"muffin" poems
Jack and Jill ran up the hill,
To perv on miss muffin
Getting her fill,
She was getting it hard boiled
From Humpy Dumpty,
Who fell of the wall,
Yolk sprayed up her back,
Her screaming she wanted more.
Mary, Mary,
Quite Contrary...
How did you make it grow,
You played with the bells,
And my cockle shells and it did grow,
Mary, Mary,
Quite Contrary
Not much words to show,
A mouth your good at what you do,
Mary my sweet little bike I like to ride so.
Old Mother Hubbard
Liked it up the back cupboard,
From the younger gents
She knows,
She liked to **** meat till the marrow
Did flow swallowed the lot in one go,
Now empty is the bone.
Who thought a lady in years,
Had all this energy on the go...
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Superhuman in this skin
Red-lipped smile sweetly
(but beware teeth beneath)
I'm Sweet Siren Song
And I won't be long left
within this mediocre maniverse
Pretty porn-portrait perfect
(But there's no staples lacerating this muffin top)
Withstand this cosmetic culture curse
Bedspread silky sodden sheets
Writhing within nightmare glare
silicon butterfly spiked beauty ages anyway
Go away,
I'm finished.
I MEAN IT!
Fucknuts
(I guess Fucknuts isn't an advertiseable commodity. What's with the cheap advertising links in my poetry!)
bedspread.
****
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.
Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
blueberry canyon
to have its fill
Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.
In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.
Nom nom nom.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
How I describe myself.
Back fat.
Muffin top.
Flabby arms.
Thunder thighs.
Double chin.
Ugly.
Four rolls.
Worthless.
Jelly belly.
Gross.
FAT.
How others describe me.
Funny.
Outgoing.
Warm.
Comforting.
FUN.
The list isn't nearly as long, now is it?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Suicidal serial killer bashes the bones hoping to feel nothing
because that would be something
A Swelling self-image pops in the distance
is chewed,
then inflated over and over
this routine never fails to cycle, disappoint, and please
Ethanol injections cuz oral doesn't do ****
give it to me ********
***** I'll munch your muffin just fo nuthin like I'm ****** with y'all
Cuz I surf to fall and smoke to die
In the high where life is inconsequential
to question and I feel less than short
Of supernatural
Who are these new kids?
They dress in tights and pick fights
I can't see your face but I trust the feeling
Damsel's are rescued
blood is spewed
Yet insanity is gushing
The drugs are running out
We might just be super
We might just be heroes
Entropy enters me ripping the glamour and with a stammer I know
This isn't a comic book
Marvel
In awe at these elaborately induced fabrications
and schemes to change the pecking order or chisel
the universe to perfection
The line of schizophrenic and degenerate flees
for the hills
that now have eyes
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
This is how to eat a muffin
Flip it upside down, unwrap the wrappings
Nobody starts at the top in this town
Sip a skinny vanilla latte
Text your ex, start wondering
He'll try you later, of course he's busy.
What were you thinking?
In what world could this have worked?
Your existence is physical, is there any purpose you serve?
An actress, a dentist, a model, a florist, a teacher, a songstress
I hate to list projects unfinished
This is how to eat a muffin
You take one bite
and leave the rest as a metaphor
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
and i guess
i'm never
going to be liked,
because being a muffin
isn't attractive.
