Long Tongue in cheek Poems
Long Tongue in cheek Poems. Below are the most popular long Tongue in cheek by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tongue in cheek poems by poem length and keyword.
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Haiku, a traditional Japanese poetry on nature, seasons, or human emotions that captures a fleeting moment ever so briefly is increasingly becoming a playground for humour and wit in today’s world in hurry having no time for a long-winding punch line. Some haikus here say so in traditional three-line format of 5-7-5 syllables—in brief moments of minimalism.
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From reflection deep
To tongue-in-cheek comic clip,
Haikus have held grip,
Poets caring scant
Have haiku boundaries bent,
And there’s not a dent,
From an art ancient
Holding a fleeting moment,
Hums of humour rant.
Humour all alive
In forward flow were to drive
Looks dainty if naïve,
If brevity rules
In this world of AI schools,
Punch lines look like jewels,
In haiku’s kingdom
Humour for long may well hum,
Not long drawn ho-hum.
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Happenings | 03.06.2026 | funny, humour, poetry, Haiku
Misery accompanied, haltered, tethered... tattered web
This health conscious lx year
roam'n, hoodwinking hoodlum doth wear
two pair bullet proof underwear,
(which confession rarely trumpeted),
plus yours truly admits unclear
why tibia long in the tooth fellow,
prevaricates with tongue in cheek oh contraire
good n plenti humor absent clear
sense and sensibility so beware
me figuratively pulling poetic foot
mainly "white lie" fibula I air
discombobulated gobbledygook,
which corroboration ye might declare
choosing to cease reading
feeling in high dungeon as all hell... where,
twitching (bull leave me you) nostrils flare
analogous to spewing dragon
rare endangered species from Zaire
of corpse stewing in dungeon
hooping on wing and prayer
to attend Renaissance Faire,
thus word wizard conjured
aforementioned as metaphorical veneer
cuz, he really sought to pioneer
his breakout poetaster career,
thus far batch
prefabricated rejection letters
posits alternative to forswear
writing another feeble rhyme
relieving anonymous critics
providence beckons I course hear
doom and resignation refrain
repeatedly hammering and echoing
within chambers of each ear
mancave best provenance
divine providence especially if nuclear
war rents tentative moments to spare,
which doomsday looms clear,
perhaps half fortnight away
fatalistic mindset, I despair
money woes exacerbate pesky news
sense under_scoring dallying,
dithering, lollygagging... while linear
rise regarding global temperature
gives cold comfort the buccaneer
occupying oval office laissez faire
attitude, hence pennilessness moot
total mortal kombat global warming
further accentuates real Halloween scare,
no trick only ill treatment
unleashed courtesy mutineer
hand over fist handily did profiteer
minting daily another bajillionaire
government coffers bursting
mother earth biosphere square
within uber targeted crosshair
talking heads poles
apart as global warming
melts Antarctic frigidaire
Santa Claus reindeer and elves
schvitz as north pole melts
in short shrift oblate sphere
formerly teeming with life
field day for hardy
indomitable creatures thriving
within most scary nightmare.
There once lived a worthy, wonky his view,
Having invented a business model,
Craftily he called it as Debt Spiral—
This creative, cock-eyed guy— Brummell Beau!
Got many a suit by his tailor made,
All on credit— big as his business was,
On highest crest he enjoyed credit grade,
And sure his business grew pulling no pause.
When so his tailor talked of unpaid bill,
Three more suits he would order on credit,
Pushing the spiral of debt— way uphill,
Poor tailor worried was—at end of wit.
World’s Uncle Sam today treads on this trail,
Its dollar debt breaching the global roof,
Producing a package of Holy Grail,
Gullible Faith, when hast thou needed proof?
And nations nudged are on green backs to trade,
Sprouting and pushing up paper credit
That, if not junk, nigh but of sub-prime grade,
Backed by gold, goods nor yet goodwill a bit.
There seems no alt, Euro in crisis worst,
Their pledges far less than plenty can pool,
Not more than wool in eyes world’s left to trust,
And globe’s gullible suffer silent fool.
Yea, China may be too eager to wear
The pinching shoes— with little trust, least faith,
As trade spouse, yet to prove she’s not unfair,
So, Dollar's here till one parts— debt or death!
Tailors of world may have a grudge to nurse,
But Brummell had invented male trousers,
He sure deserves his coveted a crown—
For catching world tailors clueless, pants down!
