LeAnn Rimes
no it doesnt
(A11Y Born Tue 29 Aug 1978, Died, Sun 14 Aug 2005, 2:33, Reply)

Your face is like a minge...
I just wanna fuck it...


subtle?
(1.21 Gigawatts, Sun 14 Aug 2005, 2:32, Reply)

An Ode To Ted Danson
Woo to the Ted!
And his massive forehead,
He used to be on Cheers.
He lured the ladies into bed,
But mostly, he served beers.
( Mr.Ons knows you can hear him, Earthmen., Sun 14 Aug 2005, 0:16, Reply)

Not me, but Califonia Dreams..... (I must drag myself out of the nineties)
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
...and I'm gonna break yo face!


Chortle!
(AMadDayYes, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 23:26, Reply)

haiku
roses are red, violets are blue*
this haiku don't rhyme,
but then, why should it?


-
*violets are of cousrse violet, but that doesn't scan. The clue is in the question, why are they called violets?
You don't go to the sweetie shop and buy a packet of parma blues, that taste like chemicals.
You don't use gentian blue as an anti-thrush medicine, because it is not blue.
Blue storm is not a heavily tattooed porn performer (actually, she might be), but Violet IS.

Violets are not blue.
Roses are not (always) red.


But:
There WAS a young girl from Nantuckett

m,
(etchi, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 23:09, Reply)

Ah yes, for the lovely Emma:
Emma

Thine eyes remind me of the purest oceanic tones

I want to pork you




Well, I liked it anyway.
(scoob666 Ain't Nuthin' Ta F' Wit, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 23:07, Reply)

GOLF!


The balls!


...golf?
balls?



GOLF!
( Malchick, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 22:57, Reply)

I didnt write them
and they're not poems but they rhyme so its as good as. They were quite popular when we were almost teenagers (11-12)

There was a young woman from eeling
Who had a peculiar feeling
She lay on her back
Spread open her crack
And pissed all over the celing

Or this one

There was a girl from peru
who had nothing whatever to do
she sat on the stairs
counted cunt hairs
six thousand three hundred and two

And if they were posted before... well I dont care
(newcustomerserviceteam, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 22:19, Reply)

Tubgirl Fever, by Digeridude

Lovely lady, in the tub,
Give that soap a thorough rub.

Rolling over, with a swoop,
Shitting streams of lentil soup.
( Digeridude Lord Wellington's Beef Trapeze, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 22:18, Reply)

At school we used to have
11 was a racehorse,
22 was 12 ,
111 a championship
and 22112

Took me ages to work that out!
(Hartlepool15 aka []Chips[] So you don't have to, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 21:16, Reply)

From the heart of my bottom
I have a big dick,
Won't you give my prick a lick?

*Bows*
(The One That Time Forgot, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 19:28, Reply)

Haiku
writing haikus is
easy. You just stop at the
seventeenth syllab
(nono,nononono,nononono,nono there's no limit, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 19:15, Reply)

Trust me, you dont want my poetry.
Beside, it's in hebrew and i'm not bored enough to try and translate.

the really stupid things was wrirten whan i was 8-12 years old, and i dont have it any more.
(Scotchman, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 18:46, Reply)

Some of my crap teenage poetry
(It was for an English assignment, I swear!)

Oh, there once was a guy named Janis

He came from the town Duplantis

He made islands all day,

got quite a hefty pay,

'till he made the island Atlantis!
(Bobstaff, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 18:40, Reply)

Damn you b3tards I'd rather bury this crappy 'poetry' in the pit of repressed memories...
What I could say to you

I could say you’re the whitest of the snow,
Your skin basking in heaven’s glow,
But all I’ll say, truth be told,
I think snow is just plain fucking cold.
I could chant the splendour of your eyes,
With the moon they are like pizza pies,
However truth would proclaim that,
Too many pies, makes the body fat.
I could compare your beauty to the rain,
I’d scream to your sparkling beauty in vain,
The truth would find me in the street,
With puddles chilling my feet.
For you I could blather all night and day,
But in the end I have nothing true to say,
Nothing is truth, carrying no weight at all,
It’s words with weight, that make honey of gall.
--A pretentious 15 year old
(Fartmonger, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 17:42, Reply)

Ode To Maxy P
I have a question, though I'm not sure its frequently asked...

Why does Maximus touch me in lessons so?
It worries me to watch,
His hands they their make way upon my leg,
And up onto my crotch.

I do not care for such attention,
It is plain for all to see,
That he lusts for my pets, not myself,
For bestiality.

A Ferret's pecker, or a Budgerigar's wang,
I'm sure they all will please
The craving desire, of a boy
Who perceives it to be a tease.

When cattle turn and flee for him,
Playing hard to get are they?
No dear Max it is not true!
They do not swing that way.
(The Lump is malignant, unlike those pansy benign tumours, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 17:03, Reply)

Ode to the plant that sits on the windowledge
"Oh plant, you are wonderful and green!
What a wonderful sight to be seen!
you sit in your pot,
and wilt when it's hot..."

(shamefully stolen off my mum)
( Noo_Noo Is now 'BeerElf Jnr', I guess :), Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:53, Reply)

poem
cunt flaps
(viva_le_boosh, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:35, Reply)

Actually I think I was 27 when I wrote this.
Making fudge with mother

Mother always said
that I shouldn’t read those
nasty,
dirty books
by Sigmund Freud

At least not when I was
shagging her
up the arse
(abv, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:26, Reply)

My Uncle Silas
My Uncle Silas was a psychopath,
and every Sunday, after tea, He'd
slaughter some goats, saying it was,
"for practice"

Occasionally, Silas would sing to us.
His singing was loud and drunken,
and it was incoherent, for He sang as
He drank His victims' blood.

Today, Silas has gone away. Mother
doesn't know where he is. She
claims that He never existed. But she
must be wrong, for I've seen Silas
and He promised to return.
(abv, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:23, Reply)

I remember this one from long ago...
Beans, beans,
Good for your heart,
The more you eat,
The more you fart.
(Skellers, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:17, Reply)

I didn't write any teenage poetry
But then, I'm not a pretentious cunt with an inflated sense of self-importance who writes his/her 'inner thoughts' down and then proceeds to share them even though no one actually wants to hear them

No, the world will not become a better place
No, I don't want to hear "Ode to a lost sock"
No, you don't have a career as a poet
Yes, you are an irritating emo that has just subjected me to the worst five minutes of my life

(to explain, I am still a teenager and I have recently been forced to listen to endure teenage 'poetry' from a friend I could do without. In case you haven't guessed, I didn't like it)
(Flabbergaster laughs at danger (and breaks all the rules), Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:08, Reply)

Daft Valentine's poem, written age 17 (so not that long ago)
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Some poems rhyme
But this one doesn't.

There was also a much more filthy and explicit addendum which her little brother (about 10) got hold of first and apparently read out to the whole family at Sunday lunch. Needless to say, she blacklisted me thereafter. As the French say, "Les fucksocks!!!"

(She was very fit, but she was a Christian fundamentalist too.)
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 16:06, Reply)

An ode to a friend.
Cats go Miaow
Dogs go Bark
Fuck off you Twat
You're boring, Neil Clarke
(Green-Alsatian, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 13:52, Reply)

Angry Limerick
There once was a moggy called Miles,
Who suffered from terrible piles.
He sat down to shit
His anal ring split
And he screamed in agony and died of blood poisoning. The end.
(petrofski, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 13:51, Reply)

Uebercringe
An embargo on your hips dear boy;
Their mason should be shot.
For which is worse: to see or feel
The sedition of your trot?

An outrage: such salubrity
Is seduction thinly veiled
And that is an unpleasant game -
I know: I've tried and failed.

The beauty of your hips I think
Is the shape they cut in air
Like a crystal cutter's finest piece
For them -- O -- how I care!

But you must try to quell them!
Walk more sullen, dear.
That way we'll all waste far less time
In staring at your rear.

Forgive me these confessions,
For I mean no grief by them:
It's just that, well, your body
Is utterly a gem.

It really is a treasure rare
Of smoothest, purest joy,
So very sad to tell myself
You'll never be my toy.

My plaything never shall you be
For you aren't Greek in Lust
But I'll admit that I'm not too,
For me there's only love.

But I love you so intensely ***,
To hint is just to lie.
It's so tired a phrase -- but true
You're the apple of my eye!

Who knows why, 'eh, who so cares?
(I address these lines to me)
The bad fact is I kid myself,
A fact the world can see.

---
I sent it, too. Someone shoot me.
(petrofski, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 13:47, Reply)

I have two here...
The first is one told to me by a friend:

Fly oh fly upon the wall,
Have you got no sense at all,
Can't you see that wall's been plastered,
Now you're stuck you stupid fly.

