Long Yeller Poems
Long Yeller Poems. Below are the most popular long Yeller by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yeller poems by poem length and keyword.
I've spoke of the Pork Rind
And my love for it's crunch
Now I must give due credit
To whom I'm having for lunch
The Pig or the "Porkster"
In my circle he's fondly called
But to all the outsiders
He is simply known as the Hog
He comes in many flavors
Bacon, Chitlins, or Ham
There's even an air of mystery
In the can known as Spam
He's at all the major holidays
The guys a Rock Star
Those sweet on him call him Honey Ham
Oh.....you know who you are
Why he's even in China
Where the Royal Family has succumbed
I hear the Emperor's pet name for him is
Pork Egg Foo Young
Well I could go on for days
Talking about that little feller
But could you please pass the Mustard
......preferably the Yeller
“butter flies and marshes mellow”, that’s what he said to me.
did i look shocked — you bet, but i did him one better.
“mine craft and more bid yeller,” I smirked,
and he said, “wazzthatsposedtomean?”
as if he was drunk, he slurred all his vegetables to gather,
and i told him so — i true Lee did!
“chalk a lot?” he asked, and i quibbled, “black board.”
He threw his fist, dissed joined, “yor a wader.”
“am not!”
“are so!”
“fire flies and pepper mints,” the subject changes.
“side ways and rattled snakes,” i grin.
Our friend ship sails with checkers and back bone.
I say a final dead line, “butter’d milk and fired crackers,”
we hear the good humor’d truck.
we buy iced dreams and coco co la,
as the city strolls by, way too serious.
and we both shout,
“ham or head?
“Shark!”
butter flies and marshes mellow Poetry Contest
Kai Neumann - Sponsor
When all the wranglin' chores was done and the sun settled in the west,
The cowboys was lollin' about the campfire savorin' much needed rest.
From early dawn they'd branded dogies and herded cantankerous steers,
Now it was time to unwind, spin some bull and toss back some beers.
Fer supper they had the usual beef, spuds and beans as hard as stones,
Now they fired up their cigars, pipes and a few fellers lit roll-yer-owns.
A guy played melancholy tunes on his harmonica to calm the antsy herd,
And in the distance the yips and snarls of pesky coyotes could be heard.
They had fed and tethered their hosses and kicked off their boots,
And leaned back on their saddles - what a band of hell-raisin' galoots!
They spun tales of wimmen, whiskey, horses, gamblin' and such,
And took turns bad-mouthin' the trail boss who they didn't like very much!
Their slurred twaddle dwindled to a close and it was time to hit the hay,
Knowing that they had to rise early and face another saddle-sore day.
Usin' their saddles fer pillers they sprawled 'neath a big yeller moon,
Snorin', groanin' and breakin' wind, each emittin' a melodious tune!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
[Inspired - with much gratitude - by Jan’s poem
There’s No Knocking On Heaven’s Loo Door
and Caren and Tom’s comments on it]
***
The toilets in heaven are cold on your ass
The angels believe that they’re all made of brass
Turns out the reason the lavvies are cold
Is that all those loos are eighteen carat gold
Heavenly shoppers had been sent to Earth
And told to buy goods of exceptional worth
The best baths and basins and showers and so on
But do not return without something to go on
One of those shoppers was sure in fine fettle
Sought out some toilet pans in precious metal
He came up one short of his gold toilet goal
He needed another so that one he stole
The owner told me that that richest of loos
Was nicked by a bloke with a beard and no shoes
One million pounds for my loo that was yeller
I said Jesus Christ! He said yeah that's the fella
So that’s how there’s toilets of gold up in heaven
They said there were two but there’s actually seven
But heavenly humans are not a bright species
And built up an accumulation of feaces
They looked at the task from a different angle
And now drop it in the Bermuda Triangle
Sailors and pilots are frequently struck
And turn up in heaven all covered in muck
Although they’re in heaven they never seem happy
As they use the bathroom because they’re so crappy
It might be a rumour but what I’ve been told
Is they often cry out…
THESE TOILETS ARE COLD!
Summer is over and the farmer now rests from his toil,
Having labored hard to wrest his crops from the fruitful soil.
Fall has arrived and all the crops have been gathered in.
The corn, wheat and soy beans lie dormant in the granary bin.
It was a good year - his farm was favored with abundant rain.
Thankfully, there was no wind or hail, an anxious farmers' bane!
Pecks of onions, pertaters and carrots are preserved in the cellar,
Along with bushels of resplendent apples - golden, red and yeller!
The hogs are ready for market but he'll keep a pair for meat,
And he'll butcher a steer or so to ensure there's enough to eat.
His wife jammed mason jars full of beets, termaters and peas,
And there are a few honeycombs filched from the gullible bees!
He and the boys used crosscut saws to hew cords of wood for heating,
To warm their Victorian home from the winter's snows and sleeting.
There are jugs of cider to sip and ears of popping corn to pop,
As the family enjoys a roaring fire to reminisce with lore to swap!
The humble farmer was so grateful that on his knees he knelt,
To offer his gratitude to the Lord, a simple prayer most heartfelt.
