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Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .
Wanderer Nov 2014
By Shel Silverstein**

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .
Other than "Sara Cynthia Silvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out", this is my favorite poem of Mr. Silvertein!!!
Amy Irby Jun 2015
Mighty arms give a tender cuddle from behind
Eternal heater
Sensation of chest and stomach against spine
"tell me a secret"
soft lips on foreheads and noses
narwhals nudge
"I've got a secret ..."
"What's that?"
"You make life, interesting ..."
" … Good or bad?"
"Good ... you show me things I've never done before."

My name is Barnacle, calcified to you
Your name is Boa constrictor, squeezing till the last breathe
Inadequate sum of memories, so
drifting nowhere any time soon
thank you all for reading and for adding me to the "A Notch Above the Daily Fluff" Collection. Thank you friends
Terry O'Leary  Sep 2013
Boa's Ark
Terry O'Leary Sep 2013
MORNING HAS BROKEN
The men, in lines, ***** two by two,
forgetting all the women who
indulged them through a night of tricks
(their lips designed with crimson sticks,
their eyes a wild mascara mix)

and think instead on times ahead
when they’ll be gone, their bodies dead
(some rotting slow’, some mummified)
though once they were their mummy’s pride.

Attired bright in uniforms,
they strew their bombs in desert storms -
like melting sands, the sky deforms
with darkness, death - and doomsday swarms
through ravished lands where fires warm
the corpses, cold and puriform.

Their eyes flash forward towards the backs
of lucky ones who have the knack
of never being in the way
of bursts of bullets as they stray
(effacing phantoms faraway)
and dodging doom’s Redemption Day.

They’re wishing for a foggy morn
or best of all to be unborn,
and peering down to mark the sway
of wings in webs while spiders prey,

they wonder when their time will come
and they can cease their fleeing from
the sights they’ve seen, the deeds they’ve done,
the life they’ve lost, the death they’ve won,

then muse a while upon the child
they killed today when they went wild,
and when they’re finally reconciled
with broken bodies stacked and piled,

they ponder, does she have a kin
to curse them for their burning sin?

And if she does, will god reply
with tooth for tooth and eye for eye?

Or will her clan be mild and meek
and simply turn the other cheek?

2. MIDDAY MUSINGS
They’re counting steps to pass the time
and puzzle if they’ll reach their prime
or if instead they’ll serve the worm
their carnal flesh and aching *****

when soon, perhaps, they sleep in berth
provided by the chilling earth,
and fret about the fate they’ll find
below the stones that slowly grind.

And once or twice will come to mind
a sultry smile they left behind
(the distant past - a tepid trace –
another time, another place),
reflected in the gray grimace
that paints a frightened fading face.

And on they trek through guilt and gloom
to track their own and others' doom
and soon they’ll  grace another pool
with blood of other beings who’ll

inhale no more the evening airs,
unlike the wily Functionaires
who brutalize the fighting men
and send them far away and then

(relaxed, unwound, with victories made)
confer with sword an accolade
on those who’ve lopped bowed heads, with blade,
so someone bent must turn a *****

to hack a hole which then is filled
with all the cloven bodies killed
then cloaked with clay or loamy dirt,
as if to hide the pain and hurt.

3. TEATIME INTROSPECTION
Amongst the many are the few
who maim and **** and think it’s true
that purple war’s a parlour game
when really they’re submerged in shame
for crimes for which they are to blame
and can’t expunge with searing flame

while plodding through an endless time,
or pealing bells with holy chime,
or posing in a paradigm
where paradox and riddle rhyme.

And when they die (as die they must),
forevermore their putrid dust,
still soaked with gore and carmine lust,
will conjure thoughts of cold disgust.

And even though torrential rain
(which tastes at times like cool champagne)
can wash away the scarlet stain
which soaks the sands of god’s terrain,

it cannot ever cleanse the hands
that work the guns and burning brands,
or purge the throats that give commands
to him who never understands.

Nor can the raging hurricane
from blackened souls the white regain,
rescind the sins or void the banes
or loose the ****** from Satan’s chains
who line the pits of hell’s domains.

