Long Strapping Poems
Long Strapping Poems. Below are the most popular long Strapping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Strapping poems by poem length and keyword.
The sheep in the nearby pasture
Heard what the cows had done
In the building of their rocket ship
And they too wanted one
A few of them shaved for pocket money
Black market wool brings a hefty price
While some went out to Las Vegas
To try their luck at the roll of the dice
First thing they did with the money
Was to spring for Sherman's release
The only one in the family to go to Harvard
Though it was for experiments on his mind which apparently they fleeced
Right away they noticed something odd about Sherman
Something that just wasn't quite right
But passed it off as genius quirkiness
And let that idea slide by
They told Sherman what it was they wanted
Said he had a mad...um...master plan
All the sheep turned and Baaa'd together
What was that, that he just said?
For weeks all they heard was banging and clanging
From inside their farmers shed
The only activity they saw outside
The massive delivery of Dominos crazy bread
One day the shed doors flew wide open
There stood Sherman as mad as acid rain
No doubt among the sheep in the pasture
He was Bonkers, Loony, Loopy...okay Sherman's insane
As he drug his creation into the open
Not a one in the crowd uttered a word
Till little Bobby Black Sheep spoke up and said
Is that a cows udder?...is that what they think that they just herd?!
Sherman took that moment of bewilderment
To swing onto udder #4
Strapping himself inside of his contraption
And shooting off for the stars
Sherman is still up there circling the planet
Did you hear about the phenomenon in Spain?
Just the other day something amazing there happened
There was the pouring of milk instead of rain...
But we know how that miracle happened
And that it came from the udders galore
Cause when your traveling through space like Sherman
What else would udders be for
Just heard from the Pigs...
They too want a piece of this action...
Summer nights in Centerville, sleeping on the top bunk bed;
A transistor radio playing low, lying right there near my head.
The Big Red Machine was in their prime; those boys could sure play ball;
I fell asleep every night listening to the play-by-play of Joe Nuxhall.
I entered my life of puberty with Charlie Hustle running to first;
Davey Concepcion turning two and Joe Morgan with a speedy burst.
Johnny Bench throwing out would be stealers, Pedro Borbon with a bending curve;
All happening on the summer of my first kiss – once I finally worked up the nerve.
With Tommy sleeping in the bed below – nary a care in the world,
George Foster launched an enormous shot while I tried to figure out the girls.
Jack Billingham was striking them out – an apt metaphor for my chances,
As I fantasized about dating girls while two bases Ken Griffey advances.
Tony Perez was still strapping them on; Don Gullet piled up some wins;
Cesar Geronimo owned center field while my hormones multiplied within.
Coming of age in Centerville, back in nineteen seventy-four,
Meant listening to the Cincinnati Reds while thinking about the girl next door.
Ford score and...Chevy
five years ago,
my Model A strapping
handsome big bro,
(who sped like one
speeding Triumph font lee, crow),
wing, & swooping Thunderbird, with
bold face observers whistling Geronimo
(Holy Jeep), this meant war
whooping Comanche
decked out as armadillo
kicking up red feathery colored dust devils
rivaling the fastest Alfa Romeo
(while choking, gagging, loo
sing russett sputum
flecked with true grit
mouthful size of Colorado)
easily mistaken for masked Zorro
speeding across rugged
terrain of Durango,
ah recall and reminisce,
and if cup ear just so
can still hear (albeit faintly),
a toy Yoda Echo
wing nsync with
Lake Woebegone prairie
home companion, the little known no
nonsense visiting drag queen racer
Noah N. Gin poe
cur face (born that way)
originally from Malibu, a beau
teaful Corvair with Corsair, now resembling
groveling growling Gremlin, in slow-mo
what with his Smashface
ugly enough to scare Apollo
the ghost of David Buick,
a poor entrepreneur, who
never did make good profit re: Coupe,
and could not Dodge nor shoo
away, the Stealth fearsome curse
of Aries nibble Viper moo
ving fast as greased lightning,
(whereby an Eagle Talon
flashed like Spitfire akin too
Austin-Healey Sprite)
full Caprice out of the
(sir really yon) blue
celestial vault outer limits, hue
mans avoided only
brave Caravan Voyager Goo Goo
Doll dared (only fools rushed in, ignoring Fiat,
where angels feared to tread), a Motley Crue
shielded with Fisker Karma (credit),
no matter last payments way overdue
sought out (with Escort
in tow) - actually two
yup, that ever elusive Holy Grail,
thus needed to Focus with much ado
about nothing, while
brows scrunched – mad as Jew
pitter by Zeus snorting like
angry red Taurus bulls - do
tee fully kicking up Tempo
like nobody's business ready
to serve their Mazda at heart,
a Legacy Sub (burr rue)
tricked up as a gnu!
Baldur’s goal was to grow up and become a warrior for the Hrungnir
He was careful what he put inside his body to be ready and pure.
His mother was amazed he could push breads and sweets away.
Young Baldur knew his final ultimate destination back in the day.
Since childhood he had dreamed of conquering the enemy divine.
I know this, for Baldur’s tale has been shared by relatives of mine.
Baldur had a direct line to Odin, god of German paganism since a child.
He grew up to be a fierce competitor, sculpted, muscled, not at all mild.
He is a strapping young man, others marveled, giving him room.
He was not interested in any other occupation or being a groom.
Baldur’s sole focus was on extinguishing the enemy in any way.
He wore the valknut symbol proudly, and headed toward the fray.
Make room at the front, the other warriors said when he appeared.
Many were totally intimidated, but others celebrated and cheered.
They instinctively knew that Baldur would give them a victory.
He was the best warrior they had ever seen, groomed at Odin’s knee.
For forty years Baldur led his king’s troops to victory each time.
His battle scars were many when he retired his sword at fifty-nine.
He had done Odin proud, but now he had a different dream.
It was time to return to Odin, the Allfather, Asgard’s stronghold king.
According to the local reports
The 24 hr. ATM on Main Street
Opened on time again forever
Today and every day as predicted
Aint fake news great in America
They also say at 11:00 am the ATM went missing
Jack was ninety. Jack was nimble. Jack was quick
Forget about the candle stick
He used dynamite for the job
And wore clown shoes size 49
And makeup to keep it real
And brought his favorite stilts
To make him taller and less conspicuous
Harder to identify in a line up
Strapping the ATM on his back was tricky
One stilt broke in the get away escape
We don't know why but we can speculate
Perhaps the weight ...or height..or cop chase
Navigating gets harder as you age
The ATM never saw it coming
Made it to hour 23 today they say
As Jack hobbles or hops away
One stilt and plenty of cash on hand
Aint life grand.......grand theft that is
A pot of soup, a girl named Nell
Of mysteries, I'd like to tell
Nell made the soup, hard by the mill
Where men took lunch, so in came Bill
A strapping lad, with wavy hair
Best-looking buck, who came in there
The talk was loud, the time was short
Nell's soup was swallowed, by the quart
Though she was shy, Nell winked at Bill
(But) for him she was, 'another Jill' ...
The years went by, Nell made her soup
From loyalty, to worker groups
The men they liked Nell's soup so much
Bill also saw (!) her special touch...
Again time passed, Nell's hair turned gray
One winter's storm, Nell passed away
Next lunch the soup just had no taste
When told she died, white was Bill's face
He'd lost the only girl for him
All hope now gone, his future grim
So, men, make sure to wed your Nell
True love's heaven, why live in hell
Internalized emotions wrought
quotidian psychological oppression
retrospective reflection courtesy
20/20 hindsight reveals absolute zero
positive development of body, mind, and spirit
extreme agitation compromised
maturation, education, and socialization
every year since being
born free and clear of obvious defects
minus alien aberration, Russian collusion...,
nor deplorable crooked Hillary accusation
and submucous cleft palate
inducing severe nasality
fraught with arduous speaking difficulty
coping, fraternizing, integrating
within ordinary circumstances
alienated, defied, horrified,
mortified, scared, zapped
yours truly, albeit analogous
experiencing ferocious, hellacious, torturous...
suffering predicated on suppressing
and/or repressing moderate slights
inflicted upon withdrawn younger self,
who lacked adroit, deft, heft...
coping with typical situations
subsequently aggravating,
exacerbating, jinxing...
to cultivate, generate,
liberate locked potential
hypothesized, premised, yoked
infantile grievous inconsolable crying
unsolved behavioral mystery
venting only for my "mommy dearest"
would utter (this from hearsay)
exhibiting extreme aversion
if other than thee birth mother
comforted, cradled, cocooned...,
an extremely reticent individual
buckling as strapping bullies
relentlessly belted jibed, taunted...
