Long Zippo Poems
Long Zippo Poems. Below are the most popular long Zippo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Zippo poems by poem length and keyword.
[Youtube clip attached as the source of my ‘copper through your
letter box line... and because I just love the song!]
Don’t slap a copper with a kipper
Don’t catch your todger in your zipper
Don’t put the peas on if you cannot watch the pot
And if your wife should ask don’t say the weather girl is hot
And don’t play Twister with a hippo
Or light a firecracker with a zippo
Don’t date a sure bet if you’ve got holes in your socks
Don’t try to post a copper through your letter box
For that will be a squeeze but you won’t get past his boots
Don’t pull you’re little sister’s hair out by the roots
Don’t hold a bank up with a plastic BB gun
Don’t ski down K2 just because it sounds like fun
Don’t drive a Datsun in Stetson
And don’t wipe your visor with a wet one
And don’t quarrel with your wife, or venom she will hurl
She’ll say why don’t you run off with your little weather girl
And don’t dress like Lennon at a Rolling Stones revival
If you have inside your head the notion of survival
My uncle took me fishing.
He’d smoke his favorite briar
Stuffing the cherry blend in with stubby
Welsh fingers more suitable for digging coal,
Than compacting mulched tobacco leaves.
A line taut between his index finger and his thumb,
He took a thready pulse of a line strung along the pole.
He told me stories of his growing up:
Painting my grandfather’s car ruined by feathers
Blown in from a cock who’d recently been plucked.
He would hand the pole to me to relight his pipe, he said.
And fumble among the hundred pocket vest
Pockets for his Zippo lighter
I liked surreptitiously to smell
And play endlessly with clicking of its top.
A trout would tug my line, bolt arching up
Above the water’s edge and topple back to tug again.
I’d play it back and forth until I played it up on shore.
And put it in a basket made of hardened wicker weave.
Some men fish for fishing's sake and others to make fishermen. (2/7/02)
Leaning On a Stone
I was afraid of gaining weight, so I kept on puffing my cigarettes. Filling my lungs, holding that drag as long as I could. I liked that feeling deep in my chest. When I breathed out through my nose, I looked like a smokey dragon. The long silver hair that framed my face, added to the overall effect.
I wasn’t much for them warning signs on the pack. It’s a free country, ain’t it? So I kept my cigarettes in a silver plated case. Kinda looked good with my sterling Zippo. You wouldn’t often see me without a Matinee cigarette hanging from my lip or between my thumb and forefinger.
I loved me them Matinee Large Regulars. When I got a cold I’d sometimes smoke those Mentholated Cools. They kinda soothed my throat. If the cash was rolling in I’d treat myself to a good cigar. I tried a pipe for a while but it was too much of a ritual for this guy. My pops had that vibe in spades. He looked good with his pipe and fedora.
When I started losing a bunch of weight I was a bit concerned. I thought it couldn’t be the cigarettes, I had cut down to two packs a day. Ya, I did have that persistent cough,
even the mentholated Cools didn’t seem to help.
Now it seems the smoke goes straight through me. Taking a drag is a drag. I look like the skull on the pack now. My silver hair is long gone. This dragon ain’t so fierce anymore. But, if you need a skeleton for your next party, I’m your guy. I look cool leaning against a Tomb Stone. Remember though, I’m partial to Matinee Large Regular.
Following the devastating war
between the big nosed people
and the large eared folks,
reparations and reconstruction
were sorely needed.
Both sides poured billions of dollars
into each other to rebuild
all the stuff that had been
knocked down and flattened.
The money flowed back and forth
eventually bankrupting both nations.
As we all know, or should do,
harsh economic times
lead to social unrest,
the populous will seek
someone to blame.
Naturally the big eared guys
blamed the long noses.
and vice-versa
so, they again
made war upon each other.
Rockets flew, cannons roared
until everyone was again
just left sitting around
amidst the mess and rubble.
By then, the only currency
of any practical value
was in the form of
Zippo lighters, fuel, cigarettes,
and toilet paper.
By that sorry time,
if you had a notable stock of all four
you were considered by many
to have won the war.
I have been technically dead
and technically alive.
Escape clause, minor glitch
in my truth-machine,
but a kind of life does occasionally permeate
my real life.
I like the click and clunk of a well-made
flint ignition petroleum lighter.
‘Zippo’ light warms hands in a cold woods.
Sometimes I am the flint
sometimes the light - we all are I guess.
Before I was dead or alive
I recall signing a contract,
a ‘life’s purpose’ document
which I instantly forgot.
I still search Mind for reasons
still don’t know squat…..
but wait, I got here,
(arms akimbo, wagging my chin),
soon I’ll be leaving on a ghost train
and I’m gonna be upset,
because my much used ‘Zippo’ collection
is probably worthless.
The Last Smoke
by Edmund Siejka
I miss cigarettes
Gave them up forty years ago
Holding one in my hand
Wine glass nearby
Made me look sophisticated
Like someone
Who knew the world.
The best cigarette was after dinner
Full stomach
Chair pushed back
Drinking coffee
No one saying much
Smoke billowing
Toward the ceiling
Vanishing in thin air.
Then the cancer warnings came
The price of cigarettes skyrocketed
The wife complained
Cigarettes stunk up the house
And I had to admit
Those used butts left in the ashtray
Really did smell up the living room.
I buried the old Zippo lighter in the dresser drawer
Somewhere between the socks and my favorite T-shirts
And gave up on a reliable friend.
Maybe one day I’ll light up again
When it’s my last day
Weepy relatives outside my room
It’s then I’ll have my last cigarette
Staring out the window
Thinking not all of my life was bad
And in fact, some of it was quite funny.
Putting out the last butt
I’ll wait
Satisfied,
Even content,
Knowing I had my last smoke.
Soldiers sent to Vietnam
Were oftentimes equipped
With Zippo lighters they’d engraved
And in their pockets slipped.
The sayings varied. Some were fun,
Irreverent or wise.
Each reflected feelings
Of those most unlucky guys.
I guess they’d hoped to leave behind
(If they did not return)
A small memento to pass on
To someone of concern.
I saw a whole collection
At a Vietnam display.*
The messages (with fates unknown)
Will in my mind’s eye weigh.
My favorite one (not rated X)
I’ll print in full below.
The owner sounds like someone
That I might have liked to know.
Fighter by day
Lover by night
Drunkard by choice
Marine by mistake
*at the New York Historical Society
Where have the matchstick men and women gone,
they used to walk home from the smoky factories
just to light up?
Where has the Pork Pie hat flown to?
Even the birds chirrup less sweetly,
Is it because my shoes are old
that I walk this way?
The world has shaved off its hairiness
and lovers are both bold and bald.
Where was the 'candlewick' spread
transported?
Blackpool used to be goofy,
a ton of chilly fun,
now the donkeys are unionized
and all smirched up.
I wish I were silly again, not this
cranky, potted egghead.
Where and when did I scramble myself?
Zippo stole away the matchstick men
that's who,
and they never came back again.
Sad but true now and then.