Long Toast Poems
Long Toast Poems. Below are the most popular long Toast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Toast poems by poem length and keyword.
They met back in school when perms were in style..
Now they’re fifty-seven and wickedly wild.
A sisterhood forged in detention and pranks..
Now fueled by cocktails and cackles and tanks.
Derani and Adrianne? Soulmates for sure..
Joined at the hip and bonded by lore.
They gossip, they giggle, they drink in sync..
And dare you to challenge their best-friend link.
Then there’s Jacqui.. a goddess of stage..
She channels Cher’s drama, Eurythmics rage.
She belts out *"Believe"* with a wig and a strut..
Mic in one hand, the other on her butt.
Michelle may be small, but don't take her lightly..
Her shoulders are boulders, her grip is unsightly.
She once arm-wrestled a guy twice her size..
He cried, she flexed, and winked both her eyes.
Tracey’s just ditched a man full of crap..
She’s sipping red wine and plotting a slap.
She’s single, she’s spicy, she’s dancing on chairs..
Shouting, “Freedom looks *hot* — and I’ve got new wares!”
And dear Marlene, the host with the most..
Baby sis of Adrianne, proud to boast.
But don’t cross her vibe or you’re bound to regret..
She’ll say “ off” before lighting a cigarette.
They toast to the past, to the mayhem and men..
To surviving their youth.. and doing it again.
No filters, no limits, no shame in their game..
These queens of the chaos will never be tame.
Music’s obviously derived
From the muse, but some of most
My beloved music’s tied
With the specialties I toast
Tasting the spiritual food
Feeding my well spoiled aesthetics
But it doesn’t seem too good
If some scantily clad fatty
Would've bug her whims at me
Prompting where to laugh or cry
If she spies me just to see
To what extent do I comply
To her wishes, if I’m tame
Or perhaps I’m secretly
Plotting an escape, to gain
Freedom from her tyranny
But no ancient skies I own
No clay soil I cultivate
And the only muse I know
Never was an overweight
She had gone when I was sleeping
Now she comes at nights to see
If I sleep, or if I’m sitting
Looking at her silently.
I’ll have just one more drink, my friend,
then I really must be heading home.
I’ve stayed away far too long now,
and I’ve left her waiting all alone.
Just one more toast to happiness,
then I have to go and kiss my wife.
I’ll tell her how much I love her,
and that she means more to me than life.
Chorus:
I do love that pretty woman,
and I want to be by her side.
She means more than the world to me,
I don’t want to ever make her cry.
She’s suffered more than her share,
of disappointment, hurt, and pain.
Don’t know why she’s always been there,
willing to take me back again.
I’m going to get up and leave,
after this last little toke, my friend.
When I make my way back to her,
I promise never to roam again.
This pill will be the last, my friend,
and then I am headed for the door.
I’m going to go straight home to her,
you won’t find me back here anymore.
Repeat Chorus:
Go on and heat the spoon, my friend,
it surely can’t do me any harm.
I can quit anytime I want,
no one can see these scars on my arm.
I will tell you my sad story,
If you will buy me just one last drink.
‘Cause the trip from top to bottom
Can come much faster than you might think
Repeat Chorus:
St Patrick's Day Poetry Contest
Oliver Mckeithan
It's St. Patrick's Day and the night is hopping
A young women joins the revelers for a toast and a beer
She takes in a bar that has good window shopping
And after a few rounds she’s dancing to the cheer
The band is rocking and drumming the night
As she sails with the sea of green on the dance floors
She sterns to the beat and bows to a knight
For he's a gorgeous catch that she reels in to her shores
Love is in the air and Cupid's arrow hits her Leprechaun
There's an instant chemistry that's boiling over
For is her pot of gold at the end of the rainbow about to spawn
Or did she hopelessly find another three leaf clover
Her lucky charms were answered when he took her hand
And promised romance and courtship before they land
The egg; a standing ovation in a shell
A fluid protected in its thin infinity
The unborn child of a chicken
A fragile innocence in gooey liquid
Never to grow up and out of it
That does not travel well
When dropped from great heights
Say a tall building, an airplane in flight
Or from the top of the Grand Canyon
A yoke offers small protection from a fall
Yodeling won't help it either
It does not matter to the egg
Though it has no wings just yet
And it never will
The egg has no memory to forget
It has no fear of anything not oval
A perfect egg is boiled for three minutes
Cracked open gently with a silver spoon
Saddled with a side of toast and bacon hot
Some butter, with salt and pepper sprinkled
The egg makes a nice treat in yellow and white
A marvelous guest dressed up in Hollandaise
Easy to serve and easy to digest
Always on the menu of memory at breakfast
Women have an inny
Between their legs
Every year she gets a dozen eggs
Sometimes she cracks one open
Then begins the hoping
That the baby comes out right
Perhaps a child of the light
Or a creature of the of the night
No one knows
What on the inside grows
It has got to be scary
Not knowing if it will be
Fair or hairy
A John or a Mary
Or a crossdresser named Larry
To take that seed
And plant it deep
And wait to see what you reap
9 months
For a surprise
Between your thighs
A screaming pile of wrinkled skin
A baby is what you win
An addition to your kin
Something to watch grow
And add to the show
Of the dim witted and slow
While you bask in the afterglow
Of maternal bliss
Relishing a mother’s kiss
Now comes the greatest game of all
Building a human for life’s call
A tall order indeed
Growing this cerebral seed
Fulfilling all they need
As they speed
From want to greed
From follow to lead
From joy to bleed
Hoping they follow
A good creed
In this existence
You brought them to
They were the winner
In the ejaculate race
The fastest DNA
In your womb space
All you can do is hope and pray
They come out the right way
And make their worth for the day
This sexual roulette
Is a complete gamble
An utter ramble
Into the unknown
A chemical throw of the dice
Snake eyes
Between your thighs
Damn, crapped out
Don’t worry
Just pour another drink
And I’ll give you another shot at the pink
Load and lock
As you park your cock
In the fun funnel
The mystery tunnel
Let the good goose fly
You know the flight plan
Fill me up and be a man
270 days
Then 18 years
To show them the ways
Of who, when, and how to play
It’s quite a trip
From pole to hole
From crawl to walk
From walk to grave
And in the middle
A useful slave
A mind-boggling ride
To be shot
From a cannon of flesh
Then born
Bloody and fresh
Integrated into
Society’s mesh
And begin the countdown of your life’s clock
If you only knew what awaited
You would wish your daddy masturbated
In a sock
On second thought, skip the eggs
I’ll have some toast instead.
Eric (sometimes not)
(Inspired by Fortunate Son)
Some folks wave the flag on high,
And shout the reason soldiers die.
They speak of duty, proud and loud,
From marble halls above the crowd.
Some folks dine where power stays,
And praise the war on cable days.
They toast the troops with polished tone,
While none they love will ever go.
They call for courage from the land,
They talk of glory close at hand.
But when the papers list the names,
Their families never join the flames.
I hear the drums across the sand,
Another convoy leaves the land.
Another mother waits alone,
Beside a silent telephone.
The wealthy heirs sleep safe at night,
Their wars are fought on screens of light.
Their boots stay clean, their hands stay dry,
While poorer sons must march and die.
So when they ask who answers call,
Who walks the desert, dust and all,
Look past the mansions standing tall,
You will not find their sons at all.
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.
March 2026~
I grew up with Country music
Loved its simple themes
It’s been my constant joy
For ever or so it seems.
Bobby Bare’s on the Bose
Singing a tear jerking song
And I’m sitting there listening
And quietly singing along.
Sunday morning session one
Of those times I like the most
Playing Country music
Belly full of buttered toast.
A working man’s music
From earthier days
Telling redneck tales
Telling redneck ways.
I’m a Yorkshire country boy,
A redneck farm worker’s son
Who was given the chance
To progress and move on.
No redneck work for me
No need to labour on the land
A chance give to me by
My dad’s work hardened hands.
The Sunday morning session
Helps roll back the years
And I think of mam and dad
Surreptitiously wiping tears.
Yorkshire red neck values,
From village childhood days
All come back to mind as
My Sunday Country music plays.
Almost
Decided to make that post
A tweet
That I thought would put on the heat
Entire world could read it
Some may say to me ‘beat it’
Wanted to get things off my chest
Since my blood pressure it did test
Almost I did this vengeful act
Based on an opinion feeling and not fact
Resulting in a meeting where the boss would give me the sack
I said I almost did something like that
Confessing to being a trolling rat
Instead, I caught myself as I sat
And cleared my mind
Decided to decline
Making that post
To the social media ghost
And in the end
No need to defend
My keyboard used instead of a pen
Work I deleted not pressing the button send
So, I will honor my duties of formal host
Giving the award winner the special toast
No telling them what I honestly felt
As they fill their money belt
Tightened in a way
Where it would stay
Silent and quiet
Not stirring any tabloid circus riot
Am I committing a crime worthy of an arrest?
Fibbing about whom was the actual best
In a situation that truly is a mess
Ready to confess
Unless
I went through
With what I was going to do
Almost
Post
About why I did not want to be the tuxedo wearing entertaining host
Mothballs and Lavender
There’s a rug on the hearth and a fire in the grate
and Grandma and Grandad sit with me to wait
while the black-leaded oven is cooking our tea
of ‘tatty-ash’ stew made especially for me.
We’re red hot on our fronts, but cold on our backs,
with drafts round our feet as the fire draws air back.
But we’re warm in our hearts and as cosy as toast,
for dinner we’d all shared Gran’s tasty beef roast.
I can stay for the weekend and will sleep here you see,
on my own in the spare room, when I’ve had my tea.
There’s real flannel sheets and a big comfy bed
with soft feather pillows to lay down my head.
When I’ve eaten my tea Gran will take me upstairs
and stay by my side while I’m saying my prayers.
She’ll tuck in my blankets and kiss me goodnight,
then wish me ‘God Bless’ as she bids me sleep tight.
The sweet smell of lavender rests on the air
from the bunches my Grandma has hung everywhere.
But I know if I open the drawers by the walls,
I’ll wrinkle my nose from the smell of mothballs.
I lay there and think of good things while I rest,
at home my own bedroom is one of the best.
A computer and tele’, and my own phone as well,
why is it Gran’s house then can cast such a spell?
I know everyone loves me, both here and at home,
but staying at Grandma’s makes me feel quite grown.
I find when I’m here, then I do not run wild,
and they never treat me like I was a child.
The thing I’ve decided that I like most here
is the feeling I’m safe and have nothing to fear.
The way they both speak in a soft gentle tone,
it’s much quieter here than it is back at home.
But the thing I love best when I’m lying in bed
is the smell of the room that floats all round my head.
Yes, the smell of the lavender Gran hangs on the walls
and the smell from the drawers of my Grandad’s mothballs!
Ivor G Davies