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Tongue-in-cheek | 02.06.2010 |
Poet’s Note: In ancient India, Charvak talked of rinam kritvaa gheetam pibet… incur debt and enjoy. USA today follows this dictum to perfection. Countries like Japan that export more than they import have a huge balance of trade, which when saved has to be kept in a reserved currency like Dollars. You save and keep these savings in the form of Dollar Bonds. Many countries do so. China is another among the big. USA invests this money to be prosperous. Today, it seems only fools save. You are smart if you can borrow big, consume big. This narrative poem tells us how it all started.
I’m a man I’m a man
I once was Jan but now I’m Stan*
I strut around posing and drink some beer
Use the gent’s toilets, now that sure feels *****
I must stand up now when I use the loo
‘Shake hands with shorty’ now that’s quite a coup
I don’t shave my legs, it’s now my chin
Got a beer gut now when once I was thin
When I go to work I wear a suit not a dress
Am not really bothered if my hair is a mess
Causal jeans show my ‘builders bum’
When I turn round you see my overhanging tum
I go out with my mates on a Friday night
Dance like a muppet – that’s quite a sight
Age old chat up lines – what a bore
Eye up the ladies oh I want to score
I truly can't envisage what its like to be male
I hope you enjoyed my tongue in cheek tale!
Jan Allison
5th May 2014
*reference to Stan comes from my poem written with Darren Watson called 'Our first meeting in the Isle of Man'
I saw Richard had placed 6th in the recent 'women only contest' so thought I would chance it too with this poem that was written for Gender Bender Contest sponsored by Richard Lamoureaux ~ Awarded 5th Place by Richard~ ~awarded 6th place by Kelly Deschler in the 'men only contest '... thank you for being a good sport Kelly!
Ah, Divine influence, it has come to many, so they say,
as to their nameless or named God’s they do pray.
The light came to Carroll, he said he could see,
for raised by a Vicar at Christ church was he.
Dodgson was his surname an apt moniker
for he veers of from his father, made math his liqueur
Lewis was Charles tongue in cheek, he wore hats
and from his birth place, he transformed Cheshire cats.
Lewis Carroll wrote “Alice” sure, he was also Charles Dodgson
but who wrote the marrow, now that’s where the God comes!
Now, many men wrote the Bible or so we surmise
and the pages they garnered came in random sizes.
Yes they picked, they plucked, these men were right scary
and what do you know, left out the Book of Mary!
Now you modern readers just might take a note
the resemblance twixt Alice and Mary's no anecdote.
Dogdson, yes Carroll, knew Mary so it seems
yet, Alice sweet Alice is who came in his dreams.
Carroll clothed Alice and it's no surprise
that in Chapter 3:21, her dress he seeks dried!
For Alice, dear Alice, did not wish to die!
“She would catch a bad cold if she could not get dry.”
Carroll being the kind creator, he would
had the mouse read to Alice the driest of books.
Again and again, his benevolence is shown
when he sends Alice a rabbit to soon lead her home.
So, we are lead on in most delightful detail
to Chapter 4:15 where her flight is curtailed.
As Cain slew Abel, so the Queen beheaded prates.
Yet, she’d no power at all, over bodiless cats!
Now, Chapter 12 is truly my favorite, as you may surmise
Lewis Carroll has dreamed much of caterpillar size..
He dreamed a whole world full of goodness and villainy.
As anyone can see, men will see what they see,
and the Looking Glass has as much meaning to me
as the Bible may have to the Christians, let be.
Her gossip, holy dung,
Her scoring points, ho hung,
That get on my mind clung,
The rest is pretty fine.
Fine her stare of sharp eye,
Fine, full cheeks, dimpled nigh,
But for her battle cry,
The rest is pretty fine.
Let her utensils strike,
Grumbles as if on mike,
But for her moods on hike,
The rest is pretty fine.
Forever oven-fresh
Her barrage, verbal bash,
But for her vict’ry dash,
The rest is pretty fine.
At first, sham of her sigh,
Her voice then goes on high,
But for ‘her way or nay’,
The rest is pretty fine.
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Ghazal (Tongue-in-cheek) |08.06.2024| humour, wife
Based on a Gujarati Hazal by Sanjay Bapodariya (Sangee)
Written: July 1st, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: John Lawless
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Have you ever wondered
where our teardrops go?
Not the polite ones
that cling to the eyelid
like they’re waiting
for permission,
but the unruly kind —
the ones that leap
before you’re ready
and announce your feelings
to the room
like a drunk friend
with no sense of timing.
