Your loved by so many and desired too
Your the stable in diets and great in a stew".
"Your the star at every vegan, society social bash
In soups an as a bread, your the main in creamy mash.
Your the star on the topping of a shepherds pie
Your famous world over, a very popular guy."
"You feed so many people, the rich and the poor
Your popular and wanted, it's you they adore.
You come from a large family of sisters and brothers
You have royal connections you will discover."
"The farmers will feed you and keep you warm
Your important to millions you have texture and great form.
King Edward and Charlotte, Maris Piper, Desiree
These are just a few from your large family tree."
He felt happy to know that he had a purpose
And easy to grow and there was even some surplus.
Feeding so many, especially the poor
He was now ready, to go through the kitchen door.
08.09.23
Vivid vitality, vast ductility, and opulent appearance.
Powerful and fiery, bearing a deep sense of tolerance.
We won't fail since we have sinew and dear freedom.
A luring maxim to rank on the victor of a battle.
Alike the eagle's eyes as they fly up a zenith saddle.
America's yielding was cognitive to be limitless.
Ethical skills were set by the fathers to progress.
Whenever they set to foster their ingress of liberty.
The bald eagle fight with repute, uproar, and flood.
Like the peak and seal, a fight for might in a spud.
The bald eagle stands gladly by the clock tower.
The Uncle Sam Flag and the star-spangled banner.
The Statue of Liberty and the Americans who relish it.
Empowering hook and eye fly over Satanic storm.
We have tweaked our saws and freedom swarm.
Our friend's eyes were loaded up with tears in Arlington.
Deprived fighters who fought and died for liberty, won.
Freedom isn't modest or free, troops die while fools rest!
Under the starlight, frogs sang into the foggy wood.
When I rested in freedom, I dozed deeply and stood.
Written: March 17, 2022
Freedom Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
The whole world knows that
Adding vinegar to chips and fish
Turns the whole offering into
An almost Earth shattering dish,
But how many people know,
How many people realise
The amazing effect to be had
By adding Mayo to your fries.
Almost a Damascus Road event
The first time that you try it
Just take the humble spud
And very quickly deep fry it
Then take a huge dollop of
That thick yellow stuff
Don’t worry just how much
You can never have enough.
A nice thick blob to make
A very tasty tasty dip
Then use one by one
On every single chip.
An explosion of joy
Follows each immersion
It really is a case of
Taste bud subversion.
Oh vinegar can be nice
It never ever goes to waste
But lather on the yellow stuff
For that cosmopolitan taste.
It’s the simpler things in life
That can give it zest and glow
Like a bag of red hot chips
And a splodge of Mayo.
You can keep your Fine Dining,
Your food artfully arranged
Your Meat barely cooked,
Oh how things have changed,
Just give me fish and ‘taties,
Wrapped and ready to go
To be Eaten with the fingers
Hot fish and ‘taties alfresco
Finally, my blood began to coagulate.
I counted up my fingers, and found I had eight;
And so, I'm sorry to say, for me it's too late;
But I'm still alive, and hope to spare you my fate.
Let me stress the importance of kitchen knife hygiene.
Listen up, budding chefs, and you will see what I mean.
If you do not sharpen your knife, you’ll pull and you’ll tug,
And you’ll fight with your food, until you give it a slug.
You’ll cut up your fingers until you’re covered with blood
Which will spurt out from you like a diluvial flood.
Your face will turn white; and then you will fall with a thud
While up on your cutting board remains that dumb spud.
So, sharpen up your knife until meat cuts like soft butter,
But miss and you’ve no fingers in the kitchen to putter.