and like others
i'd rather be a cupcake.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
some greedy little bitter man has put together a picture-perfect person and out of pure laziness and malignant attempts at control he pays off a psychopath to make it happen but we’re just a little body, flesh and bones come between them and their paychecks so why not make it easier? they made a factory out of our garden and nothing grows in factories it’s manufactured, easy as one two three four five six, we’re all sitting on an assembly line waiting for some alcoholic man to shout at some pimply-faced twenty-something “FASTER! FASTER!” so it begins! press of a button, we’re created, step one: your parents were given the baby books, kids! infants, they’re all the same anyways. they’re not individuals yet, they haven’t been encoded so relax, parents. want them turn out like you? sure, do what your parents did, worked out well, eh? been occupying this factory your whole life, then? well anyways, step two: they spend less time with you because you’ve been in this world for three years so it’s time you get out on your own…. step three: they gotta YELL and scream and children aren’t supposed to touch things or say things or scrape their knees because that’s more work for the adults, and they work all day, just like they were programmed for, good little machines 'cause they forgot what it’s like to be a baby or an animal or a plant or a God but also the resentment, a child wants to live but how ridiculous? there’s no life in industry… all about the money baby step four: you buy your education because it builds your character because money says power but when did meaningless power equal respect? I don't know but they force you into reading the same old instruction pamphlets left in the break room at the plant for the past century or so and five: your turn to work for fourty years in this polluted place because it’s hard to break free from twenty-three years of moulding into a cookie cutter you never did fit, that’s why it hurts so much when they try to push you through, your muffin-top is sliced right off and you’re contorted to fit the view of perfect sugary sweetness but just to make sure you're ready they coat you with vanilla icing to cover up your imperfections, perfect, now step six, and this one is the doozy, and because you’re **** broke: go back to mom and dad’s and grab those baby books and again and again and again the cycle repeats and repeats and repeats….
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
your body, the drain plug,
that climactic days of a day
murky sweet strawberry milk water
ebbs and sways
around, surrounds, and surmounts you
Your body the dumping ground
for pretty poppy seeds
seep, steep
seeded somewhere deep
as
synthetic stinging metaphor rain
pours on your mistreated singing skin
spotted, dotted, synaptic rule
akin to lemon poppy seed muffin tops
your head- a top
spins round
and mimics
never-ending bath drain whirlpool
ambulances and ambivalences soundtrack
this nocturne
night of a morning
mourning already
my poor lost sister
a little less than intact
lost in her head
I'm loosing her
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she nods
and grumbles,
fumbles for words that aren't there
four words that aren't there
forward isn't there
because what do you say
about matters
when your high
and breathing last breaths overlapping
in humble showers
in heart crumbling nakedness
your faithlessness trapping
murky sweet strawberry milk waters.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
she waits for the bus
feels the fat pooling around the top of her jeans
like drunken donuts
the white milk licking the sweat
off the insides of her thighs
her muffin top
round cheeks
stare back at her in the passing car's windows
reflecting her embarrassment
she stares down at the ground
thinks she'd rather starve than be fat
tears pressing at the corners of her eyes
the bus comes
her stomach growls
she gets on the bus
decides to order a pizza when she gets home
tells herself
she's had a hard day
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
There was an Old Man of Calcutta,
Who perpetually ate bread and butter,
Till a great bit of muffin,
On which he was stuffing,
Choked that horrid Old Man of Calcutta.
4.1k
Consume speed,
rid auxiliary weight—
no love handles,
no fat from rearview—
just frame,
pumping heart,
place where man can sit.
Muffin-top women watch me
quiver under skin,
unshakable desire
to chew fat from their bodies—
never know if I’d
swallow or spit.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
The natural you and what about him
The Zen gold egg climber Prince
Got his "Godly" rinse of the hen
We always knew their way upon
our thinking "Jumping Jack Flash"
But to be the change the day single
let's be feasible naturally, we mingle
The Holy water medieval drinking
By the night call, something is moving
Like a creature not in human form
We need to meet our expectations
More spoken revelations and terms
Naturally, we were born to be told
we have the fire to move any force
Even when our bones are getting old
That powerful love but someone is
watching us above
With higher hopes will make
it through lovesick she coughs
The Passageway like a click of her heels
Feeling the beauty but climbing high
Naturally being cool with her sigh
Or the carriage day vintage wine
Her lucky wheel
World’s are invitation the engagement,
The sweet words or the terms of endearment
Be the Higher lover up in the Prince bow to her
A need to get higher inside the
Castle what a love hustle like a stampede
The rampage turning the ancient pages
Rock and roll ages or the Gothic pale
Victorian beauty her name Judy
Sir page the Grand Marnier
or change of pace human race
The drink Moet
High Mighty King singing
Her heart shape ring beating
Fresh-cut or worn out smoke put out
Brighten her pleasure the rose repose
To be born not a piece of paper torn
Like a Queen reborn
For love how its spoken not just
City Girl with her token for-God-sake
can you look through her
wing turned up she is curled up
in her new threads of sheets
eyes please she is not ready
to hear goodbyes to your beat
What do you read is she naturally
beautiful than or now
Her naturally glow lights up
The Shakespearian castle
Two nature healers, not the
same as card dealers
Butterflies the fireflies
Her love shape naturally
that's no lie
It comes naturally to be loved __
More like homed bakes muffin ___
Google the nature of things spoken but
they may not come
Please don't wait too long
Perhaps there is always someone
to copy your song
Be the climber love for who she is
Her vegetables her sensuality is quite
organically raw
She loves her side dish coleslaw
How nature made us in the womb
Naturally spoken things like her sub combo
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
you
yes you,
look up.