Follow them.
Follow the teardrops
where they lead you.
They slip down the cheek
like a pilgrim
on a narrow road,
carrying tiny reliquaries
of everything you meant
to say
but didn’t.
They fall
into the open air
with the confidence
of creatures who know
gravity is a myth
and landing is optional.
Some evaporate
into the sky,
becoming weather
for someone else’s sorrow.
Some sink
into the collar of your shirt
and hide there,
plotting their next move
like miniature anarchists
with a taste for rebellion.
Some roll
to the corner of your mouth
and pretend
they’re part of a smile.
Tongue-in-cheek,
literally.
And some —
the rare ones —
slip off your jaw
and vanish
before they hit the ground,
as if the universe
reached out
and caught them
in its palm.
People say
those teardrops
become stars.
People say
they become prayers.
People say
they become memories
you’ll return to
when you’re braver.
But the truth is simpler,
stranger,
and a little bit rude.
They go
exactly where they want.
Gotcha.
Listless waited the farewell cake on plate,
And all the rest, nigh too eager to leave
On uttering polite words that came late,
I recall that custom-built tedious eve
Called a send-off to balding me to give.
When eased I was unto my life's late eve
Called retirement, an edge of precipice
That left me with old memories to live,
Warm words when felt like biting cubes of ice,
When virtuous turned many an old vice.
Cake tasting bitter sweet with thick icing,
Cold drinks gotten warm by hypocrisy,
A pomp-enwrapped gift packet left waiting
For evening to end rather hurriedly,
Boat-less from ship when one’s lowered mid-sea.
When a toothless tiger’s left lone to fade,
Unto vacuum, cajoled for the farewell,
A cruel send-off more sinister made,
A routine that ought to be done, done well,
When style and form, not substance, must prevail.
When strange virtues were extolled— news to ears:
That ‘I would be missed for long time to come’—
By all, colleagues and peers and superiors—
Ho-hum that failed to add up to the sum,
In tune nor rhyme, strident beats a loud drum.
Yea, I remember well my farewell plight,
My value was when mouthed without a pause,
Just when I slipped into life's looming night,
Clicks before I cut cake amidst applause,
‘Old foggy’ who ‘a pillar of strength’ was!
So how I recall farewell night of ere,
An edge of precipice called retirement,
A torture of hollow words hard to bear,
When overnight I felt a force nigh spent,
The night I acquired in my gait new bent.
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Quintain (Tongue-in-cheek) |02.02.2013| remember
Poet’s note: To be fair to the company I worked for, my farewell function was nowhere so dull as this piece might suggest. But the truth is: I do not like farewells, soaked as they are in hypocrisy. I tried to avoid this one as much as I had a few earlier but failed.
No dear, truth’s no slave to discovery,
Nor needs an innovative creator,
Nor in you a path-breaking inventor,
It being no fiction nor a story,
Forget it then, truth can’t be created
On a blank page of your mind's spare diary,
Conjured up nor cooked nor conceived in head,
O to write later its obituary.
It shall show up one day, light up a torch,
And all your dark lies shall show up in light,
One spark of truth’s enough all lies to scorch,
Your untruth’s when buried under own blight,
Till that day, here’s my signal green from red,
Why spoil today’s joy for tomorrow’s dread?
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Tongue-in-cheek, Sonnet | 05.04.2005 |
The guests have come and gone, now back to the old routine.
We showed them all the tourists spots, partook of local cuisine,
Put many miles on the old sedan and spent a ton of dough!
Sure was nice to see them come - better yet to see them go!
My bedtime is off kilter - they want to stay up and chew the fat.
Their visit even upset the routine of my dear inscrutable cat!
Spouse jolts me awake, nudging 'neath the table with her toe!
Sure was nice to see them come - better yet to see them go!
Surprise! Surprise! They showed up with their miserable cur!
Consternation reigned when he saw the cat, causing quite a stir!
On the priceless Persian carpet, the mutt let his water freely flow!
Sure was nice to see them come - better yet to see them go!
Come time to pay for luncheon, we do the well-known shuffle,
As to who will pick up the tab sans causing a frightful ruffle!
Invariably, we end up sharing the total amount we owe!
Sure was nice to see them come - better yet to see them go!
Tho' this verse was written with considerable tongue in cheek,
I love having guests - as long as they say within a week,
Tho' some of my habitual modus operandi I must forego.
Sure is nice to have them come - better yet to see them go!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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