Second one isn't a poem, just a very silly song devised by me, Fathead and Sam about someone called Ninja Boy that we didn't like. And we all loved pie, as will become apparent:

Pork pie, pork pie,
Ninja Boy must die,
Pork pie, pork pie,
Ninja Boy must die!

*CHORUS*
Pies, pies, wonderful pies,
Pies, pies, Ninja Boy dies!

Apple pie, apple pie,
Ninja Boy must die,
Apple pie, apple pie,
Ninja Boy must die!

*CHORUS*

Meat pie, meat pie,
Ninja Boy must die,
Meat pie, meat pie,
Ninja Boy must die!

*CHORUS*

You can buy them in Hulson's (a pie shop in Wales...),
You can buy them in town,
You can buy them when they're orange
You can buy them when they're brown!

*CHORUS*

...yeah.
(Keiths Dad, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 13:39, Reply)

I'm not explaining this, I'm merely typing it out for you, as it is written. Please draw your own conclusions.
Please note that due to the constraints of this board the text is left aligned, but in the notebook it was left aligned from the centre of the page and the left half of the page was entirely blank.

I wonder who he watched.
he from whom it was lifted.
stolen & its content soley
a Jersey). This is
whether I should put on
thinking of is him (and
the same now, yet all I am
observation. I am doing
is his constant, glancing,
remember
about his soul? All that I
ink was black. I wonder
even his colour, but his
his outward appearance, not
I remember nothing of
the ultimate compliment.
him, plagurise his style,
column. I wish to emulate
it was a newspaper
he filled the page as if
left to right and upwards,
to the right) and, working
in the centre (or slightly
the page,
He started at the bottom of
Observing.
writing in a notebook.
Underground, meticulously
I watched a man on the



( Lord Manley of Ven www.justgiving.com/manley - please?, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 13:25, Reply)

A sad day for bards the world over.
This was my sad attempt at poetry during one English class. The teacher wouldn't believe I actually wrote it. But I did!

Gorillas are big
Gorillas are strong
They swing in the treetops all day long
Gorillas are black
Gorillas are hairy
Some gorillas look very scarey.
When they're tired they sit and rest
But when they get angry they BEAT THEIR CHEST!
(brain_carnage_self, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 13:04, Reply)

Teenage years were about the only ones in which i didn;t write bad poetry
this one was published in the brownie magazine when i was 9:

poppy seeds, poppy seeds
blowing about
blown about by the wind
but in the summer
red, white and pink,
poppies will grow
anywhere
in a garden
in a hedge
in a field
or on a ledge

___________________

Whereas this one was written last year...

The Big Mountain

There is a mountain
In the sky
That looks down upon
You and I
Or maybe its just
Really high

If you were up there
In the clouds
You would have to shout
Really loud
Because that mountain's
Really big
Really, really,
Really big

Imagine something
Really big
Not little
Like a baby pig
No something
That is bigger
I better not
Hear you snigger

Its bigger than
The biggest thing
You will have heard
A Craggy sing... about
Its bigger than
A pint of beer
So big it will
Make you fear

Do you have
A fear of heights?
Even when you
Fly a kite?
Then don't climb
Up this hill
Its really big
And will make you ill

If you climb
Then you will vom
Upchuck and puke
With much aplomb
Hurl your guts
Throw up your lunch
Or regurgitate
Your tasty brunch

This mountain's big
Let me remind you
Bigger even
Than chieftain's poo
So big that time
And space it warps
With plenty of space
For your lifeless corpse

The path is littered
With many rocks
And mud to get
Inside your socks
You'll follow it
For a big distance
Look up, and cry
And fill your pants

The mountain is
So very big
That big tree looks
Like a little twig
Its big, so big
As big can be
You look up and
Feel like a flea

The mountain probably
Is the biggest
Its odd that we
Can coexist
It's big and high up
In the cloud
It makes me want
To swear out loud

Its bigness will
Astound you all
It makes other mountains
Look so small
Its so big
You can't see the top
Its covered in cloud
And snows non-stop

You should know by now
It is the biggest
About its bigness
We can't be modest
Such great bigness
Knows no bounds
And casts big shadows
Onto the ground

This mountain is big
There is non bigger
Its cold, so a hat
Is de rigueur
If you were to climb
To its big summit
Don't trip and fall
Or you will plummet

Though I am such
A great songsmith
I could never describe
The mountain's zenith
So big it is
And steep its slopes
To describe such bigness
I have no hopes

Because that mountain
Is really big
Really, really
Really big
( Citizen Cavy Admires your passion for conformity, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 12:49, Reply)