Long Underarm Poems
Long Underarm Poems. Below are the most popular long Underarm by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Underarm poems by poem length and keyword.
Let’s do an underarm reveal, she said in a daring sort of way.
I knew at that minute that this contest would make my day.
She has not shaved since 1997; not being demure.
This was hilarious to me since I knew I would win this contest for sure.
She showed off her fur, and the crowd wailed; two did scream.
Excited that she was probably their next disgusting underarm queen.
That’s nothing I thought, but I kept it quietly to myself, smirking.
My hair was growling and snarling now, where vermin are lurking.
She turned and whirled and disgusted most of them in a big ugly way.
I was still gloating, knowing that she had no chance against me today.
My turn came and I gave a gracious spin with arms raised.
In my underarm hair were sixteen opossums, many of them crazed.
They snarled, spit, and hissed along with a woven snake.
Who had been sitting in my hair sulking since 1954’s earth quake.
They terrified the crowd who declared me the true and only winner.
Then raced to their houses to throw up their beef and turkey dinner.
Would you still love me if I threw you under a bus?
Would you still love me if I taught children to cuss?
Would you still love me if I sat on your nose?
Would you still love me if I squashed your big toes?
Would you still love me if I had you arrested?
Would you still love me if I had your blood tested?
Would you still love me if I turned you in to the cops?
Would you still love me if I pulled out all the stops?
Would you still love me if I hid underarm hairs in your food?
Would you still love me if I laughed at your most awful mood?
Would you still love me if I smacked around your big brother?
Would you still love me if I sandwich-grilled your grandmother?
I am jotting down notes, deciding how evil I can be,
Figuring out what would make you stop loving me.
How much can I, do I, will I have to do to push you away?
You perpetually are still loving me, so I guess I will stay.
Written 12-07-2018 Would You Still Love Me Poetry Contest. Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
I swung with a vengeance but missed that damned fly
The breeze I’d created caused him to pass by
My electric racquet in underarm mode
Still failed to make that bluebottle explode
It filled me with hate as it buzzed round my plate
I swung and I swung and became more irate
That foul little demon was soon to be dead
As soon as it took itself off of my head
Now, I’m not a coward in anyone’s book
But I’m in no hurry to smell my brain cook
I angled my zapper to strike as it rose
And almost set fire to the tip of my nose
It flitted at speed like a Pac-Man on heat
But I am a human… I will not be beat
My dinner was cooling and it wasn’t salad
I’ll murder that fly and then write me a ballad
Overarm, underarm, back-hand and flip
My energised racquet was firm in my grip
At one point it landed on chandelier-high
And I had to wave that light fitting goodbye
My sausage was cold (can we please keep this clean)
And I had become a fly killing machine
A back somersault and a cartwheel or two
My electric racquet had flashed neon blue
Poor little Tiddles, she trusted me so
Her recuperation has some way to go
But I’ll give her cuddles and snuggles and then
I dearly regret that I zapped her again
Twas kinda Dick Whittington, but in reverse
Tiddles left home and I don’t know what’s worse
My poor little kitten is out on her own
But that demon-fly is at rest on my phone
How great the temptation to say what the hell
And batter that fly and my iPhone as well
But then it took off and it sped through the air
I swung and I swiped and set fire to my hair
Okay I confess; just a few hairs got singed
But I don’t have many and that’s why I whinged
In anger I swiped at the sound of its hums
Which came close to giving me two deep fried plums
How bloody long can a bluebottle live
My electric racquet and I cannot give
Yet more gymnastics to vanquish our foe
As I shoot some volts through my right hand big toe
I whirled like a dervish and now on a mission
I swung like a thing that had infra red vision
But, boy, did I cheer at the quiet little ‘phut!’
As that fly took a window to find it was shut
***
But now I feel guilty for I’ve done okay
Though I don’t know who saw me swinging away
I owe my new job to that small airborne menace
My local school wants me to teach the kids tennis
Flat pack Wobbler
Procured from mega shop, a straight-lined box amid a cardboard wall
Where jig saw chattels rise above the queues of flatbed wheelies
And underarm catalogues patterned with an iconic list of what they are
When the blocks are sequenced and affixed with laborious strife
A transformation takes place that gives the pack new form herewith
Long live the flat pack table and its tedious sway in frail chipboard
Seated upon upon a quartet of nailed on props that creak objection
It takes its varnished place in harmony with four bolted chairs that match
And for a while it serves to hold the plates and cutlery just grand
Until the careless etch of scratches weave marring patterns on its top
Forever to remain as though a work of scribbled art and wrinkled mess
No longer wavelets in the soup, a tidal wave is now the norm when the legs teeter
Today the food’s aslant and the drinks decide to slide and slither to the floor
The props have given way, they’re tired and now submit to glory
And the table returns again to flat pack with eternal gratitude
quartet of props
Growing up I always saw these commercials for razors
Razors that will shave “extra close to the skin”
Ones that have 5 blades and ones that have 7
And an ergonomic handle that is pink just for you
Commercials showing the perfect pretty blonde model on my tv
Shaving her armpits to be impossible smooth
I know now that they were already waxed
No hair is left because hair isn’t dainty, isn't feminine, isn't appropriate
The perfect pretty blond model on my TV says
Underarm hair is a turnoff, so start worrying when you’re 11
Shaving is necessary if you want to have a husband!
