"piddle" poems
Some say it should go burn in hell
That the money leaves a really bad smell
But hit and giggle
Or **** and piddle
It's here to stay the IPL.
From countries far and wide
Come players with heaps of pride
But if they fail
You'll hear them wail
For there is not anywhere to hide
The cheques books come out
The auctioneers will shout
Some Players get bought
Some others get naught
The IPL now has such clout
The turn-styles are all in clamour
The Batsmen are using the hammer
They go for the big six
Bowlers try their new tricks
So cricket is married to glamour
Should cricket become this glam
When the ball is met with a blam
hit way in the air
didn't see you there
Sorry about that Maam!
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:52 PM UTC
Drip
Drop
D
O
W
N
On the other side|I look out and frown
of a car window. |theres a helpless
|pout on my face
Piddle, paddle P O P!
Kids fiddle in the back seat
When will this murky day stop?
Never I assume, so I sat back and listened to the musics beat.
The world is surrounded by a cloud
Diamond rain droplets fall politely
While making noise ever so loud
If this storm would just move over slightly.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
Oh my lover, where have you gone?
I’ve been searching far and wide from dusk until dawn
Oh my lover, where have you gone?
You hold the key to my heart
Around your neck the string that it is on
If you don’t love me then just give me the key
Let me unlock my heart
Let it be free
Oh my lover where have you gone?
Yesterday you were here,
we made love on the lawn
It seems tonight you have finally disappeared
What replaced you is everything I have feared
Lonely, heartbroken sadness as taken your place
Guilt and burdens replace the smile on your face
But, oh my lover where have you gone?
My heart is weak so the line I have drawn
Bring me back my key I need to unlock it
Fill it with new light like a plug in a socket
If I don’t get it back my heart will surely break
Reminds me of arguments
All you do is take, take, take
Oh my lover where have you gone?
You must be far away, eons and eons
My heart is torn now right down the middle
On minor details I’d rather not piddle
Oh my lover where have you gone?
Alas off to find another man
None of the brains all of the brawn
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
i am only an egg
i am only a rug
i am only a bud
turning into a flower
i really like figs
simplicity is magic
word is bond
NOWORDNOBONDROWON
this is to you, September Eleventh
and you, Reverend Donald Green...
Listen to this Lady
She's talking Jabaca
right now. right in there
is an envelope i made.
i am only an egg
i make mistakes
I miss steak, my mistake
I am not a vegetarian because I love animals
I am a vegetarian
Because I hate plants
Will you please piddle-paddle away? Or at least turn off looking up to my Jhorts?
never go full dumb with Marissa Golden
never ok to be
kicking dogs in the face.
Are you ok?
MMFWCL? woop woop?
we are all so powerful, Ladies!
We are also powerfully ****** Ladybird!
---are you my mother?
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 5:46 PM UTC
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Tossing the pigskin
Burrowing and displaying the Ostrich effect
All applause for the chairman of the board of trustees
And all the spiddle on his back up shirt
Mortify them
An incomplete pass
Rally the troops
For unfinished business
Shift gears
Reread the post script
"P.S. The unzipped flies of store owners trying to replicate the success of their fathers. Piddle about, play with implements of torture, instruments of destruction. Wander in the wilderness, grunt and sigh as your civilized brain rattles. Make way for Plan B, and fill out the forms in triplicate. Fumbling at the controls, emergency landing. The gear shift and crankshaft have given out. Listen to the titillating chatter of the disappointed passengers who all longed for the window seat.
Always your's
Edmund Balthazar "
Take two
I could slap you
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.
Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.
They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.
How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.
God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.
Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.
I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.
We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
I dug a little and I cried a little
On a hillside that was steep,
So my mama could sleep.
Each dig I dig it‘ll
**** me, gotta dig a grave six feet deep,
I dug a little and I cried a little
The birds I hear them tweet,
I don’t want to see her go so I piddle,
I want my momma to sleep.
