"crumpet" poems
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you
Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand
This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays
Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...
From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
She wasn't there when I arrived,
but I hugged her at St Paul's
where patron saints pay to see the crypt
and pidgeons relieve themselves for free
She wasn't there when I left
tho we did hold hands
and stroll along the Thames
even shared a laugh in some famous gallery
Then she was gone
Don't think she likes my verses much
She has her Phd now
afterall
but I remember warmly
red ribboned pigtails
and crumpet mix
dripping
Sep 28, 2009
Sep 28, 2009 at 11:45 AM UTC
I don’t call you crumpet
I doubt you taste very good.
But you fit the name strumpet
Like I was sure you would.
A better name would be porcupine
The pork part fits you so much
But it would be so very awful;
You’re a thing I’d hate to touch.
I’d call your crew a clown car,
But, while you are surely on wheels.
You are more of a slow train wreck
Based on the looks and the feel.
Some fools call you Robin Hood
But I reject that whole twisted pitch.
Robin Hood did not rob the poor
Just so he could give to the rich.
You think you’re a smart cookie
But, you are nothing but a crumb.
You think we are all of us stupid
But only your supporters that are dumb.
You’re a ****** cake that has fallen
With a poisonous coat of frosting.
You are not worth a penny of what
A disaster like you are is costing.
You leave a nasty taste in the mouth
Of those who have to be near you.
There is nothing about you at all
That would serve to endear you.
It really would nice if you would go
Live for decades in a prison cell.
That color of orange, for once
Would suit you so very well.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
bingle bangle trip top
flipper wing ****
fingling zinger bop bop
tribble slapper bang
herpe derper webble wob
frankish glub glub beetroot
shingle rampart flip rob
wipple fishnet bangtoot
markly haper mushmouth
yungdid crassly freeten
biddle froto down south
sharple rag tag neepin
oddler dang trumpet
***** gnomey smashhash
villet bridle crumpet
creamy lopless bashrash
oh, the wonderful sounds of letters
amazing in your diversity
always makes me feel a bit better
but not as far as perversity
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
There's many pairs I've fathomed
A poets stock and trade
A thousand couples counted
And a hundred poems made
But I'm awash with bafflement
A word eludes my wits
My sleep is interrupted
And it's getting on ****
Nothing rhymes with 'women'
I've run fresh out of words
I'm sick and tired of 'wenches'
And bored to death with 'birds'
It's hard to write a love song
To 'crumpet' or to 'totty'
Yes, nothing rhymes with women
Those women drive me *****
There's loads of rhymes for 'menfolk'
And equally for 'men'
’Aggressive' goes with 'Passive'
And 'Possessive' now and then
My brain is drained and knackered
And almost rhymes with 'lead'
I'd like to rhyme with someone else
And leave them in my stead
For nothing rhymes with women
And I loath abbreviation
There'll surely be no rimmin'
Or unsightly punctuation
The odds are stacked against me
So, exhausted, I persist
To find a rhyme for women
A word to coexist
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Sitting here, chortling, do not grouse,
If you abuse crumpets, men,
You undermine your own best interests, do you ken?
Then you don't get crumpet, men,
Or is men a rude word,
You're reaping what you earn,
You want a cup of tea from me?
Chortle, the magic word is please!
You would not believe this ham,
Feeding the world this spam,
You want fresh vegetables?
Frozen food, not dementiable,
You can get another better than me,
So what's wrong with you, prithee?
Yes, the catering staff is on a sitdown strike,
You'd best find yourself a loving wife,
Chortle, shut up snivelling, you grouse,
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.madame's stifled feverish
tittering,
voice raucous as tamped in a
corselet,
translucent skin akin to pellucid
drapery,
overwrought hands entwined in champagne
hair,
madame's eccentricity is her
lunacy.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.the mellifluous static of the ebony
radio,
dulcet hallucinations imbricate in her
Crumpet,
ephemeral visionary of the
erstwhile,
Madame’s a suitable fandangle tenant of the
bedlam.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.madame scrutinized the greenwood through the
crevice,
appetency for the veil of sea
smoke,
imperceptive to her
frenzy.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.ensnared in an austere
plight,
madame’s urbane actuality,
disenfranchised.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.the exuberant dimension of reciting
hysteria.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
Shoes off and kettle on
time for tea
and
crumpet
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Crumpet!
Come sit.
Tell me all about it...
Drinking alones for killers, melancholy and alcoholics.
Man trouble? That's sad.
Dad trouble? That's bad.
Real trouble's I'm nabbed?
Too good to be gratis...
Your mother taught you well.
I'm only fun on the Sabbath.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
*I'll try to empty my closet
make myself a pan cake
besides a little crumpet*
**Before I kick the bucket
to a concert I'll buy a ticket
for my love and a bouquet
plus a precious trinket**
*Before I kick the bucket
I'll play some armature cricket
maybe hit a single wicket
that's just a part of my target*
**Before I kick the bucket
in that window racket
I'll go to the nearest market
And buy myself a casket**
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
Bitter she is not,
nor sour, not full of griping grapes,
The whisky can stay in the jar,
while those drinking men prop up the bar,
And they stagger and they wager,
They eat unhealthy fries,
and use their eyes to peep at the crumpet,
See that one stood over there,
You know,the one in the red dress, they call her a strumpet,
In the back bar Nelson, tokes his trumpet,
Jim's dog runs around, you knows he's nuts,
Crazy pup,
The bar maid pulls a frothy pint,
The guys in the bar fancy pulling her,
She's classy,
They're rather arsy, not much of a chance,
Those boys are the crazy ones, they live a life of drinkers,
Think they're rather clever tinkers,
Really just a gang of stinkers,
Always on the pull,
Barmaid, she's nobodies fool,
Chicks pull worms!
