"dongs" poems
My name is Young Slug
and I write hip hop songs.
The lyrics sound as clear
as a lady slurping dongs.
Martin Luther King once told me
that my mother was a ****
So I whipped out a baseball bat,
and ****** him in the ****
I think he liked it too much,
cause he was moaning "colonel sanders,
stick it in my *** and make me dry like the flanders."
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
“lets split this diner and have a beer”
four coffees in an hour made the world
too awake for him
we walked to the Pink Mule,
the first bar we saw
he knew all of the bars--all bars knew him
the bartender was Abraham
but looked like a Bob
he had a bourbon poured before
Charles made it to the stool
and looked at me like I was a fool
“a light beer”
Bukowski didn’t bother to laugh
though I am sure the word ***
was rolling around in his head
looking for a place to get out
he kept on about Selma,
sweet succulent Selma
how anybody that hot
could rule the world
dragging men around by their dongs
without lifting a finger
that is why the gods made wine, he said
not for some sacrament for the holy humbled
but for men hunched over like balless beggars,
he said, when Abraham Bob
filled his jigger a second, or fourth time
men made that way by all the Selmas
whose middle name had to be vexation
a whiff of her could get you to take
a **** job, where you spent the day
hunched over, hoping, she would be there
when you got home
even if she was, you wouldn’t remember
in the morning, when you would go back
to the grinless grind, hunched over, hoping
Selma would be your wine
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
The Ding Dongs at the T.S.A.
decided as of yesterday
frosted Cupcakes aren't allowed on Board
flights domestic or abroad.
They employ the dumbest of the dumb
To harass us as we go and come.
Miss Liberty must be dismayed
to be prodded, strip searched and X-ray'd.
Thus the Empire extends its claws
through privacy invading laws
They won't repeat Marie's mistake
encouraging people to eat cake.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
I woke to a morning that called out in crystals,where mistletoe ice wands would grant me three wishes and wise men were wrapped up in kaftans and turbans.
The clock stuck at five,so the **** came alive and told time from cracked egg shells and church bells were snowed in,no dings and no dongs,the rights and the wrongs of it seem to fit in quite nicely,when at six the wind whips through the streets where I walk,it's like treading in chalk leaving footprints to read,with my toes feeling the way,so glad I wore two pairs of socks and my wellingtons today.
Then at eight there's hot chocolate and a muffin with jam and the work day begins.
No djinns and no genie,just the boss who's a skinflint and a tightfisted meanie
but it all ends at four when home seems to beckon,
I reckon I'll go and make more prints in the snow and maybe call in to see Andy for a pipe and a brandy,then off to feed Joe,(he's my cat dontya know) and then bed with my nightcap,take the bolt off the catflap and dive into a book I was saving for the time before I nap.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
In the set square sat a round
racket of positivity, molecules
cherished in cherry smiles
chimed 18 x 9am daily dongs
a song known through sound and
vision secrets saved in silent cheeks
mothed up in ***** of tremulous tongues
tough eccentrics bull dozing blindly
baked on 1000 degress, ovened out
softened in soap suds, sponged
free, out of site of the black dog who never
wags his tail, hung dog look gallops
through the aisles, hopping hopscotch, set
squares sitting with round racket ruminators
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
I found her sprawled on the stairs
with no shoes,
plum-coloured bruise
on the back of her leg,
I ask, how did she fall?
Hand slumped over a step,
a young girl climbs to sleep,
now still on these stairs,
all dreams wrapped in black,
bumped her milky-haired head,
but how did she fall?
I heard no commotion,
no 'ouch', no 'damn!',
no cry cutting the air to my ears,
I only opened the door
and saw you on the stairs
and I can only wonder
how did she fall?
Was her mind swimming in drink?
Eyes droopy and weak?
Unable to reach
her soft pillow in bed?
Now as the clock dongs
throughout our house
I still think
how did she fall?
I say aloud her name
but no breath, no movement at all,
she remains sprawled
near the top of the stairs,
close, not close enough
and I look at her there
unconscious, mind strolled off elsewhere
and I continue to ponder,
how did she fall?
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
*all monkeys
of all nations!
stop your chatter
and listen to me mutter
my ancient tail*
1
in earlier days
**** Kong
went to Hong Kong
to look for kang kong
and there she met
King Kong
the first second
they saw each other
their hearts went
**** ****
the second second:
**** ****
in short they fell in love
with each other’s Zong Zongs
and night and day it was all Sing Song
and the earth trembled
with their rumble of love
and construction workers thought
the piling was done
and straight away
***** skyscrapers appeared
and so incidentally was born
modern-day Hong Kong
2
within three months
**** Kong felt
in her womb
a Trong Trong
and an incessant noise:
Pong! Pong!
