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This is a question Teenage Poetry

Hormones and rhyming dictionaries seem to go together. Let's celebrate this by publishing the poems you wrote as a teenager.

(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 14:49)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Not My Pancreas
Why, oh why, oh why
Do the girls not talk to me?

Is it my ears? They droop. The lobes are prominent
Like bulbous, fleshy eardogs.

Is it my eyes. My piercing, grey-blue eyes. They stare
At children.

Is it my nose? It is large but not unsightly.
The bridge is formidable.

Is it my hair, all lank and chewy?
It reeks of uncles. Naughty, naughty uncles.

Is it my heart? It is brown and beats like puppies.
Puppies bouncing off an anvil.

Is it my legs? My hefty, bovine legs?
The knees are like udders.

Is it my pancreas? No. That is my greatest asset,
Yet it hides within my torso and mocks me from within.

Is it my chin? It juts downward towards hell
As though showing me my destiny.

Is it my glans?
Yes. It is my glans.
(, Mon 15 Aug 2005, 17:09, Reply)
my poem :)
Its called 'rebellion' and goes a little something like this:

If you think this question of the week
stinks of rancid piss
do us all a favour
and go click "I like this"

I had no idea what it meant when i was a teenager but now seems strangely relevant.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 19:58, Reply)
Mrs. Smith
I truly love you, Mrs. Smith,
Your each and every feature.
I know my feelings are all wrong
'Cause you're my English teacher but
It seems to me, from what you say
And sometimes what you do,
That even though you know it's wrong
You share those feelings too.

I sometimes see you glance at me
Out from behind your book.
And when I glance right back at you
It's more than just a look. It's more
A fiery, rampant, lustful glare,
Your eyes like golden coins.
I start to feel a stirring in
My prepubescent loins.

I want you there! I want you then!
Who cares for social scruples?
I'd gladly bang you on the desk
In front of all the pupils but
You're right. It's not the time nor place
For such things to occur.
But there's a girl right next to me.
Instead I'll finger her.

The things I'd like to do to you
I really should not mention.
But let's just say, if I was bad
And wound up in detention I'd
Be there at 3, right on the dot
And sitting at the front,
To try and look right up you skirt
And see your lovely, glistening, well-maintained thatch.

Alas, I fear these fantasies
Will only act as fuel for
My dreams, although I'm big and strong
And I'm hung like a mule because
Although I'm fairly grown up and
I know what shagging is,
It isn't gonna happen soon;
I'm still too young to jizz!
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 17:09, Reply)
This is the first and last 100% genuine QOTW answer I will ever give:
When I was 17 a friend of mine had a heart attack and died on the toilet.
I tried to deal with my emotions by writing a poem.
I am ashamed to say that this is the best I could manage:

I knew a girl
Who had a whirl
Right on the fucking shitter.

Under her vest
Cardiac arrest.
No wonder I'm left bitter.

(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 17:10, Reply)
I didn't write this - one of my students read it at our show


(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 16:54, Reply)
damn it
i was going to talk about teenage pottery
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 15:13, Reply)

Roses are reddish
Violets are blueish
If it wasn't for Jesus
We'd all be Jewish

I thank you

(, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 9:33, Reply)
Rhyming rant of the week
It's Thursday morning and I'm stuck at work,
All too cheerfully greeted by the office jerk,
As he gets on with his tasks with a terrifying glee,
I'm desperately seeking something to occupy me.

With a shifty glance towards the bosses door,
And a fervent prayer against the dreaded 404,
All the while pretending to colleagues I'm making my desk a little neater,
My browser is directed to the QOTW at B3ta.

What wonders will await me there this week? I ponder,
What has Legless done now that'll help my mind to wander?
Can I shoehorn one of my unfunny tales to fit?
Or am I edging ever closer to being a boring old shit?

I hope against hope it'll be more funny names,
The hilarity of Cobbity Jobbins never wanes,
And so what if some of the stuff is a little made up?
It's better than, again, washing my coffee cup.

Not that the boss ever notices my work avoidance ploys,
He's always too busy with his executive toys,
I might work harder if they paid me alright,
Okay, its bollocks, I'd read b3ta till I went home at night.