Scraped, friendly freckled face falls to benchtop
Starchy spud plays poker, blank slate envelope
Lost costume spotted cape, super elixir escapade
Layers on shiny raised scars, recovery escalates
Sticking plaster, milky soak soothes, heat tempered
Compost bound bandaid quells Hell unrelented
Derma learns renewal, Nurse dresses fire sore victim
Tugged taut rawness fades, subsiding symptom
Nerida never administers synthetic medicine
She reassures peel press is healing essence
Piano punctuations plod, then pace, parade
Figaro notes frolick over keys, aural first aid
Choral cure prays perfect circle curse moon miracle
Stroking fingers fuse potato to patient, glue
Discarded skin glimmers in kitchen, hopeful sunbeam
Her burn potion infuses through bloodstream
6th May
Quick Recovery
Mr Spud Head is wearing a frown
Some eejit stole his wife’s best gown
His wife who’s called Myrtle
Looks like a gross turtle
Spud’s concerned that the chips are down
They’re going out, Myrtle gets dressed
But Spud Head sees she looks depressed
Her old gown doesn’t fit
And mis-shapes her left tit
She’s crying and looking distressed
Poor Spud Head must think on his feet
He whips off their king size bed sheet
Wife’s bod won’t be seen
Cos it’s Halloween
He’s keeping watch on what she’ll eat
There’s excellent news about Myrtle
She no longer looks like a turtle
Myrtle went on a diet
Spud insisted she try it
To ‘platewatchers’ she will now hurtle!
Across the Atlantic ocean
They have a pedantic notion
Quip us Brits have a frantic lisp
Did slip..meant to say chip not crisp
Semantic antics causing a commotion
Misunderstand our land’s devotion
To the sensory explosion that is a crisp
So why the linguistic demotion
Respond to across the pond & beyond
Have donned a wig of blonde
Seem fond of being conned
They need to be told
The reason Brits abscond from the fold
Will break the mould
Skip this blip and let rip
A chip is hot and if not.. is cold
Such umami gold is actually factually
A crisp!
Our gung ho American foe
Will still go & crow..
Blimey those slimy Limeys
We’re the aficionado…so no bravado
Must surely know a chip is always
Made I’m afraid of purely potato
(unless I guess if its chips at a casino)
Displayed for trips in dips
Not just crud dud spud chips
Bud..could be made of wheat
Sworn am often torn
Could be swayed by corn
Synthetic aesthetic can’t beat
Heart attack in a pack food p*rn
If Polenta is the mentor.. its a chip
But if some parsnip you did flip
In oil then it is definitely…definitively a crisp
Got a hunch that if for
Lunch.. earlier at brunch
Or just for a munch
Thick or thin as a wisp
If it does go crunch
Then it’s crisp
Not being trippy.. dippy or too lippy
Don’t be hasty and haughty
Nothing beats..tasty treats
Seriously salty.. deliriously naughty eats
That's why we say crispy.. not chippy
P.S ..The only crispy beast feast
Where’s there is no hackling
Tackling or shackling
A snack as a chip or a crisp
No cackling…is when it’s crackling
Oops somehow a new row hatching..isn't
Fried pig skin..a pork scratching
But Colombian cronies are dispatching
Such phony baloney..there's no matching
The show ponies that are chicharrones
Oh, Nothing! You sly, elusive spud,
You’re the star of this poem (though technically dud).
You haunt empty fridges, blank quizzes, and minds,
The gap where my keys hide and my weekend plans wind.
You’re the punchline of vacuums, the muse of bare shelves,
The reason I’m talking to lamps by myself.
You’re the “E” in my bank account, crisp and austere,
The punch I forgot in my joke over here.
Some say you’re profound—philosophers swoon,
But let’s be real: you’re a nap’s favorite tune.
You’re the silence between a bad pun and “Huh?”,
The plot of a mime’s TED Talk—oh, brother, enough!
You wear pajamas daily, yet still blend right in,
A champion of naps, but you never quite win.
You’re the cloudless blue sky with no bird, plane, or flair,
The “U up?” text sent to a cactus. Bold. Rare.
So here’s to you, Nothing, you cheeky old void,
The world’s quietest meme, forever deployed.
Though poets may weep for your depth, I insist:
You’re the *something* I missed… wait. Dang. Plot twist!
---
P.S. If you liked this poem, pay me in air.
(It’s fitting, since Nothing and I split despair.)