Short Latrine Poems
Short Latrine Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Latrine by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Latrine by length and keyword.
My word would be Latrine;
My choice from those I’ve seen!
(I looked at a crossword dictionary and liked this word!)
For Nancy's contest
The pastry chef made some cuisine
Then he had to use the latrine
He played in his pants
He wanted a chance
Then fell into the mixing machine
The pastry chef made some cuisine
Then he went to use the latrine
He played in his pants
Which was covered with ants
Then fell into the mixing machine
Some people seek fate in the stars
Whilst others tempt fate behind bars
So there is a place
For those lacking grace:
The White House Latrine for Failed Czars
I claim
No blame
For air
Once clear
That burns
‘n churns
Of green
Latrine –
But you?
P.U.!!
10/24/16
For: Five Fabulous Footles Contest
(20 syllables)
While
walloping
waking
whale
withstood
whipping
winning
warship
which
we
were
washing
Is this a lantern or a latrine?
Jim Horn
Someone enter it into contest for me.
Trying to get back to some kind of routine
My body's all aching and I need the latrine
System's all screwed
Don't want to be crude
But the contents of my bladder could fill a ravine
Peanut butter, Jack’s favorite cuisine
‘Til he ate a sandwich that turned him green
Jack overlooked one thing
That gave his sandwich ‘zing’
Pea was spelled ‘Pee’ ~ smelled like a latrine
Trying to get back to some kind of routine
My body's all aching and I need the latrine
System's all screwed
Don't want to be crude
But the contents of my bladder could fill a ravine
© Jack Ellison 2015
Yesterday my drain was clogged
Woe was me my brain was fogged
No toilet, sink or washing machine
Whole house smelled like a latrine
But a bottle of black did the trick
24 hours the drain was slick
The sink went down the washer works
The smell remains rotten eggs it lurks
Trailhead latrine,
cracked mirror—
three of me grinning wrong.
A soap shaver's chewed itself down,
there's a beetle on its back in the basin.
I clean my hands as best I can,
wipe them on my pants,
get out,
back into wilderness,
where I don't have to face them.
I see heaps of
rotten garbage
with flies and
mosquitoes,
I hear noisy
sexy songs,
I smell stinking
odour,
I eat latrine-
worms,
I touch broken
rusty
machines,
I think of
profusely
urinating
on basils, lifting
a leg like a dog
and I tear
sunflowers to
pieces.
An explorer called Nicholas Bean
Used a jungle path for a latrine
He started to pee
Got stung by a bee
His poor wotsit swelled up with gangrene.
The natives said you need a vaccine
Their witch doctor arrived on the scene
With some healing plants
Said “drop down your pants”
Too late it had already turned green.
Both limericks 9/9/5/5/9.
Written 15th March 2019
For green humour contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire.
He opened the doors to massive thunderstorms
The lizard king guzzling spirited drinks
Licking the air of the whisky a go go
popping off piping hot vocal strings
Many nights he was a neon light no show.
Chasing down an L. A, woman
in a revved up green highway machine
He fled the heretics of the California scene
accused of exposing his leather-studded thing
like an albatross he drifted over the cold sea
then died in a cheap Frenchy latrine
R.I.P. Lizard King.
Baked beans, baked beans
Boiling away on the stove,
Baked beans, baked beans
Butts turn into gas machines.
Baked beans, baked beans
All pants need to be rewove,
Baked beans, baked beans
Hard to keep, the undies clean.
Baked beans, baked beans
People run away in droves,
Baked beans, baked beans
Wait in line, for the latrine.
Copyright Cynthia Jones
June.21/2006
I figured I would try coming up with a style of my own. ;o)
Every day, same routine
out of bed, in the latrine
Cup'a'joe, out the door I go
Work's a bad trip, but I owe
Phony-smile time: 'How was your weekend'
('Still datin' that tired old girlfriend')
Jumpin' through hoops way too small
insufferable boss, cocky know-it-all
Liberty bell rings at half-past-five
the hour the dead come alive
Off to the bar for a tall cold one
hand on the trigger ~ all done
I was never fond of the word or the color
it reminded me of ceiling stains in cheap hotels
infinite shades of latrine piss
bony cigarette fingertips
grandpa's stage 4 jaundice
the forever scar of cowardice...
I'm contemplating painting the kitchen
in this forbidden color.
I'll have to think on it a while
...it's a critical decision
maybe the most important of my existence.
The evolution of my inbred forgiveness and
hobbled optimism heavily depends upon it.