Pong! Pong!
and on the tenth month
by the lunar calendar
out came Pink Kong -
and so consequently was born
the game of ping pong
and so ends my story of beginnings
and now that
my tail is curled
you can all go home
you ding dongs!
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
My dad cried when he saw the Statue of David in the seventies.
He hung huge cheap prints in his foyer years later. I thought it was weird.
I’d always stare up at David’s penises - these Greek dongs poking me in my eyes.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
I just want to sleep, I am tired of dreaming. Woken up by a locked jaw and sweaty palms. Remorse for the night dongs in my ears like the Chinese New Year. Restless perceptions and harmless dimensions take their toll on my cerebellum. The impossible became tangible, I hate to start off the day off emotional.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
boo hoo fatty, your love life is poor
what did you glut all those ding dongs for
you cant find a man who will stay anymore
look at that thin girl with the super fine ***
while you gorge on the sugar water glass after glass
slothing through life as a blubbering mass
yes, its your ******* fault
your over eating wont hault
so digest my insults with a bucket of salt
put down the diet pill
roll up on to a treadmill
and stop scarfing more than your fill
its just not attractive
when your jaws are over active
from a "10" your shamu suit is detractive
lets be realistic
cow ******* is sadistic
a hundred pounds or so should do the trick
its the gross parts
like the arm pit farts
and the stretch marks laid out like fault line charts
back in the day
before it was cool to be gay
to the fat chicks we said no way
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Is it wrong to want to write hit songs
smoke from bongs while wearing thongs
move the throngs into song
about long dongs and walking along beaches…
what is the problem with tripping with dips
and nipping buds while ripping joints
flipping skirts and dripping squirters
primping limp ***** in front of debutants…
it has to be alright to fight the right wing blighters
near sighted and mighty with Jesus
high on tea leaves and asking why can’t **** victims
just have the baby at night
tis their plight….
Aghast, I blast past raspy voiced smokers
Flashing my press pass at the ****** masses
I lash lasses with pizazz on the bleachers
preaching all the time about reaching for Zion
screeching teachers speechify
addressing lecherous miser’s
bent by societies plyers ….
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
when skin and bones she was beautiful
at grubbing ding dongs she was dutiful
now cellulite she has a ***** full
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
I AM!
by Michael R. Burch
I am not one of ten billion—I—
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I.
I am not one life has left unsquashed—
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not one life has left unsquashed.
I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please!"
I am not one without spots of disease.
I am not one of ten billion—I—
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!
Keywords/Tags: I, AM, ego, individual, individuality, character, Icarus, Daedalus, Ulysses, fly, gadfly, chary, wary, quizzical, questioning, panache, sedulous, heretical
jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
“little ones to him belong”
but if they use their dongs, so long!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
yes, jesus fleeces!
yes, he deceases
the bunny and the rhesus
because he’s mad at you!
jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my **** or brain,
that will drive the “lord” insane!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first fools tell me “look above,”
that christ’s the lamb and god’s the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 10:13 PM UTC
There was a Young Lady who tweezed
The hair from her nose as she sneezed;
She then plucked her eyebrows from lowbrows to highbrows,
That plucky Young Lady who tweezed.
There was an Old Person of Cairo,
Whose conquests were carved into hiero-
glyphics on stones where a pharaoh's wrapped bones
Are preserved in a chamber in Cairo.
There was an Old Man of Kampala,
Who prayed in the morning to Allah,
And in the bright light of the day, and at night,
That observant Old Man of Kampala.
There was an Old Man of Burundi,
Who prayed to the Salvator Mundi
Who met him upstairs and who answered his prayers
And who sainted that Man of Burundi.
There was a Young Person of Turkey,
Whose motives were muddy and murky;
He lived in the dark in the shade of a park,
That shadowy Person of Turkey.
There was an Old Man of Manilla,
Whose favoritest bean was vanilla;
He added the bean to all his cuisine,
That gastric Old Man of Manilla.
There was an Old Man of Beijing,
Who'd study all day the I Ching;
He balanced his qi with white rice and green tea,
That mystical Man of Beijing.
There was an Old Lady of Donegal,
A sister named Mary McGonegal;
She ruled with a ruler every pre-to-high-schooler,
That punishing Lady of Donegal.
There was a New Baby, whose nose
Was loving the smell of a rose
When it noticed the riper brown smell of a diaper,
Which offended that New Baby's nose.
There was an Old Man of Hong Kong,
Whose nose had a luminous ****
It lighted his way by night and by day,
That lucky Old Man of Hong Kong.
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 10:39 PM UTC
**** me... what a long title...
anways...
i'm sitting on my windowsill, thinking: **** knows what...
then it starts raining...
i mean, its the springtime piss-down moment...
akin to an operatic crescendo!
i swear the nights were warmer in april...
anyway... i'm downing my third bottle of czech beer...
outstreching my hand to catch the raindrops...
looking at the sky, saying: bruised, like the colour
of plums... and i'm catching these raindrops
with my outstretched hand...
reminding myself regarding what i said...
ah... yes... sunny...
that's what english humour does to you,
you become satirical... or just plain obnoxious...
ridicule prone... yeah....
"sunny";
what a load of dangling ******** to muster,
akin to the bells of st. paul's, dangling with their
ding-dongs like uvulas in the ****** throat of man...
where's the choir of tonsils?
and third parties, regarding the said "utensil"?
it's ******* down, equivalent to an indian monsoon...
and all i can come up with it: oh look... it's "sunny".
ugh;
the english are certainly stoics...
with such miserable weather, in spring,
who can blame them, not being pessimists.
how else do "write" it?
oh, **** me, imagine existential books
written by the french, "borrowing" the spanish:
inverted question mark:
¿ego?
no, seriously, how to they speel.... spell it?
cheque? checkmate? just checking?
right, inverted commas... you need two?
so it's not a case of ditto?
chequers?
qua sirs?
checkers?
it's still a mystery to me...
it's ******* down, and it's late spring... and all i have
is the very english "optimism" of a one word answer:
sunny!
yep... that's how it goes around here...
it's raining... but all you end up saying:
oh look! it's sunny!
god, this is becoming really abysmal;
i'm starting to think that, slitting your own throat...
isn't really that much of a bad option... it's the only option.
then again, the heat oozing from a place like texas
or, nevada... i'd be mad enough to cut my testicles
off, and start bashing my head with them, from the heat.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:44 PM UTC
The reverberations of
Sergeant Sargent’s rat-a-tat
ring in my head.
Listen up, ding dongs!
Any jibber-jabber is a no-no!
This ain’t no ticky-tacky, artsy-fartsy,
wishy-washy wingding!
You ragtag riffraff are gettin’ tip-top!
So cut the flimflam, quit the chit-chat,
and gimme super-duper!
No namby-pamby hanky-panky,
and everything will be hunky-dory.
Now chop-chop!
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 5:11 PM UTC
meteorite radiates z o o o m m i n g
crashes onto
Three Anchor Bay turquoise
sky dust onto beach white grains
winds sweep cobbled paths profane
a fetus acquires solitary soul lost
womb enlarges posting veins
shine baby blessed shine divine
observation work is thine
platinum pressure paintbrushes
dove hands devilish articulate
Scythian lifetimes past remembered
fast forward ferrolic clocks spun in head
read write and arithmetic dread
chemical interactions drool squiggles
bathe chuckle study laboratory sniggles
grow compete win defeat cry cameos dead
songs atmospheric to be sung, give up dread
pick Robertson berries drink rare ruby wine
justice jugulars delicately combine
smashing glass, meteorite sits silent under
eyelids pink presence fine
explores inner Canaan cobweb caves galore
climbing pineal heights to evolutionary delight
seer sight ~ peel, poetic heal a temporary deal
before lissom living long there will be no chemical chasing ding-dongs to skip
or stormy interactions to dip acid slips
merely alkaline planetary victories to blip
moonlit meteorite slowly surely suavely
becomes mythic master meteorologist merry
odd spacial morbidities burnt and buried
she solitary eats mashed mussels musing …
crack crack hush hush
zero rush
her dust floats across the Bay’s
now cobalt midnight waters smoothly
ocean floor seaweed entangles slave ship sunk
circular rhodium ring twines coral reefs sung
Trans
muta
tion
unDers
T o o d
a coelacanth s w i m s a w a y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright:GhairoDanielsPoetry&song 2025
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 4:16 AM UTC