just for a moment.
notice me,
hold my stare.
every morning
you're there
same cup of orange juice
same newspaper
same half eaten muffin
i'm here every morning too
i have my usual drink
my usual dog earred book
my bagel
why haven't you
noticed me
like i
always
seem
to notice
you.
come on sugar
look up for just a second
and see the rest of your life
quietly reading in the corner.
come on baby
come on
look up.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 9:38 AM UTC
Muffin milks the tiny teet
of a tête-à-tête torn
apart by warring factions.
slowly spitting the purple plum
dribbling, oozing
over the convex lips
which kissed and kissed.
Cream juices the cocky caucuses
of cordial cacophony.
Moist middlers meddle amidst
businesses of their own interest.
Power is power better bear than
bottom but everyone is ******
Lap the ego from the firehose,
the giant member of the state
spraying like a cat claiming "mine!"
Hellbound, hell no he'll save us
everything is going to ****
One man job to make us come
out of the 17th hole sand pit
of our pernicious premier club membership.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
Two old Bachelors were living in one house;
One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse.
Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,--
'This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house,
'Save a tiny slice of lemon nd a teaspoonful of honey,
'And what to do for dinner--since we haven't any money?
'And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner,
'But to loose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?'
Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,--
'We might cook this little Mouse, if we had only some Stuffin'!
'If we had but Sage andOnion we could do extremely well,
'But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell'--
Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town
And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down;
They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found
In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round.
But some one said,--'A hill there is, a little to the north,
'And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;--
'And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,--
'An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page.
'Climb up, and seize him by the toes!--all studious as he sits,--
'And pull him down,--and chop him into endless little bits!
'Then mix him with your Onion, (cut up likewise into Scraps,)--
'When your Stuffin' will be ready--and very good: perhaps.'
Those two old Bachelors without loss of time
The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb;
And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook,
They saw that Sage, a reading of a most enormous book.
'You earnest Sage!' aloud they cried, 'your book you've read enough in!--
'We wish to chop you into bits to mix you into Stuffin'!'--
But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book,
At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;--
and over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,--
At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town,--
And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin',)
The Mouse had fled;--and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin.
They left their home in silence by the once convivial door.
And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
3k
Swollen eyes
Tear stained cheeks
A dusty mirror
And a beating heart
Pinching my thighs and muffin top
Fat
Ugly
Unlovable
These words haunting me
Wishing
Wishing to unzip this skin
And emerge as thin
Beautiful
Lovable
My head feels dizzy
Hearts starts to race
Warm tears streaming down my face
Smash
The mirror is in pieces
Hands are bleeding
Heart still beating
A reflection
That cannot be fixed
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
It's snowing outside.
Lots of snow.
Theres also a potato in a bowl.
I keep thinking that potato is a muffin.
I keep wishing it was a muffin,
but it's just a potato.
The thing is that
potatoes are good, but muffins are better.
There's nothing much better than a good muffin
It's like trying to enjoy a slide
after you've been on a roller coaster.
I hate when things get dull
like pencils.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
My boyfriend does not say he loves me.
“I love you” is reserved for family members only,
and even then, sometimes, it’s a boldfaced lie.
My father “loved” my mother,
he cheated on her, drank away her money
and,
he abandoned me.
Another victim of his so called love.
I don’t even know what “love” means.
Somehow there is a supposed difference
between
Love
and
in love.