Someday on this hill we’ll meet
The dirt is hard and rock riddled,
I dug a little and I cried a little
I’m the only one to do this deed,
The worms will have their nibble,
but my mama will sleep
I’ve finished my job and I’ll have to venture,
I’ve dug so long the ground is sleet.
I dug a little and I cried a little
So my mama could sleep.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
You call it a violin or a fiddle
Depending on how you play it
The same way life is a riddle
Depending on how you say it
Life can get raw in the middle
Depending on how you filet it
You can dawdle and piddle
Or be somewhat fallacious
But your time could run out
Running a frivolous route
And you can't look back and wish to have more
When you don't know what to be wishing for
There's a vexing question
That needs inspection
It's an intervention
Of introspection
It's a question colossal
Not learned by the fossils
That could cause a heart attack
If there is courage you lack
The question is simple
What will you do when there are no answers?
I feel like a *******
In a room full of dancers
Because they hear the question and ignore it
I hear the question and continually mourn it
I am growing clockwise
To the clock's lies
Telling me I have time
Which should be a crime
So when the judge asks me the question
I plead the fifth
Because my actions upon further reflection
Are crimes I admit
The world
I've searched this
And found
No purpose
Only change
To rearrange
The elements
Of this settlement
Like the flames
In my brain
That are never quite the same
Yet are always a runaway train
I could say God's name in vain
Or look for someone to blame
But when my humanistic duty beckoned
I said I couldn't be bothered that second
Yet now I frantically fret
For I'm filled with regret
I should've seen that coming
When I was mind numbing
But I'll learn it was too late
When I'm dying
I'll learn that this is the fate
I was buying
All just because of a simple question
It takes a lifetime to learn the lesson
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
Sometimes I stare at the stars
Just a light to my world that remains ajar
And I sit outside staring from afar
I have dreams of writing, talking, and spreading love
These choices have been given from someone above
Addiction and sadness have caused such a mess
And yet through it all, I feel blessed
I have so much and give so little
The lives that I've broken were very brittle
But facts of my past I'd rather not piddle
I'm stuck in the middle
The stars
Oh the stars
They make you forget everything.
Whether they are big and bright like texas.
Or they resemble the lights on that brand new Lexus.
Comfort is all they bring
You can't be sad looking at stars
They're like a door to happiness left ajar
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 6:37 AM UTC
I know of an alehouse on Skye
Whose toilets stink worse than a sty;
Where drunken old fools
With purple-veined tools
In pools of warm piddle-froth lie.
There was once a barmaid called Sue
Who went in to clean up the loo
The stench was so great
She met a dire fate
When she fainted and drowned in stale poo.
Old Sally had six pints of cider,
When she turned to the man slumped beside her
Who'd groped with his hand;
So she belched twice and
Pumped out the puke from inside her.
I ordered some cheese and a port
To try and banish the thought
Of people's reactions
To Sally's contractions;
Most betting was that she'd abort.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
this point of call
has many a name
which one do you
put in the frame
in my region we
call it the *********
or to be more polite
the little house
some folks call it the public loo
which oddly rhymes with poo
Americans have given
it a male gender
the John is the term
that they render
in Ye Olde England
they've named it the lavatory
their chosen word
tells its story
***** and bog matter are expelled
from the bowel or the bladder
those making a stop over at the toilet
do feel much relieved and much gladder
twas drawn to my attention
this November Tuesday
that tomorrow twill be
International toilet day
as a cleaner of rest rooms
I've scrubbed plenty of porcelain
and on it I've found lots
of piddle and skid mark stains
whence next you're visiting
that place of poos and wees
give thanks to it for handling
your daily ablution sprees
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
If ever you find yourself
surrendering to the darkness,
look to me—
Listen.
I will never claim I can save you,
Lord knows I can't save myself,
but I know, for a second, our
eyes carry a comfort the dark
has no power to put down.
Listen.
There is nothing that can
divide the bloodline that streams
into our hearts when we touch
skin, when we grasp and
piddle at the wind, searching
for a safe breeze to cart us home.
