Long Townspeople Poems
Long Townspeople Poems. Below are the most popular long Townspeople by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Townspeople poems by poem length and keyword.
The rampant rats made everyone afraid.
As they multiplied, trepidation stayed.
At first, there was no one who could be found
to free the village from rats that abound.
In the town, was there anyone around?
Along came a piper with a haunting sound.
He approached people with temerity.
“I shall play the sounds that will make you free.
As the rats listen to my melody,
they will leave your town as they follow me.
For my services, there is a large fee.
I will rid you of your problem; you’ll see!”
Soon, the rats all disappeared magically.
Not one rat was in the vicinity.
However, when the piper asked for pay,
the townspeople told him to go away.
“We find there’s no need for compensation.
Nothing’s in writing, no obligation.”
This breach of contract made the piper cross.
“People of this town, you will incur loss.”
His melody took the children away.
No one saw them again after that day.
In the chill of night, when shadows dance and sway,
A tale of Halloween, I'm bound to convey.
A story woven from the threads of scare,
Beware the whispers in the haunted air.
In a quaint old town, where cobwebs hung,
Where eldritch secrets from the rafters clung,
The people gathered, dressed in fright,
To celebrate the Eve where day meets night.
The moon, a ghostly galleon, sailed the sky,
As children laughed and revelers did cry,
"Trick or treat!" they'd chant with glee,
Unaware of the true horror, soon to be.
Beneath the Hunter's Moon, a figure stood,
A specter draped in tattered hood,
With eyes like embers, glowing in the night,
It watched the townsfolk with an eerie delight.
"Boo!" it whispered, soft as velvet breeze,
And one by one, the laughter ceased.
For those who heard, their blood ran cold,
As ancient dread within their hearts took hold.
The figure moved, a silent, creeping blight,
Through the town it glided, out of sight,
Leaving in its wake a silent, deadly trace,
A chill that clung like a spectral embrace.
The revelers, they felt it, deep within,
A primal fear, a shivering skin,
For the figure in the shadows was no mortal being,
But a malevolent force, its true form unseeing.
It chose its prey with a malicious grin,
A young man, costumed, full of sin,
It followed him down the moonlit lane,
And in its gaze, he felt a deadly strain.
He turned to face the spectral foe,
His heart did race, his courage low,
But too late did he realize the plight,
That he was now the creature's chosen for the night.
With a final scream, the man was claimed,
By the horror that could not be named,
And the townspeople, they'd always remember,
The Halloween when fear was truly tender.
So heed this rhyme when autumn leaves do fall,
And the veil is thin, and spirits call,
For on All Hallow's Eve, when ghouls do roam,
You might just find you're not alone.
past knoxville and idaho city there are a pair of adorable nitwits.
townspeople refer to them as kooky oddballs, a couple of twits.
their name is easy to learn. she is backward ditz; he is fritz.
brown eyes are lop-sided, their glances can be the pits.
watch out! cautions their neighbor, they will bore you to bits.
they showed up one day unexpectedly during a neighboring blitz.
I heard they were parisians, but another told me they are brits.
fritz can do a weird almost-hand-stand, and ditz does the splits.
twits do not put on airs; neither abides by the ritz or any glitz.
they eat bland foods like porridge, oatmeal, and plain grits.
calico cats come to them all the time, presenting them with kits.
their fighting is so common, their eyes are swollen to slits.
fritz likes to knit, so their house is full of junk that he knits.
afghans, scarves, hats, potholders, and unusable oven mitts.
ditz does not wash her hair, so it is full of lice, bugs and nits.
also have zits, and they have performed some really weird skits.
Old Roy’s place is pretty, soft, songbird sweet
Out in the country, secluded, warm, welcoming
On weekends high school students gravitate there
To sing around campfire, and drink illegally.
Old Roy has been helping children become alcoholics for decades
Not sure when it got started, but his bonfires are legend.
The kids call them “The Vicky Roast” in honor of his missing wife.
Yes, Roy’s wife had run off in the sixties, never to be heard from again.