But still you'd think he'd be more on the ball,
I mean, how tidy can a desk really get, is all,
Yet I digress; let's get back to the board,
Where the drunken disaster posts always strike a chord.

Okay its not perfect and some things just grate,
Like the urban legends that 'happened to a mate',
People write 'this isn't funny' then post instead of giving it a miss,
And still they believe we'll click on 'I like this.'

The van that played music when the ice cream ran out,
Bloody Loogabarooga and length/girth jokes that shout,
That you're making up for something cause you're world doesn't rock,
But for Christ's sake you didn't get chilli on your cock!

But I'm always certain this weeks question will be a blast,
Yet Teenage Poetry, I read out, aghast,
Is that bugger of a God setting me some kind of test?
To survive at work with B3ta not at it's best?

I hit refresh and hope my eyes had gone shitty,
But it still won't go away, more's the pity,
A quick check of the calendar, its not April the first,
And now I read Legless, doing his worst.

Where are the funnies? I need to shirk!
Oh dear holy Christ, I may have to work!
So the only way to relieve my boredom, I curse,
Is to half arsedly join in with my own little verse.

To plead with the overlords to make next week better,
To you lot as well as the de facto question setter,
For months on end you've asked us to suggest a topic,
We did so, now pick one, please Mr. Chthonic!
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 11:46, Reply)
I have nothing against you- I like your stories, and yes.. a lot of these poems are cock. Doesn't mean that you should post over and over again about how much you dislike this QOTW. It just puts a bad air over everything.

I don't want it to become a fight, but it's just annoying when every week people complain about the QOTW. If i don't like a QOTW, i just don't post on it.

Oh and as for regulars, I've posted in nearly all the QOTWs (114 answers), along with having an account with the ID of 1807, which is quite old.

And as for the dare:

When i was twelve
I had a wet dream
But i didn't wank properly
til i was fourteen.

My first climax came
When i was stroking my phallus
To the great tennis scene
In "debbie does Dallas".

I'm not sure why
it hadn't happened til then
Perhaps there wasn't
Enough ink in my pen

I thought that was a very good one.
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 1:28, Reply)
A genuine poem I wrote aged 8
This one got into the school magazine (although it got edited).

"Brown" by Bob, aged 8
Brown is the colour of the garden gate,
Brown is the colour of a sausage on a plate,
Brown is the colour of a 2 pence piece,
Brown is the colour of axle grease,
Brown is the colour of Spanish clickers
Brown is the color of the skidmark on my knickers.

Castanets wouldn't have rhymed.

I had to re-write the last 2 lines for the published version, but the original still hangs on the wall in the staff room of my junior school.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 17:19, Reply)
Shared washing machines
Not one I wrote, but after I came down one day to find the dryer full of someone elses' dried washing, I decided to be nice and so folded it all and put it in sorted piled, with socks by the side. A few days later, I had this slipped under my door...

To the Laundry Queen

One day I ventured
Into a place cold and smelly
to get laundry done
so that I could cover my belly

Into the right-hand washing machine
Went the great load
Then into the bottom dryer
12 shekel chadah all together I was told

And when I returned
To get my dry clothes
There was a vision before me
That made me froze (freeze really, but whatever, poetic license)

I had a visit
From the Laundry Queen
And there was the most beautifully folded laundry
I had ever seen!

(, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 14:11, Reply)
writing haikus is
easy. You just stop at the
seventeenth syllab
(, Sat 13 Aug 2005, 19:15, Reply)
This is long but bloody funny

In hindsight it's more than a tad un-PC but hell, it was the nineties, man........

Rory woke one sunny morn, to think about why he was born,
"Is my life a one-way street, or can I dance to a different beat?"
He pondered on his destiny, and what his life was meant to be
Should he be happy with what he's given, or should he try to do more livin?
"Each day I'll try out something new", And that's what he set out to do

He looked back on his life so far, Soccer, birds, time at the bar.
Humdrum it was, becoming lazy, "It's time I got a little crazy"
I've scored some chicks, I've had a laugh, it's time to walk a different path"

And so on this momentous day, Rory decided he'd be gay.
It was a major lifestyle swing, coz packing fudge was not his thing.

"George Michael, Prince, and Elton John will be my lords, I'll sing their songs.
I'll hang around with boys in frocks, and suck on many drag-queens' cocks"

He danced in clubs, YMCA, and fell in love with being gay
"Queers are great, they're so much fun, I even like the taste of cum!!"

After a month, at last, at last, he took his first man up the ass.
His partner's cock, to big to measure, filled Rory with ENORMOUS pleasure
"I am in love!" he screamed in pain, as Nigel shafted him again.
He and Nigel spent an hour, getting horny in the shower.

His new life began to take its toll, on Rory's little dainty hole
His ring was raw, each night he bled from having orgies in his bed
Too many men, too hard, too fast, had ruptured membranes in his ass
Truly buggered, what could he do? One more knob and he was through.
He was so sad, he cried and cried (he'd loved the feel of men inside)

And that's the story of Rory Fitz, who winces every time he shits
His life is ruined, his ring in shreds
and, having Aids, he'll soon be dead.
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 19:04, Reply)
a message in a female friend's birthday card, from 6th form.
If you were the village bicycle,
we'd all prefer to walk.
When you were born you were delivered by
a rino, not a stalk.
If you were the last woman on earth
and we were the only men,
we'd all turn homosexual
and god could start again.

(we liked her really. thats why we took the piss so much)
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 15:24, Reply)
I wrote this 3 days ago about me and my mate Jin...
Im 16 so it counts.

Why hello there,
flat-chested friend,
to me a padded bra
you lend.
and you know,
that it will fit,
cos both of us,
ain't got no tits.

But it don't matter,
cos you see,
we're boobless buds,
yeah you and me.

Don't stuff our bra's,
with no kleenex,
cos we don't use
no false effects.
We got nothing,
to get off our chests,
cos both of us,
ain't got no breasts.

But very soon,
our bra's will fill,
because we're going
on the pill.
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 12:06, Reply)
I was 16 when I scribed this, based on a true sory too
My Christmas Poem:

There was holly and tinsel, a big Christmas tree,
Turkey and crackers and our family.
All us children were happily playing with toys,
Sindy dolls for the girls, Action men for the boys.
As the last gift was pulled out from under the tree,
and handed across, I thought what can this be?
So I ripped off the paper and pulled of the bow,
what could this gift be, well I just had to know.
Then there in my hands was my Christmas surprise,
'twas a new pair of pants,in a medium size,
printed over the crotch was a message so clear,
it said "if you rub gently, a Genie appears!"

I'd been given a pair of miraculous skids,
I was sure to be envied by all other kids,
a Genie meant wishes, and wishes meant cash,
I should use wishes wisely and not be too rash.
they must have cost millions,
they cant have been cheap,
and I tried them out later when all were asleep.

First I slipped in my left leg, then slipped in my right,
and stood proud in my pants, what a marvelous sight,
on the bed I reclined in my underwear gift,
and I rolled up my little right hand in a fist,
and slowly began gently rubbing away,
hoping my Genie would come out to play.

For roughly a minute i polished my knickers,
until something appeared 'bout the size of a Snickers.
Could this be my Genie just starting to grow?
I carried on rubbing at my down below,
and then suddenly deep within my groinal glove,
came a feeling of happiness,laughter and love,
" here comes my genie " I shouted and cheered,
but a wet sticky patch was but all that appeared.

Laying there on the bed with my moist genitalia,
I thought that my pants were a terrible failure.

But now that I'm older and I'm looking back,
and remembering gifts out of Santa clause sack,
I remember those pants with the message upon,
from my innocent childhood, those days now long gone,
and though I had no Genie,for those pants I give thanks,
as the taught me the joy that can be brought by Christmas.

(I've made a few changes over the years but its basically the same poem)
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 10:19, Reply)
Not mine but a friends....
Gristle Gristle Gristle,
Up my mummys whistle

He really doesn't write them like he used to.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 16:35, Reply)
I remember....
Sitting in English next to a guy called Andy. He wrote a poem that went something like this...

Andi Peters,
No he doesn't,
Yes. Two litres.

(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 16:28, Reply)
Poor Peter's wife
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater
Had a wife and loved to beat her

I think Peter was a Chav.