Home.
Fields of lilies, dayflowers, marigolds,
things we thought were silly before.
Look at us now, prancing about
like the couples we made fun of
not so long ago—love was a virtue,
not tangible bliss. We can touch it.
It whispers of springtime.
If ever you find yourself
surrendering to the darkness,
look to me—
I will swear to whomever will
listen that I will never again
be that far behind you.
Dear.
There is always light; it is simply
a matter of opening one's eyes
and finding it.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
Soon this short Icharion flight
Is coming to an end
And on that day you'll mourn the rights
You chose not to defend
Passing on the plight of patriots
We piddle on their graves
Play sad songs and hold our hearts
While the blood spattered banner waves
But the cries of a billion tiny voices
As they cry themselves to sleep
Can't be heard above Lee Greenwood
As the tears streak down our cheeks
It's awfully sad to see such things
In such a sorry state
But ignorance is only bliss
Until it's your head on the stake
Our eyes attract to shiny things
Bright lights like fishing lures
Robbed at gunpoint before we're paid
We're either soldiers or we're ******
As these toxins trace my tiny veins
And seep through every cell
I can't help but taste distain
And think that this has to be Hell
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 8:32 PM UTC
Peeing's easy
When I traavel,
From five days to a week.
I can piddle,
While you fiddle,
Dancing down the street.
But things do change
When I roam
From five days to a week.
Suffice to say,
On those days,
My bowels work best
At home.
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 6:53 AM UTC
deep sigh escapes
large white face
ticking slow
less than three
and freedom –
she awaits
with bells on
diamonds in her shoes
anticipating
breath bated
ultimate goal
togetherness—
I pace
recheck time
tap pencils
on faux wooden desks
thumbs twiddle
minute hand dawdles
might piddle
considering swaddling –
her face forms
my mind’s eye retracing
soft curves
delicate features
astrologically charted
freckle pattern
sharp blue eyes
pierce
my heart leaps –
formulating excuses
call it an early day
dash homeward
sweet embrace –
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
Your little hands your little feet
your gummy smile
makes me complete
Your little giggles
your little wriggles
oh you are so sweet
Your little fingers
your little nails
you make me feel so proud
I love you my little little
even though you always piddle
another diaper me thinks
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:51 AM UTC
The spoon's side jumped
Between moon shaped glasses,
He jip jived dipped and dived
Forward more toward something resembling music.
A fresh song and dance.
New tunes through an ordinary water holder,
Nestled between plate and napkin.
The sound got his mate all jazzed up,
So he joined with his own swift swinging tune.
Who knew that dining things could own a beat?
They found a new way to show
They had a rhythm from their fingers to their toes.
It was them together.
Hearing things they thought they would never.
So they skedaddled downtown
Piddle paddling through the streets.
Clanking their feet into light poles until their soles were sore.
Smacking hands on drums where knees used to be.
They threw nonsensical sounds around that made sense together,
They flowed like a bird’s song to its dear old Mrs.
Common sounds with a unique meaning.
They were loud and crazy with a vision slightly hazy,
For they didn't see the sheriff approaching.
The sheriff caused a bigger scene then they ever were,
Yelling and wrestling with them.
He stopped their show saying, "There ain't none of those nonsense words on my street, especially not from your kind."
How kind they were,
They left without a question.
There was no need to fuss and rush
They were goin'.
They thought that with sounds like these
There was no use wasting them on empty streets
And park benches.
Back to the club they ran
Eager to hear their cheering fans they had left behind to show the streets their new found sound.
That stage is where it started
And stayed for a while.
On that stage their imaginations could run ramped on an empty canvas of ears.
But on their stage they had to stay.
Hidden.
For a little while,
You see the streets weren't ready to be shown these beats,
This wasn't Joe Schmos show put on every Thursday afternoon near the salad bar,
Quiet enough not to disturb the guests but just enough to give a nice background noise to their chewing,
Oh no, no, no.