It’s a weird joke; no one is sure who started it, but Roy always laughs
For the last forty years anyway
Let’s have a Vicky Roast, he would say, loudly, drawing big laughs.
During the Viet Nam war most of the seniors were out there on weekends.
Townspeople knew of it. Some religious fanatics used to complain
Learning the hard way that Roy’s cousin is Chief of Police.
It’s a small town; they should have already known it.
A few years ago the bonfire got dug up; because there were new owners.
Roy had been in a fetal position in the Senior Alzheimer’s Unit for years.
We were all grossed out when we discovered a skull and rib bones had been found
under the bonfire; and of course, it was his wife Vicky’s.
Vicky Roast sounds more macabre than ever now.
Boris the brave kneels at the feet of the remnants of his castle’s gate.
The battle was rough, and he wonders now if he might be too late.
Where are the ladies in waiting? What of the queen?
The Wayfarer army was the toughest one the knights had ever seen.
Village is in ruins. The townspeople are probably in the hills or worse.
Boris kneels in confusion, and spies a tiny velvet embroidered purse.
There is a note inside, written in a hand he recognizes right away.
We are in Sheridan Valley, we left the eighth eve of May.
Two knights soon join him, and kneel at his left side.
They are also of the round table, beside him they always ride.
He senses them as they drop a knee and gives praise to Yost his God.
That he has spared the life of his pals Sir Frederick and Sir Bod.
Boris gives thanks to the gods that his lady had the presence of mind.
To leave this tiny bit of hope for him and her cherished purse behind.
He heads out toward Sheridan with hope in his heart that is pure.
Of course he is carrying the favorite purse of his darling Lady Cure.
New Tune in June Booming Soon!
Room for the Guitar Scars to be Groomed after Blooming to Soon...
Only if Able to Return the Stability of the Skilled Milk Spills Filled with Frisky Whiskey,
To the Dance Hall of Too Tall’s Ballroom Sprawled out Calling Out “One more Song.”
All along Wrong about the throng of the song sawn as a brawny pawn shop Prop,
Stopping measures for pleasure to resume play as the Pause repeatedly gets hit,
Gripped in the lips of a badass vocalist,
Yet, still jokingly yodeled boastfully as a hoax boasting of a roasted winged ring,
Deeming the listeners Kings and Queens as the dreamy mean of ring notes wrote,
Spoke the stream of team leaning steamy things to be dope, so to speak,
And served neat and up on the down beat erupting yet sleekly discreet,
While NOT many who could sing the piece were left with much to speak about,
Still, it might get played too loud,
At least for some crowds,
Boom, boom as the Tune from June looms well-endowed as a good bit of a skit writ right now.
How?
Wrote note by note and spoken out loud as spoken word so each verb could proud,
As the adjectives directives raise the rest of the mess of the unkempt brows aroused by sound,
Mounted abounding by the print outs scouted by growling townspeople down for the count.
Crowned by the spongey dung stung grunge grounded all around waiting to be found.
Rounding the corners adorned by horned hounds loudly spouting its nouns.
Owned, home grown, and as the time is now part of the Lozer Zone honed roaming bound phone known to be shown the tone of pointy stoner boners covered by foam proofing spoof of a roof raising goof duped into the crap shoot of lute lifted for a gifted spooky group rooting for something new to do as what was skewed grew to new heights despite the might of the crew grouping the boos as the acoustics moved risking the brisk whisk of a one hit spit out howl.
While the director of the elected record endeavor called, “foul...”
Hester felt like she deserved it, so she did not say a word.
Wearing the scarlet letter for the town to see,
She walked with her baby through people and their prejudices.
Superstitions wafted in the evening wind in Boston that night.
She was a social outcast, even though the father had escaped.
No one was pointing him out or ostracizing him.
Hester understood; shame was a woman’s cross to bear.
She began sewing for others and felt fortunate when they paid her.
The townspeople referred to Pearl as the demon child.
It was not her fault she was born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Hester wished they would have harbored all ill will toward her
And left her innocent daughter alone, but it was not meant to be
The meteor that traced an A in the sky gave her a glimmer of hope
That Pearl’s origin would not be held against her.
Hester held onto this hope and wish.
Loving her child with the rest of her strength.
Is Mc'quarie bank loosing the plot? as it dreams gray digits
And attempts in fact a blot.! To remove the lifelines of cheuqe and cash, that bedrock.' Australia this is like a sneak attack smash grab.?
From surfers to cockys, townspeople.. All walks' if you are
Honest you'll agree (cash talks) it talks to me of an impulse
Spend' a day on the beach..Would sure make amends! for
Drab old lockdowns as davos ordered..Give me an ice cream
Sundae or a real good steak and large chip order.! With a little cash stash
Maybe I'd buy a new ute.? Or a vintage monaro on the road
Would be beaut.! Remember Peter Brock and Alan Moffat? the
Speedway duels each try'n to grab it' like rockets! that Bathurst 5000
Had!
Duck hunting season, the outside fires and laughs with
Some reason.' Hard men at work.' Yet who'd clown and play
Many minds alike are my thoughts today.? Yet its still there
I reckon.?? (THAT AUSSIE SPIRIT.) women and men who have
No limit 'who'll sleep out under the southern cross, whose
Eyes are sharp whose hands will turn, the wheel of life
Till the axle burns.' Their forbears cut the ironbarks down, they split
Rocks! drove the roads ( they played their part ) in heat and cold! and many of
Whom though were of limited script..Yearned for better and
Provided it.' Their sweat built Monash.' They inspired so
Many.' Now rise bronzed nation and don't take any.' Any more
B S... I say search your thoughts.!! And sidline those who
Were cheaply bought! Remove the cowards; the double
Minded.' And show this world that Aussie itself, again is finding! Your
Fame is waiting to be reprized! take the initiative all stand strong!
Front and sides..' sing out to each other' work to help like Simmo did.' Yet here on your own land' protecting the women and kids!
Support the true medics like Brighthope and Hobart
Listen to John Staoleton his journalisam is also part.'
Call out the ones who did you wrong, its all on the line now.!
Don't let it go, for just; a sad old cracked song!
The Demon’s Curse: Hell, to Pay
Sind was a picture-perfect town built on a dark, 93-year-old secret. Deep inside the woods sat the old "Wishing Well." Tourists tossed coins into the water, unaware that far below, behind a heavy golden door, sat a demon named Marcus. For nearly a century, thirty-eight town elders and their descendants kept him locked away. They tortured him to harvest the gold trapped in the well, funding the town's luxury. Over decades of agony, Marcus whispered a rhythmic curse into the stone:
Do not steal from the wishing well spirit,
Don’t open the black door and lock me in,
For there is a curse,
For when I get out,
There will be hell to pay.
Through the years, Marcus waited patiently. He knew that the more gold the townspeople used, the deeper they were falling into hell. He just needed a single, solid soul to do the right thing. Finally, she arrived. Guided by the well, a young woman found the key and unlocked Marcus from his torment.
Free at last, Marcus surged out of the well to hunt his captors. He rounded up the descendants of the thirty-eight elders, closing the ring around them. One by one, he threw them all down into the dark, watery abyss, trapping them behind the door so they could finally pay their own way out. Blowing his flute he sent his curse
Carnival without merit, affinity, and association
Brash, bellowing band bleeting notes in oscillation
Circus creatures cavorting about with every unseemly provision
Cascading, carnival chorus clanging through every subdivision
Haughty, kilted henchmen trotting in front of the procession
Decadently-dressed damsels fawning at mock adulation
Coarsely-clad clowns tromping along in derision
Freaky, festooned floats fluttering through every alley and intersection
Ghastly garlands strewn about with every drunken petition
Teaming, throbbing townspeople on marauding mission
Corrupt Councilors culled and paraded about in degradation
Frugal, free-loading foragers scraping up every token donation
Vacuous, votive vendors profitting from their abnegation
Ebullient, enterprising entrepreneurs scalping without aversion