(C) Livvi
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
I don't know the absence of light or dark
There is only the chirp of the alley way clerk
Who serves you your tea and crumpet cakes
Lined with medallions of neon colors
That break when you touch them
Can it be the final hour is upon us?
As these orange fragments of yesteryear
Become old and forgotten and inhumane
I never was young
I never was old
I am what I am
Never done what I was told
Though these were the tellings of man and man's timely rule
And there were many mysteries within that
It is a funny thing
When one believes they need to go to school
Is it the hour or the time or the society which breeds this?
Is it the oranges and the hot milk and the comfort of the bed?
Is it the promises made in between black walls,
That makes us do things that we never would have said?
Funny how these words shape our minds
And yet our actions are nothing at all
Funny how funny a funny man can be
Until the funny man drops
His supposed ball
O'
The great fall
A fast glance across like a lance
Which pierces my mind like a flash
As if love vanished everywhere and not just from me
But from everybody
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 9:46 PM UTC
This is a twisted tale from me,
The place where my heart used to be,
That's what you get for exploiting me,
All bully's privileges revoked, you see,
You're expecting, like, favours, and cups of tea?
Men, don't abuse crumpet and crumpet, prithee!
The place where my heart used to be,
Such a twisted tale from me.......
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
this system of notation
this great archaic atlas,
is really misunderstood,
for some reason,
a reason very much bold
if not simply balding
from reasons outside
of genetics via a scratched head,
seems to confuse people,
you never hear of painters
having to apologise,
for outrageous neon red,
or ultra-violets that are like
paparazzi pepper-spray of
flashes leading up to an epileptic
seizure... you never hear it...
but for some reason, when you
write something outrageous
you have to conclude by having
to write some sort of apologetics;
for me people just don't get it,
why would a painter apologise
for excesses when there aren't any?
why would a painter get all the
slack and the poet a humbling
feel of anonymity? this sort of
dynamic only perpetuates mankind's
power struggle / gamble in the
medium of communication,
and when used to express something
as fanciful as poetry, immediately
taken to invoke a strict obligation
for a conversation as simple as:
- how much the bananas?
- two for one a third one gratis!
- in terms of pound?
- half a kilo for a quid.
- thank you, i'll have two portions
of that libra.
so by attacking the sole communicating
medium of perfect accord
we attack it's liberated expression
of poetry as we might attack
anything that moves with a knife...
although it's moving with a knife
ready to butter a scone or a crumpet
or a half toasted piece of bread
according to sting's englishman in new york;
and with such purposive attacks
language no longer serves a stance
of a required medium of communication,
but a required medium of discord;
as i said once, too many a times to
now forcefully repeat: if language
could be represented via chemistry...
it would be the most volatile substance
known to man: more volatile
than lithium in water, or the atom-bomb,
i dare say.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
do i seriouslly have to be
angry, given, this
beauty of a feast at nearing 5am?
oh i can imagine
a **** like eating an oyster:
but then...
then again:
this is the part where i: mmm mmm,
and refrain from moaning.
(
aftertaste?
goryczka...
hops...
but oysters
and female genitals are the closest
i've ever come to a zenith...
not in a phobic: disgust comparison...
i have an example
of myself eating an actual flower...
so...
honest to god,
where
(
began, is where it should have ended.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
and i walk with a desert
in my brain,
i walk, encapsulating
scorpion,
and the sidewinder snare...
and i walk with a desert
in my brain...
drunk, labouring,
above the governing concrete...
i've brewed some wine,
and i'll drink it...
there i am:
figurative humanity
where subjectivity equals ∞,
and objectivity is an oscillation
between - & ~,
the numbers don't really matter,
they don't Downton Abbey inspire me
either: to butter some lord's crumpet...
oddly enough...
it's seeing these gnats
worth of people drop dead in a battlefield
that gets me...
runny mascaras of no-man's land
at Ypres...
they just drop dead, dead...
it might make abortion clinics readied for
fundamental rights in celebrating Sunday...
i don't get it,
and each day i am woken into this nightmare....
this celebration of all things possible...
of a humanity...
oh but char...
semblance to a cynicism...
it never made any sense to watch, and cultivate
it...
forever the jammy doughnut,
and the life i wish i could have received,
smitten with cool... cradling the wooly jumper...
why are these people so *******
alien? so much
the cure's killing an arab with camus' the outsider?
iron maiden did a better egyptian jive...
to that smitten cowadrice of the the bangles
pepper-shaker dance of a numbed egyptian.
pyramid ******* cruise-ship of female escapism.
yeah baby, it's war!
scuttling with the jive of powerslave:
abandon ship! abandon ship!
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC