Quotes about smelly, page 4
Messy Room
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or-
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Depth Not Volume
In between volume, there is depth,
For quality arises from the heap
Of the many drowning poems that is left -
Like sifting smelly goats from the sheep.
Discretion and taste fill the watchful
The test of the pudding, in the tasting
And a poem is said to be beautiful
If there's meaning and depth in its writing.
For the finest literary art
Is the work of an artist- writer
Skillfully weaving words from his heart
Giving birth to the poem he posts after.
Numbers do not substitute for beauty
Nor will quantity address reader's needs
It may even sacrifice the quality
And bonzai the writer's talent into weeds.
[...] Read more
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Cold Porridge
Marcia was sour cream washed down with bile,
she never would smile, just smirked or snarled.
Catherine was smashing, a raspberry ripple
with happy, trill laughter and girlish giggles.
Samantha was coy, but blew hot and cold,
rather like custard, sweet, sometimes cloyed.
Patrick was sausage daubed with brown sauce,
tasty and cheeky but not ones first choice.
Bertie was naughty, like very rich chocolate,
bad for you health, but that never stopped you.
Egg and cress sandwiches, Martha and George,
smelly and boring, they got up your nose.
Suzanna was snooty, a caviar bitch,
stubborn as food stains that bleaching won't fix.
[...] Read more
poem by Ruth Walters
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My Walk III: Boy of Two
Boys wellies
Wet and smelly
If only they could talk
About his walk.
Around the lake
For exercise sake
Puddles just made for jumping
Landing in the middle both now soaking.
Pulled along by a boy of two
'Come on Bampy no need of a loo! '
' Chase me fast'
Legs pumping as I past
He giggles and laughs
As he now passed
To the horse chestnut tree
For a conker to see.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Green
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Tribute To SudhaChandran
The molten gold drips from the sun
The silver drops plop from the moon
The yonder sparkles twinkle down
Compiled to make a face...
The gentle breeze of the fragrant flowers
The smelly soil of the monsoon drizzles
The symphony of the harmonic rains
Compounded to make a body-grace...
She is the ripples of the morn
Draped with the rain-bow yarn
Flowy and floody, up and down
The river and its run...
Swiftly bounces and crawls, walks and swirls
Her resilient plies, single foot and a prosthesis
The tenacity of the danseuse
'Losing a foot walking a mile' in praises
[...] Read more
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Tap Water, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Rabbit
French actresses in films always drink glasses of tap water
in the middle of the night; their long hair hangs over sinks in despair.
They run about Paris (clipclopclipclap) and talk very fast about
their lovers, sitting in cars that look like squashed slippers.
Their cheated husbands smoke smelly cigarettes, drink horried green drinks and bang on endlessly about Jean-Paul Sartre.
I am very ashamed that I don`t have so many problems -
not even being worried about atheistic existentialism.
I (myself) am worried though about my pet rabbit (called Rabbit
by his friends, if he had any) who seems at the moment not
to enjoy his lettuce. As you probably understand, there is a
difference between a rabbit and a famous French philosopher and novelist.
Might be the tap water.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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A tissue's lament
Once a perfect soft white sheet
Now a crumpled smelly rag
Once a song on a serene windchime
Now a broken chord in a backroom bar
Once innocent wrapped up in my pure white bed
And sheets of a hundred others
On which I rested my angelic head
Hopes smashed
Dreams of serviette fame defeated
[...] Read more
poem by Yvette Smith
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Mavis and Beryle.... Refined
Mavis and Beryl
(a couple of war wives out the front of their houses)
(Please note fag is cigarette and aye is yes)
So whilst the golden fire displayed nature in her prime
And oak trees stood proud and good in a regimental line
Dancing silhouettes tinkered, creating a wondering swaying scene
Mavis clad in rollers, upon her mop, she had chose to lean
A smelly fag she held in hand as a lady at a ball
Dreaming of Sherry and taffeta, turning the heads of all
Fingers extending as though she were the aristocracy
When up popped Beryl the girl next door
'Dya wanna a cuppa Tea? '
Mavis took a puff, then a breath, then left her world of mind
Said 'oh aye duck, I'd like that'
'you are so very kind! '
She stubbed it out, laid her mop then trotted up the path
[...] Read more
poem by Karen Sinclair
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The Orange Bears
The Orange bears with soft friendly eyes
Who played with me when I was ten,
Christ, before I'd left home they'd had
Their paws smashed in the rolls, their backs
Seared by hot slag, their soft trusting
Bellies kicked in, their tongues ripped
Out, and I went down through the woods
To the smelly crick with Whitman
In the Haldeman-Julius edition,
And I just sat there worrying my thumbnail
Into the cover---What did he know about
Orange bears with their coats all stunk up with soft coal
And the National Guard coming over
From Wheeling to stand in front of the millgates
With drawn bayonets jeering at the strikers?
I remember you would put daisies
On the windowsill at night and in
The morning they'd be so covered with soot
You couldn't tell what they were anymore.
[...] Read more
poem by Kenneth Patchen
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Liberia Plays Soccer
When Beckham kicks the ball on a
soccer pitch in England, it
breaks through the opponent’s
defense and slams into the goal post.
It then continues over the heads of the
cheering spectators, over miles of oceans
and seas, and countries, and lands at the
feet of soccer-crazed Liberian men, who
immediately kick that same ball, again and
again, into that very goal post, in their living
rooms, in posh sport lounges, in hot, smelly
video clubs, around the ataye* tables, on the
buses, on the sidewalks. They keep kicking
that ball until somewhere in Europe, Drogba
kicks a different ball, into another goal post.
[...] Read more
poem by Charlina Daitouah Smith
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