said teasing begat intimidation
(oft times mentioned other poems)
scrawny kid (me) cowed, fawned, irked,
nonetheless I remained passive against
blistering, hectoring, teasing,
which apothegm turning other cheek
avoided getting smashed pumpkin face
courtesy subservient stance
devotional acquiescence help me dog pose
prayer temporarily answered
harboring entire being
ten thousand feet beneath
avast sea of dejection
time and again repeated
alas crass harassment
absorbed into nucleus of every cell
anchored barnacle encrusted tenuous pride
in short shrift
brewing, abjection, dejection, humiliation...
"NOT FAKE" misery
inducing suicidal ideation
spurring serious delineation
allowing, enabling, proffering
permanent salvation uber vacation
among livingsocial years later overlaid
earthshaking fault finding
misbehavior gifted from
those I called mother and father.
I am dating a young woman and we are deeply in love. However, no matter what I do sexually, she never achieves ****** so we decided to ask a sex therapist for advice. The therapist listened to our story and suggested the following;
"Hire a strapping young man and while the two of you are making love have the young man wave a towel over you, as though he is fanning you both. Make sure he is totally naked and she can see his manhood as he fans you both with the towel. That will help your wife fantasize, and should bring on a full-blown ******."
We went home and followed the therapist's advice. We hired a handsome young man and he stripped off and enthusiastically waved a towel over us both as we made love. But it didn't help and still my lover was unsatisfied and frustrated.
Perplexed, we went back to the therapist "Okay" he says, "let's try it reversed. Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over them."
Once again, we followed the advice. The young man got into bed with my lover and I waved the towel. The young man really worked with great enthusiasm and my lover soon had an enormous, room-shaking, screaming, ******.
Smiling, I dropped the towel, tapped the young man on the shoulder and said to him triumphantly...."NOW THAT'S how you wave a towel, son!!"
03~12~2014
dadickerector
I was asked why I always
Give kids on my streets few shillings
Even though
The street has no memory
It will kill me when it needs
It is really selfish
I answered
They have held it together
That’s better than I would
I recognise I am a day away
One bad day away from
Waking up covering my face going to a bank and robbing you
One bad day away from
strapping up and blowing myself in a mall
One bad day away from
buying a gun and shooting the whole lot of you
One bad day away from
Removing your eyes because I did not like how you looked at me
One bad day away from
Slitting your throat at night because I feel like you took from me
One bad away
From becoming a monster used to scare kids to be good
To keep it short
The compassion is to keep me safe
Maybe this street kid is one day away
Lamenting appalling heartbreaking mistreatment...
nonagenarian father experiences at Normandy Farms
Though dead, I gauge
these past one hundred and four plus months
linkedin with Gregorian calendar page
mine mother would be aghast
at deplorable inhumane outrage
played out upon Normandy Farms -
Bluebell, Pennsylvania site
where papa (a pricey
senior folk facility), he doth stage
his final showdown
consigning grim reaper
to tender body, mind, and spirit equipage
regarding preparations undertaken
heading enroute to netherlands
corporeal essence repurposed for unknown usage
though disbeliever in afterlife,
at least our beloved dada
will be freed (once and for all)
presently locked in solitary confinement
disgraceful undeserving penitential sinful wage.
Impossible mission to renounce humor
mine healthy coping mechanism de jure
sprinkling badinage doth beckon and lure
no matter said topic of death lacks cure,
unlike non mortal trial and/or
tribulation oftimes, I communicated before
namely other poetic endeavors
with reasonable rhymes less or more
yours truly hashed out, cuz apropos
persiflage my middle name
helping me endure
declining health and concomitant score,
regarding the once strapping handsome man,
who nsync with mama begat your
truly decent aspiring wordsmith
whereby cloaked skeleton
wielding a large scythe
very soon whisks away loved one extempore,
which bon voyage forever
means onset of tears and sorrow endure
however long mourning process prevails
possibly remaining years I remain healthily alive
perhaps (ideally) at least two score.
Lockdown courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
limits administration towards he who birthed us
(myself, and two siblings,
an older and younger sister), a plate glass screen,
nevertheless, I envision an emotional scene
bidding permanent laissez faire thee well,
who will soon rejoin Harriet,
his dearly departed forever queen.