4. EVENING REFLECTIONS
When through the day to night they pass,
their eyes avoid the looking glass
displaying dim a pale phantasm
plunging deeper down a chasm,
surging through a blood ******,
smiling thin unveiled sarcasm

for the chances lost to taste
the many fruits that went to waste
when each was still a joyous lad,
who went to school and learned to add
and danced in rivers, barefoot clad,

attended church with mom and dad
(which tends the poor and cheers the sad),
to pray for good and curse the bad,
before, in war insanely mad,
he fought the fight (no Galahad)

by flinging flames and slashing throats,
immersing bods in  midnight moats
between the broken battered boats
where babes and booted bodies float,

and leaving bags of bones to bloat
in bullet-ridden overcoats,
and wondered if the goblins gloat
or spot (behind his eyes, the motes),

then strode away without a thought
that mortal lives had come to naught,
sedated by his conscience brought
to nothing more than dripping snot,
while Others sit upon a yacht
and pluck the eyes of fish They’ve caught,

for, when they die, fish seem to see
The Ones behind the tyranny
(with bellies round from gluttony)
in future dangling from a tree
(with leaves as black as ebony),
for that’s, They fear, Their destiny.

5. MIDNIGHT DREAMS**
At night the soldiers sometimes dream
of many things which make them scream,
like
                      floating down a gelid stream
             with burning flesh and cold ice cream
             upon their lips, which makes it seem
             as though their salt they can’t redeem
             when looking back at bold extremes
             of valiant warriors’ victory schemes.

Or ofter yet,
                      they sometimes meet
             a broken skull upon the street
             with gaping eyes, its mouth replete
             with swollen tongue that can’t repeat
             mere words of joy when lovers greet,
             or yell aloud or indiscreet’,

             or talk about the grand deceit
             of Those Who live on Easy Street,
             Who plot, destroy and overeat,
             while others bide beneath a sheet
             on bed of steely cold concrete,

             with final gift a flag or wreath
             that soon will wither like their teeth
             when once they’re settled underneath
             a mound of muck on mouldy heath,
             to lurk in Limbo Land beneath.

And ever more before they wake,
appear quaint dreams not quite opaque,  
like
                      upside down upon a lake
             keeps popping up a pregnant Drake
             who says “there must be some mistake,
             I only have a bellyache”,
             while high above’s a flying Snake,
             (a sight to make a killer quake).

             She cries aloud “for mercy’s sake
             your foresight’s blind, your wisdom’s fake
             the fragile bodies that you break,
             impale or burn upon a stake,
             then stack in layers like a cake,
             reflect a lust that death can’t slake”.

             And turquoise Turtles on the make
             (though taking time to overtake,
             each slurping down a chocolate shake)
             rev up to plead “let us explain,
             we think you men are all insane
            with morals thin as cellophane;

             for, peering through god’s window pane,
             we see quite clearly those you’ve slain,
             enough to fill the Dim Domain
             with blood and guts and tears and pain,
             Chimeras of a frenzied brain.”

             A worn and weary weather vane
             announces floods of claret rain
             that forty days and nights sustain,
             submerging mountains, raising Cain,
             while flushing mankind’s acid reign
             down nature’s evolution drain.

             The Serpent hails a hydroplane
             “because”, she hissed, “we can’t remain;
             behind the hill, the atom’s spark
             has vaporized the palace park,
             reduced to dust the Meadowlark
             and nullified the Rainbow’s arc”.

             And while the others hush and hark,
             a feline Toad begins to bark
             “This plane is certainly Boa’s Ark.

             Let’s flee the Human hierarch,
             forsake all Men to sate the Shark
             which swim within the Waters Dark,
             and purge all traces of the Mark
             in Eden when we disembark.”

             The beasts, in lines, by twos embark.

The dreamers wake, they’re staring, stark,
behind their eyes, a watermark.
aldo kraas  May 2021
Boa noite
aldo kraas May 2021
Today the sun went down already
And there were sunsets in the sky
It was the end of the day
And boa noite arrived so fast
The stars were shining in the sky
The moon was also shining in the sky
I glazed tonight at the sky
All night long
And boa noite is ending now
Soon another day will start
And I will say good bye to boa noite
And I will sleep in my bed during the day because I am tired
From staying up all night
When the night comes, I will get up
And I will say hello to boa noite
There will be stars and the moon shining in the sky again
I love boa noite it is so quiet and peaceful at the same time
aldo kraas  Sep 2021
Boa noite
aldo kraas Sep 2021
Today the sun went down already
And there were sunsets in the sky
It was the end of the day
And boa noite arrived so fast
The stars were shining in the sky
The moon was also shining in the sky
I glazed tonight at the sky
All night long
And boa noite is ending now
Soon another day will start
And I will say good bye to boa noite
And I will sleep in my bed during the day because I am tired
From staying up all night
When the night comes, I will get up
And I will say hello to boa noite
There will be stars and the moon shining in the sky again
I love boa noite it is so quiet and peaceful at the same time
Pink Taylor Jan 2010
It's the bittersweet irony of life
That I should find you
I tried to resist for so long
But I fell into the snake pit.
I lie in comfort while you hold me
But what about the day
When your hold
Wraps around my neck