I don’t see it.
I love you, should mean
I love you.
Period.
But it doesn’t, does it?
We can’t even rightfully define the word love,
so how can it mean something?
No, my boyfriend doesn’t say
I love you
instead he swears he adores me.
Adores.
Me.
Now that word has meaning,
it isn’t common.
It’s unique to us.
It means he respects me,
he likes my quirky smile.
The way I walk, talk, and sing.
He likes the way I fight
the way I dance
the way I like to read in the dark.
My boyfriend also doesn’t call me
honey, sweetie pie, cupcake or worst of all,
love muffin.
I am not a pie, cupcake, muffin or honey…
although I do like all of those things….
a lot.
He calls me by my name,
and there’s something special about that too.
My name, the thing that is constant.
All of my accomplishments are wrapped up in that one word.
I own it.
Tying my shoes for the first time,
riding a bike,
driving,
graduating,
acing that test I studied all night for.
It’s all there
in my name.
Honey, sweetie pie, cupcake and worst of all love muffin
don’t hold any meaning.
It’s what a guy calls a cute girl.
great.
That’s so original.
My name carries all of my accomplishments,
and my failures.
The first time I fell off my bike,
and my best friend had to walk me home.
The first time I got into a car accident,
and the airbag bruised my face.
The time, my ex boyfriend said he loved me,
only to cheat on me and have his mother call.
“Hey sweetie, I’m sorry I just don’t think you guys are in love
and as you know he’s already moving on.”
I guess even though I “loved” him,
I lost him.
So no,
my boyfriend does not say he “loves” me.
And the next time a boy-
because he will be a boy
calls after you
“Hey sweetie pie”
“Hey Honey”
“Hey cupcake”
or worst of all
“Hey love muffin”
Tell him you don’t have time to talk,
you’re looking for the man,
who will adore you,
and learn your name
in all its glory.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Each has meaning to one or all of us
personally
all i learned of these
i read as i grew
these fun loving rhymes
have some meaning or other
so i put these up
to bring out the childish side!!
:) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3 :) <3
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When the nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the traveller in the dark.
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
How I wonder what you are.
Jack be Nimble
Jack be Nimble
Jack, be nimble,
Jack, be quick,
Jack, jump over
The candlestick. Jack jumped high
Jack jumped low
Jack jumped over
and burned his toe.
Do You Know The Muffin Man
Do you know the Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man?
Do you know the Muffin Man
Who lives in Drury Lane?
Yes, I know the Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man,
The Muffin Man.
Yes, I know the Muffin Man
Who lives in Drury Lane.
Humpty Dumpty
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
Hush Little Baby
Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Mama's going to buy you
a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Mama's going to buy you
a diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's going to buy you
a looking glass.
And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama's going to buy you a billy goat.
And if that billy goat won't pull,
Mama's going to buy you
a cart and bull.
And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mama's going to buy you
a dog named Rover.
And if that dog named Rover
won't bark,
Mama's going to buy you
a horse and cart.
And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest
little baby in town.
Little Miss Muffet
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Do you know the muffin man?,
Its not a nursery rhyme,
He haunts kids dreams with horrid scenes,
The scream from time to time.
His apron smelled of cinnamon,
His finger nails were clean,
He brought the nicest cookies home,
Mommys face would gleam.
He came to school two days a wek,
And gave out yummy pasties,
He chose kids very carefully,
Rejection made him nasty.
She found it out the hard way,
When she pulled away from him,
He told them she was telling lies,
He tore her from within.
Her mommy looked so horrified,"How could you?",
She would say,
"Poor daddy brings such good things home,
You will be sent away".
Society believed this man,
And Cherry went away,
Asylum life was home for her,
For 10 years and 4 days.
So many children broke their silence,
And accusations heightened,
They spoke of muffins molestations,
Mommy became frightened.
They came in droves to talk to Cherry,
From shrinks to talk show hosts,
They helped her open up,
And talk about those childhood ghosts.
Now, muffin man has ***** hands,
And spends his life in prison,
But left behind are countless kids,
Cause mommy wouldn't listen ...
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 7:33 AM UTC