"chappie" poems
Oh what joy.
A little boy.
Jacob so happy.
A cheerful chappie.
Paul Butters
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
Shakespeare’s Dog
in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden
So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.
get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:
*this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!*
kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.
The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.
he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:
*well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.
in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.*
We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.
his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.
ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.
so if a farting pug before your door you’ve found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
The generations rumble on,
I know no reason why.
We build our countless tower-blocks,
Reaching to the sky.
Jacob is our newest one.
He’s only two years old.
Who knows what things he’s going to see?
Great nephew who’ll have…great stories to be told.
We saw men land upon The Moon,
For him it will be Mars.
His kids may go much further,
Even to the Stars.
He’s such a cheery chappie,
Chapman his mum’s maiden name!
I hope he will stay cheerful,
Though Life’s a funny old game.
I hope the world gets better,
For him and all his peers.
I’m sure he’ll be a pacesetter,
And not too many tears.
So here’s to futures bright,
For Jacob and the rest.
May there always be plenty of light,
Let’s wish them all the best.
Paul Butters
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 4:33 AM UTC
So I said to this German chappie
If there were ten green bottles hanging on the wall
and one green bottle should accidentally fall
how many green bottles would there be
hanging on the wall,
you do speak English?
Nein he said
So I turned to this Frenchman I said
There's a strange smell around here
Don't you think?
He said oui
I said I think you're right old son
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
How shocked was I when my mistress, Filthy Fiona,
Told me one summer's day she had one up the spout;
After all, the silly ***** was on the pill (and in any case
Half the time my seed had gone up the lesser used route).
But, accidents will happen when you least expect them:
Maybe her recent attack of diarrheoa had upset the apple cart.
O, how relieved was I when she told me she had booked herself in
To the Marylebone Abortion Clinic for a good old pump-out session;
And, even better (much better), I wasn't expected to foot the bill
As her private health insurance would cover it nicely,
Thank you very much indeed, God bless you, my darlin';
The excessive premiums were clearly a fine investment.
Like the gent I am, I offered to drive her there in my pink Porsche 911,
But she insisted I need only pick her up after the remedial session
As she had made other travel arrangements to get there; and
One cannot argue with a dame under such trying circumstances.
How I would have relished the amusement of those who saw the ****
Arrive in one bloke's car, deposited caringly with a consoling hug,
And collected by a different chappie, with a kiss on her plump cheek.
But, after all, 'twas only fair I found out later (with a gay grin)
When she told me she really had no idea who the father was
Although her two selected chauffeurs were the best two bets.
How I laud the foresight of the percipient abortion law reformers:
Our sad world has more than enough unwanted ******** as it is.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
Adolf ****** was a German I'm sure you all well know:
He was born in Austria but lived in Germany a long time ago.
He was a man who was fuelled by patriotic ambition,
(he had other things on his mind apart from big **** and coition).
The German people were the victims of economic recession,
Caused by the French government's revanchist aggression,
And der schoene Adolf promised he would sort out the place,
And would restore them to their rightful position as ze Master Race.
With stirring speeches and a fantastic propaganda machine,
His political opponents and ze Jews he loudly demeaned,
And thus, plus a teensy-weensy bit of naughty oppression,
He was able to fulfil his great and glorious mission.
Although some Germans re ****** were a little bit unhappy,
Most of them thought he was a really top rate chappie;
The rest of the world remained relatively silent on the matter too,
Not realising just what old Adolf really intended to do.
In the USA they gave him place of honour on the front page of 'Time'
Which surely sent out to Adolf quite a hopeful sign;
And secretly millions cheered him on when they got the news
Of what he and his cronies were doing to those Jews.
When a man like ****** you choose to blithely ignore
Then you should work out that what comes next is war;
Which is what happened with a Bang! Crash! Boom! and Thump!
But Hitler's not nearly half as ugly as that awful Donald Trump.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
We called our maths master *** happy Chappie, Mr Chapman stank to high heaven like an ash tray and smoked like a chimney even while taking class.
We called the English teacher Jesus because he was young, bearded and wore a white suit. One of the lads flicked ink all down his back one day without him noticing as he walked up and down between the desks.
Another English teacher took it on himself to teach *** education. He advised us not to ********** the night before an exam. He doubled up as a career adviser and told everyone to go into banking or insurance.
The history master liked to nod off in lessons when he was supposed to be teaching us and we had to stay completely silent. If anyone made a noise he would yell at us, and he would sometimes hit us with a tennis shoe with a golf ball jammed in it. He wrote Stoke City for the cup in chalk mirror writing on the sole so that it would come out on our backsides when he whacked us.