[Though, if you click 'I Like This' it will illustrate your complete disappointment in this QOTW and help to 'screw the man'. So go ahead...you know you want to...click "I Like This" and tell "The Man" what you think of him!]
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 15:58, Reply)
Poem to B3ta and its members.
B3ta, oh B3ta
I love you, you smeater*
My girlfriend doesn’t,
So I beat ’er.
And then eat ‘er.**
Feet (er)

*note – this is a made up word. Sorry, but not that many things rhyme with B3ta. Lets pretend it means clever, funny website, populated by people who laugh at others, and don’t work as hard as their bosses think. Also people who use the word cunt a lot. Which I like.

I don’t think it’ll make it into the OED.

** Not in the 'rude' way. Pervert.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 15:23, Reply)
More of a Lymeric really...
made up on the spot because my freinds knew loads of them and I didn't know any. It goes thus...


There was an old from the sea front,
Who's tools were incredibly blunt
da da da da da,
da da da da da,
da da da da da d-da cunt!

I thank you.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 15:13, Reply)
It wasn't the grass,
that tickled her ass,
it was my finger.
She sat on my face,
and i guessed her weight.
She was a minger.

(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 14:57, Reply)
Roses are red
violets are twisted
when you get home
your going to get fisted.

Roses are red
violets are blue
Im on prozak
10p for ago on your tractor.....

(, Tue 16 Aug 2005, 12:36, Reply)
More of a parody song, really:
I wrote this in the middle of my GCSEs about our beardy RE teacher who was the most boring, unfunny man alive:

(to tune of Blackadder theme song)

He sits, stroking his holy beard
Not noticing the class is snoring,
We all think he's pretty weird,
Why must he be so boring? ...

El Beardo, El Beardo,
He has a bushy beard,
El Beardo, El Beardo,
His glasses are all smeared.

He thinks that every girl's a slut,
And also that his awful jokes are cute,
It's not much fun when you're the butt,
He wears white socks with his suit...

El Beardo, El Beardo,
Our grade's going down the pan,
El Beardo, El Beardo,
You horrid little man.

The lesson drags on for hours,
As we slip into a coma,
Making jokes about cold showers,
Beardy seemingly on soma*

El Beardo, El Beardo,
Like class with a brick wall,
El Beardo, El Beardo,
He taught us bugger all...

* Brave New World happy pills

We didn't like him very much.
(, Sun 14 Aug 2005, 23:45, Reply)
We had to write a Haiku in English, year 8 about the person sitting next to us. Mine wasn't too well received.

Looking at your face
Makes me want to kill myself
So I shot my brains
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 18:50, Reply)
To a girl who changed schools....

I miss you so much - the minutes seem like hours,
I wrote this poem because I can't afford flowers.

/hangs self from neck until dead.
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 11:16, Reply)
I did a valentine's card
with the caption

"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
If you give me head,
I'll say that I love you"

It was worth a try I suppose...
(, Fri 12 Aug 2005, 11:12, Reply)
Posted this on deadlounge a while ago.
Deadlounge is a forum for goffiks. i decided to take the piss with this poem

Romeo Und Julia

Your tears of white
Our fears of black
Uncovered by dawn
Relentless attack

A murder of ravens
Leaves falling by night
Liasions most secret
Love's angels delight

Gravestones seperated
As in life they lie
Yearning but denied their
Sentimental goodbyes

Robbed of all their closeness,
Of all that was pure
Feuding and discord
Lineage sponsored war

Read the acronym.

They loved it.

Dispite the immense length and substantial girth.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 21:29, Reply)
My poem is cool
There was an old man that lived in a box
He had dirty hair and didn't change his socks

Although he was poor, he did like his meat
So he'd catch all the pigeons and have them to eat


I even had drawings to go with poem
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 16:22, Reply)
I won the poetry competition at school 3 years in a row :D
The topic was war, and everyone did sad crap like "Mummy died and now I'm sad...blah blah blah I'm not glad"

My Friend and The Mine

My friend where is he, his arm in a tree, his leg hanging off a roof,
My friend called Mike, his chest on a bike, his head flew off...strewth!
His guts on a car, his eyes flew afar, his kneecaps over the hill,
'I say Mike, are you allright?' but his voice lay still.

Needless to say I won, but then I got banned from reading it out. Bloody Commie Nazis.
(, Thu 11 Aug 2005, 15:50, Reply)

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