A benevolent harvest moon smiled on the pastoral scene below,
Seemingly to bless the peaceful panorama with its mellow glow!
I’m learning to love pink
In bowls;
And boys and girls.
For my bedroom wall
Was claimed
Putrid pink by my volitional Aunt
And thus made me hate
The color of its paint.
And yellow by the way,
The honking, screaming hue
Of a steamroller-child
~~~ i ~ love ~ him~~~
Through my grand’s eyes,
Orange too!
Peel those layers,
Those juicy, goosebumpy —
Yes, scary
Four flame-throwing
Tires of to the moon and back.
I’ve had to draw back
from red...the apple of my eye
for
the
cops
keep a score of tickets in their squad cars
for those
who believe they can pull off this trend
better to keep the Holy Bible in view
We found out, instead
For the eagle-eye of Virginia,
the sceptic of his state
turned to psalm 46:10
You can turn there too
and net your escape.
To summarize, pink is cool for sexes
Love yer yeller feller
And love yer orange peel
Things in the rearview mirror’r closer
than they appear
God is at hand.
7/26/2019
I suppose we take for granted - except when we are stung -
The intelligence of those busy bees that largely goes unsung!
The little critters pollinate flowers and such, and, moreover,
Create for us combs of ambrosial honey from fields of clover!
The drone has a most blissful job - caterin' to the queen.
Once he's done his thing, alas, he passes from the scene!
Workers toil long and hard to glean pollen from the field,
Then, some inconsiderate dude has the gall to rob their yield!
Honeybees are a bit more docile than the grumpy, yeller jacket.
Beware of the wily wasp - when agitated he'll create a racket!
The bumblin' bumble bee, their lumberin, bulky cuz,
Somehow aviates through the air - I often wonder how it does!
There ain't nothin' more entertainin' than a scholarly "spellin'" bee.
Can you think of anything more creative than a ladies "quiltin" bee?
Dexterity and hustle are required for "cornhuskin'" bees.
(Wonder who came up with that ridiculous reference to a "bees-knees"?)
I'd reckon that bees are nature's most maligned creatures.
Most probably due to its stinger - one of its most fearsome features!
But hold on! Before we decry the bee, here's the buzz:
It's obviously the most productive pollinator that ever wuz!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A tall and short-tempered fat man
was a boss I once had named Dan.
Both his kids and his wife
worked there too. Oh, what strife!
They fought like a hillbilly clan.
Dandee Donuts was Dan's small café.
I served donuts and meals for small pay,
wore a stupid hair net
and what small tips I'd get
growing fat on free donuts each day!
A “yeller” was Dan; a disgrace!
He’d scream and get red in the face.
If his business slowed down,
he’d say, “Don’t stand around.
Take a rag and wipe down the whole place!”
In spite of Dan’s awful ways, he
said he’d sure like to sponsor me
as Miss Muscatine.
I said, “What do you mean?
Your food’s made me fat. Can’t you see?”
(I chose the second one here for the contest.
Did I make the right choice?)
was sitting in a crowd but felt so all alone
No communication, everyone staring at their phone
I just wanted to return to the life that I had tasted
No more electronic robots, I guess I'm technology wasted
Back to Bobbi socks and bobbi pins
Big hellos and happy grins
Culottes an pedal pushers, Friday night dances
Back seat in the drive in, teenage romances
At the amusement park in the penny arcade
Ferris wheel rides and pink lemonade
Walk hand in hand, sometimes act like a fool
Talk to each other as you carry her books home from school
Up in the balcony with your hands on her hips
New worlds to discover, lips touching lips
Yelling from the sidewalk can Jim come out to play
Riding down a hill while standing on a sleigh
Hanging from monkey bars, climb a tree in the park
Playing ball in the street until it was dark
Roasting potatoes on a campfire at night
Running and laughing while flying a kite
The smell of a bakery with bread baking at dawn
Lying in the grass, transistor radio on
Cotton candy at the County Fair
Butch wax or Brylcreem to train your hair
Flying high on a swing and then jumping down
Medicine show at the end of town
Picking blueberries for grandma's pies
Watching Old Yeller with tears in your eyes
At the drug store for a burger and shake
Skimming stones across the lake
Hot dogs and hamburgers on the old grill
Chase tag, hop scotch and King of the hill
Hang at the diner everyday after school
Meeting your friends at the community pool
Yes, take me back where talk wasn't a crime
Take me back to a simpler time
For all this complexity. I don't give a damn
Technology wasted is what I am.
When I was a kid, in the family car
We all knew where to sit;
If the order ever wavered,
Someone’d likely have a fit.
But today I heard of something new
Which tells me things have changed;
If someone hollers, “Shotgun!”
Well, the seats get rearranged.
The “Shotgun!” yeller sits up front,
Right by the driver’s side,
A better view, perhaps, and thus
A more prestigious ride.
I wonder how that’s working out
For I can clearly see
The problems this might cause within
The average family.
Had this been in existence when
My sibs and I were judging,
We would have yelled our heads off
But my mom would not be budging!