The first headmaster was nice, we liked him, he was human. But then *** took over. He tightened up the rules about school uniform, no coloured shirts, things like that, but wore luminous green socks himself, the silly ******* He gave me the slipper for sciving off an afternoon once, I hated him. I think if I'd had a gun I might have shot him. Someone said they think he's dead now, and I thought good, I hope he died in agony ha ha.
Then there was Mr Eaton, another English master. He was one of those truly inspiring teachers whose enthusiasm for his subject was infectious.
On the day he introduced us to Chaucer's 'The Prologue ' he gave us the text and proceeded to recite from memory the whole thing. I never forgot that.
It was a mixed experience, Grammar School in the 1970's.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
'Twas in the park one day
I met a chappie gay;
We went behind a bush
Where I saw his **** ****
And I evinced a shock
When he took out his ****
(it was of such a size
it would have won a prize).
Now, so many years have passed
How many times we've arsed
Each other I don't know,
But each time we have a go
And watch each other come
Up an outsider's ***
We know our love is true
As we call out "OO! OO! OO!"
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
is transparency of a soul is to be admired?
im so tired
so many things and so little time
id rather have my hands wired
your mouth lied
i've put my believes in a wrong person
my thoughts of you are better than your being
i was willing
did not happen
keeps me happy
maybe ill get a chappie
words are like water,
taking whatever shape you please
there is no release
from mandatory human form
rosehip has the most thorn
makes no sense anymore
my soul is a little sore.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 8:52 AM UTC
Lowry leanshanks came to town
riding a horse that was purple not brown.
He'd heard the sheriffs job was going
so into the ring his hat was throwing.
He might be strange and a little slim,
but who can run away from him?
His arms are thirteen metres wide,
no time to get away and hide!
Never had to use his gun,
Bullets miss him every one.
His purple horse may neigh and whinny,
but you can't shoot a man who is so skinny!
The jail was soon full of bad men,
like Cactus **** and Dust Bowl Ken.
The town was safe, the people happy,
they all so love the skinny Chappie!
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 8:01 AM UTC
'Stand on me'
memorandums are not all they're cracked up to be
give me a 'V A T'
Dave.
Terry's a minder and it's getting harder to find a
chappie like him
down at the 'lock up' we knock up a bargain and
down at the market we
'knock 'em all out'
'er indoors' wants me to retire
to warmer shores
and
in a moment of sadness
I might just agree.
'Stand on me'
it ain't easy to be
a
spiv.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
Stupid chappie kicked his ball right on to the train lines
Despite our words of common sense he nipped onto the track.
Clenched my cheeks really tight,
Hopeful that I'll see tonight.
Luckily he made it back.
A second later.
The train's in sight.
He would have been squashed under the train.
We told him not to try it,
Three times or more we did.
He heeded not our good advice.
Is a cheap plastic football really worth a life.
Silly man, silly boy, life ended nearly for a toy.
He wasn't a child, an adult kid.
A total fool, lose your football on the tracks,
Retrieving it ain't cool.
****** idiot!
(c)LIVVI
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Contact adhesive
impressive
conducive to
having friends
stick around.
I've found that friends stray,
stay away unless they're
firmly glued down.
Illegal?
quite obviously, but
what's a chappie to do
when friends won't come through
for him and don't want to talk to him,
you can't beat close contact.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
There was none universally adored by men;
Though some are loved by all the world,
Even so there are things abhorred of them.
Pick you a jolly good chappie, but dig
To his depths, and you shall find a rotten den,
And all the ugly things abhorred of him.
Good souls live, but never exceed their ken,
Nor let another grasp their heart again,
Though they be loved by all the world.
Still today they abhor Him;
Though He is love and all the world,
He could not be adored by every man.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
What I lack is a porpoise in life, or do I mean dolphin?
My head is full of This n’ That, brain all a’clutta,
Joan the Mad married Philip the Handsome, imagine!
Michelangelo designed the Swiss Guard uniform, clever fella!
Yes, landlocked Bohemia once had a navy!
A very dubious Shakespearean titbit,
‘The little dog barks but the caravan passes by’
Chekov, I think, but Star Trek chappie or Russian poet?
Sadly, Virgil hero of the Classics, is now barely known,
All hail the other Virgil! the Colossus of Liverpool!
‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’
No not that version! Carousel you fool!
Ambergris used in perfumes, is present in a whale’s whatsit,
Also, in the **** glands of dogs, but let’s not go there!
Think before buying an expensive bottle, best kept a secret!
Must be the vet’s worst nightmare, I swear!
There was a noble Italian Poet named Count Mario Stanza,
Did you know Nicholas Breakspear is the only English born Pope?