Who cares if you get cuts from your razor
Who cares if you get ingrown hairs
Oh your razor is dull? Buy a new one!
Get our super handy replaceable clip-on razor heads ™!
How much are they? One replacement is only $20!
The perfect pretty blond model in the razor commercial says
With the most stupid
Serene
Irritating music in the background
You’ll never be truly pretty unless you are hairless like a newborn
So shave your pits from the womb to the tomb!
People often say now I understand
When they hear that I'm from Paree
Not Gay Paree silly, but redneck
In the heart of Tennessee
I am the newest style of hairdressers
Here to lay out all the facts
I no longer work on the tops of heads
But straight out of the pits
It all happened when I got bored
With the every day to day
Trimming of the head left me feeling dead
That's when it hit me..."Underarm Braid"
That right there was my life saver
That right there was my turn around
If it didn't make me world famous
At least it did on this side of town
Now people come from as far as Nashville
To have their underarms done
I even gave a left and right pit Mohawk
To the Governor's daughter and son
What? Did you think I only braided?
There's so much more that I can do
Just ask the Punk Rock Chick's that wait in line
To have their armpits colored blue
My older clientele have let there hair grow out
Since it is they learned
I'm now specializing in for both women and men
Their favorite sets and perms
So feel the freedom of the pits
That hippie chicks have long since known
Here at Michael's Salon Of Pits
We'll do something special with that growth
Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Why do ladies wink and titter when they glance at me?
At the office party I stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe,
Hoping some gal would upon my lips a tender kiss bestow!
For the party I wore my new suit and a matching tie,
Shaved my mug and fragrant Old Spice I did apply!
I brushed my teeth and sweetened my breath with Listerine,
And polished and brushed my shoes to a dazzling sheen!
I applied underarm deodorant so as not to offend,
Got a haircut having the barber fashion it per the latest trend!
I stood there looking, I thought, rather suave and debonair,
But not a gal approached me - none of them seemed to care!
I happened to glance down and was shocked at what I did see!
My fly was unzipped! Oh dear! That was what the matter be!
Conversations with my father,
Bittersweet, and maybe sad
Conversations with my father
Talks that we never had.
Companionably silent
As we set off walking
Neither of us known
For doing too much talking
Down Lambwath road
To Billy Bulson’s farm,
Each with a broken 12 bore
Tucked safely underarm.
I was at his hospital bedside
On the day that he died
Once alone in the car
I gave in and cried.
I am now past that age
And like him slowing down.
Maybe that’s the reason now
I feel him there and around.
We talk about the garden,
Always his joy and pride.
He was never the man
To spend his time inside.
We talk of this and that
In our lazy easy way
And I suppose we chat now
Nearly every single day.
Maybe it’s because I’m older,
That much nearer the other end
But there we sit and chat
Like two good old friends.
Conversations with my father
Bitter sweet and maybe sad,
Conversations with my father,
Talks I wish we’d really had
I was born in the beautiful country called Zimbabwe,
Now it is devastated by the tyrant Robert Mugabe.
It was once a land full of milk and honey,
No this poem is not going to turn out funny.
But once this African came into power,
The whole country turned sour.
Don’t get me wrong not all Africans are bad, I turned out well,
Well besides the underarm smell, what the hell.
I remember when everything looked new, we were happy souls,
Now we have ten trillion dollar bills and the roads are full of pot holes.
Yes this is the country you need two wheel barrows full of money to but bread,
There's no welfare so you got to beg borrow and steal or you dead.
We had beautiful scenery, like Matopos (the balancing rocks) and Victoria Falls,
But this African destroyed it all.
We used to call the Falls the “Rain that thunders,”
Now I think it should be called “The nation’s tears caused by one man’s blunders.”
I now live in the UK where my father was born and where I will be
But as the saying goes “You can take the monkey out of the tree, but not the tree out of the
monkey.”
I miss my country the lovely Zimbabwe
And so sorry one African can mess it up, the African Robert Mugabe.
*Africans' attitude Contest*
We took up the challenge,
When the bar was set high,
To show the rest of the world,
That Kiwis can fly higher,
In a world at an all time low
As Omicron hits new heights.
While others could not count to four,
We have been hitting Covid for six,
Despite the underarm tactics,
Of those who pushed news that was fake.
Now it is time to put the children into bat,
And we should be unafraid of that,
As those giving the Vaccination,
Are child friendly,
And were the first to take up the challenge.
Now thanks to them,
And all of us who followed suit,
Our children can breath easy,
As they wait in line for their turn to bat,
With those giving the jab,
Having spent enough time in the nets,
For their bat always able to find that sweet spot,
So, we can take our children to watch the Black Caps,
Beat South Africa in a cricket test from the embankment,
Instead of on TV in a hospital,
If they can lift their head off the pillow.