But I try not thing think of that
Because you've got me in your grasp now
And I can't escape the boa's grip
So
Think of it this way, my friend

What's more exciting than living your nightmare
What's more insane than being eaten alive?
Let yourself free-fall and make all the wrong turns
You are embraced by the one thing you fight

I watch their worried stares
As I lie here in the snake pit
As the boa wraps himself around my heart
But I don't struggle,
No I'm not crying
For there is no stopping this once it starts.
- From Evolution
SRS  Jul 2014
Guilt
SRS Jul 2014
I hope your guilt strangles you like a Boa Constructor,
until you have no breath,
I hope before you die though that you realized,
It was you who caused your death.
I feel like you should have guilt, but I know you don't.
aldo kraas  Oct 2023
Boa noite
aldo kraas Oct 2023
Boa noite
My friend
And have a good night sleep
Boa noite
Beautiful shining stars
That are in my heaven
Shines also in the
Ocean at night
My Father did a good job
When he made
Boa noite
I stay up during
Boa noite
Every Summer
And I look up
In the sky
I can't believe
How beautiful
Are the shining stars
In the sky
At Summer I go late
To bed
The next day I wake up
At 3:00 pm
Sombro  Oct 2021
Boa
Sombro Oct 2021
Boa
I felt her on my belly
A well fed boa
Squatting for the day

She writhed as my heart beat
Drawing tighter to my
Pinched breaths

I saw wild eyes, glancing, prancing
Sprites, friends of the serpent,
Laughed, for I had fallen mute

To the forest floor, and lay poisoned
Shrinking before a gleeful crowd
In love with an animal.
Mollie B  May 2013
BOA
Mollie B May 2013
BOA
my chest has become the home of a one-eyed boa.

when I was a child, this serpent was a child,

but now my vivarium has become exceedingly small

for this great snake as it grows and stretches my skin.

I am not elastic.

and as the mid drift coils around my black cavity chest,

part slithers up my throat,

causing me to gargle and choke,

silencing me into silence,

while the remaining 1/3 slides through

a short tube to my stomach.

I am nauseous.

this is the feeling when your boy

is playing soccer

and it’s all you can do to not think of

how he smells like grass and sweat and soccer

and how you would love to wrap your fingers around him.

and for a severed second

I am waiting for nachos.

and for a severed second I thought I was a warm, golden tortilla chip

that someone would want to crunch in their mouth.

This is the feeling when he gives another girl his jacket

and walks her to her car

and she compliments his eyes

and calls him by the nicknames you thought

were yours.

and for a severed second you think

of all the reasons you know you are inadequate.

like brown eyes withholding the freckles

and like the fact that you can’t command

your own skin or the way that it tears.

I am not stuck in a rut.

I am the grand canyon,

stuck in myself

without any water to drown myself in.

I am not made of acne,

I am a pimple.

and i’m every pimple

on all the faces

of my lovers who gave up trying or let me sink quietly

into the background as

doe-like females sauntered into the fore-

I am not a spot

I am a speckle that rides on the backs of spindly spiders

I am orange. I am poison.

I am not the geese but the pond.

*****, overgrown and stagnant.

she is his rock and his river

and I though he was mine.
This is not the Victorian Era.
Let my body wander where it wants to.
I have no desire to be trapped
like a mouse in the grip of a boa constrictor.
I want to feel free to love
however I want to.
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2013
Response to a poem by Terry O'Leary....
of lost promise,
of the damning futility of war.*

Of War you speak, in tongues of pain
You caste the colours darkly red,
You paint the atmosphere as rain
Of crimson tide to drown the dead.

Of twisted souls, you etch and faced
The passions felt, in tears of shame,
You sculpt the lines of guilt misplaced
Accumulated shards of blame.

Where hath the innocence flown of late ?
Where is the concience worn?
Why hides the love in tiers of hate
Where hope's catharsis borne?

What chance tomorrows tender tear?
What chance of helping hand?
Were man's intentions once made clear
In Boa's war locked land?

M.

— The End —