Mario cheekily claimed descent from Catherine of Braganza!
Nicky took the name Adrian IV, very lucky to escape the rope!
Catherine was the wife of Charles 11 of England,
Now this is getting silly! time for a nap I think,
End of history lesson, sorry getting pompous for a split-second!
In need of a large brandy, which tout de suite I will greedily sink!
© Robert Porteus
May 24, 2022
May 24, 2022 at 3:09 PM UTC
for Daniel “Chappie” James, General USAF
and for the 332d Fighter Group
Being black in America
was the Original Catch,
so no one was surprised
by 22:
The segregated airstrips,
separate camps.
They did the jobs
they’d been trained to do.
Black ground crews kept them in the air;
black flight surgeons kept them alive;
the whole Group removed their headgear
when another pilot died.
They were known by their names:
“Ace” and “Lucky,”
“Sky-hawk Johnny,” “Mr. Death.”
And by their positions and planes.
Red Leader to Yellow Wing-man,
do you copy?
If you could find a fresh egg
you bought it and hid it
in your dopp-kit or your boot
until you could eat it alone.
On the night before a mission
you gave a buddy
your hiding-places
as solemnly
as a man dictating
his will.
There’s a chocolate bar
in my Bible;
my whiskey bottle
is inside my bedroll.
In beat-up Flying Tigers
that had seen action in Burma,
they shot down three German jets.
They were the only outfit
in the American Air Corps
to sink a destroyer
with fighter planes.
Fighter planes with names
like “By Request.”
Sometimes the radios
didn’t even work.
They called themselves
“Hell from Heaven.”
This Spookwaffe.
My father’s old friends.
It was always
maximum effort:
A whole squadron
of brother-men
raced across the tarmac
and mounted their planes.
My tent-mate was a guy named Starks.
The funny thing about me and Starks
was that my air mattress leaked,
and Starks’ didn’t.
Every time we went up,
I gave my mattress to Starks
and put his on my cot.
One day we were strafing a train.
Strafing’s bad news:
you have to fly so low and slow
you’re a pretty clear target.
My other wing-man and I
exhausted our ammunition and got out.
I recognized Starks
by his red tail
and his rudder’s trim-tabs.
He couldn’t pull up his nose.
He dived into the train
and bought the farm.
I found his chocolate,
three eggs, and a full fifth
of his hoarded-up whiskey.
I used his mattress
for the rest of my tour.
It still bothers me, sometimes:
I was sleeping
on his breath.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 8:06 PM UTC
Contact adhesive
impressive
conducive to
having friends
stick around.
I've found that friends stray,
stay away unless they're
firmly glued down.
Illegal?
quite obviously, but
what's a chappie to do
when friends won't come through
for him and don't want to talk to him,
you can't beat close contact.
Contact adhesive
impressive
conducive to
having friends
stick around.
I've found that friends stray,
stay away unless they're
firmly glued down.
Illegal?
quite obviously, but
what's a chappie to do
when friends won't come through
for him and don't want to talk to him,
you can't beat close contact.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
She's talking of millions and the rest of us are sat listening,
stories we hear when here on the tube,
her jeans are torn and her fingernails *****
but didn't she get shirty when I gave her that look and that look's the look that says
I don't believe you,
But it's none of my business what her business is and nothing to do with me.
A wee chap with a kilt on and I neatly tilt on
my axis,
something I didn't want to see.
It's a bit to familiar or similar to a journey I took late last week.
Homeward bound and this hound dog purrs
the wee chappie swears at someone
a bit like last week so I won't harp on it
Just
continue to look sharp and sit
minding my own.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
I feel like I'm a sunflower,
My eyes always follow the sun.
It has some sort of power -
An attractive force, for one.
I feel I have sunflower seeds,
I'm always crushing them for oil.
Maybe I'm just crushing,
And re-embursing into the soil.
I feel my green is yellow,
And my yellow surely lime.
Maybe I absorb the sun's hello,
And reflect hello in time -
In time to stand up tall,
In waits of more lightfall.
I've many leaves, fond of the sun they are.
But not as much as I, for they are still.
I am mobile, like a motor car,
And they can't move, like a green hill.
Yet, hills get not in my way,
For I look above their dismay.
The sun makes me happy.
Just a light to my day.
Here's a sunflower chappie,
Chew it and look the sun's way.
My roots, the sun cannot see.
And that's what truly defines me.
If the sun were to know, it'd blow,
Or maybe more spectacularly glow.
I cannot remove my eyes from the sun.
It's attractive force on my eyes, a ton.
Funny thing is, I'm the sunflower,
And you're the sun.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC