Short Waist Poems
Short Waist Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Waist by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Waist by length and keyword.
Found Fat On My Waist
Found fat on my waist,
From eating done with much haste,
Sure did love each taste.
Jim Horn
With a slim fitter on her waist
Peak her ambition for a taste
For a small waistline
In a short amount of time
So, she wrapped herself up with tight lace
Cal Flitter dumps litter in haste,
Ms Witherspoon savors the taste
of fast food, she'll throw
trash out her window.
Cal or Reese are just bad for the waste.
Written 23 Nov 2020
O
Waist is too large
government charge
get on the scale
but don't holler and wail
'cause the Diet Police
plan to devise
gonna put us in jail
unless we ex-er-cise !
Copyright McCuen 2008
I'm a man of musical taste
With Classic Rock I'm very well placed
It's just the thrill of it all
Guitar solo's enthral
But the Brandy plays havoc with my waist
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour-4.php
Was A Proud Pound Cake
Pound bread was splendid;
Was so sad that it ended;
Bring more I adore.
My poetry writing's reason
Is because it is the season
Doom I don't like a legion
My waist line it is sieging.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Girth,
at birth,
was slender,
and fragile tender,
like stem,
when youth rammed,
with strength in jammed,
like a storing pot,
when began the middle rot,
as the middle advanced to higher ages,
the pot hung,
as if it was another storey and rung,
now at the death all appears waste,
as badly hung and bowed is my waist.
D-awn has just broken,
I-n nineteenth January;
A-n early morn makes you fine,
N-ew light removes the
A-gony.
A-fter the night is gone,
S-un has begun to rise;
U-nderneath the blue lane,
N-o more tears in your eyes.
C-heerful birthday celebrant
I-s so beautiful to gaze;
O-pen your arm and place
N-ice hand on your waist.
When you release the
words, your curled fingers
burst into flame.
It was an ancient filth,
a bird fighting in the mud-
house of quote-unquote.
Someone navigated
over the bald heads to find
a landing place for a cuckoo.
Between real and fiction,
you cannot write a hymn
in praise of satan, called god.
I am done with the darkness
all around, and rip open
the wall to let in the jupiter.
Satish Verma