This was jazz.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
My brain splatters as I try to make sense of this. It doesnt last long and shuts down. The dwindling thumb
A snoring girl
One annunciating talk show host
Advertisments for genuine authentic Italian cuisine
News stories that have no endings
Perpetual cycles of hell
She is snoring after a long day of being sick
The pain stretches to my wrist
"You feed your mind
You feed your body
You feed your soul
The balance beings peace
The balance brings joy
The balance brings growth."
My imaginary Grandmother whispers to me.
Cued laughter from the audience
These shows are like used car sales
There's a poet I know who has to piddle that **** to the public.
I don't think she minds too much but I hope it doesn't **** her writing.
The dead speak to us louder when the order of our day is in disarray.
People at work are depressed, the moral of the story lost and we're drifting.
Then the shock and the horror
This time of the year is already hard on everyone trying to fulfill imaginary expectations of what other people want. This is modern expressions of love.
The wish to provide a material manifestation of warmth, desire, and embrace.
Maybe a hug will do.
And the actions of consistency and peace.
An old friend
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Boys and girls
Clutch your peals
We’re living in
Divergent worlds
Look at the tweets
That he hurls
And the reactions
That they unfurl
Golly gee
How could this be
I wonder whether
It’s just me
Who has the vision
To look and see
We’re heading toward
Shear misery
Betcha by golly wow
It all is happening now
Yet it doesn’t raise an eyebrow
He must be a sacred cow
To whom we must kowtow
Or risk getting pow-pow
Unless we’re sure to bow
And swear not to disavow
Hey didle didle
Rome burned
While Nero fiddled
Are we just gonna twiddle
Our thumbs or solve the riddle
Let’s split it down the middle
This is not the time to piddle
Or take him off the griddle
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
you put your wagon wheel down, so you can piddle on your car
go off to the pub to buy a pina calada oh yeah
you see we party all night long
and we never lose our marbles
and when we drink water we fucken gargle
you see i am trying to fight off my desire to eat breakfast cereal at 9 at night
can’t be too good for you, but i ate peaches and nectarines so cool
you see i have a big yawn at the sight of stupid old timers
i like looking at you tube videos of my nannas new life, john robert rimel
you see i am partying at the pub and screaming as i say
we just sit here, all fucken day
saying, i will sit here sit ****** here
saying you are nothing but a big buffoon
you see up up and away in a big red balloon
trying to sing songs from the album of tim minchin
not perfect and fat children and some people have it worst than i
that man inspired me to live my life being a total cool dude
you see i am trying not to **** anyone off, but really it’s hard when others don’t share your opinion
i try to be respectful as i talk to them, but i like talking to them, and sometimes it’s good to laugh
i don’t mean much from that
i don’t want to fight at the mall with the big strong man
i prefer to be at home on the internet watching TV
really, i have to fight my eating urges i have by saying, STOP STOP STOP
I do believe in buddhism and the paranormal too
but i don’t want to cross both of them, because that can cause
like i sang fly burgers are good enough to eat
we go around saying hello to everyone we meet
the internet is cool as well as TV too
but i hate reality TV, it makes me wanna spew
up the world and love life with me
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 4:51 AM UTC
Always talks you down
no religion in his frown
He's bigger than you or me
loves to see you down on knee
He's backed you into a corner
He's isolated you as a loner
Accuses you of assualt
If you protest he balks
Always your fault he says
Turns your thoughts to maze
I've said too much
Between his thumb's touch
I said too little
Calls all attempts piddle
I thought I heard you laughing
Just him slashing
It must have been a dream
or so it seemed
The beginning was the end
The remains are prayers and amens
Just the distance in your eyes
Just the mask of your disguise
The no answers to all of my whys . . .
Now I've said enough
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 2:26 PM UTC
I play a one-stringed fiddle
To orchestrate my piddle.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
"Open door!" yells he,
"Outta way, need a wee!"
After piddle,
Timeless riddle,
"What's for tea?"
"Can't chat!' says she,
"Need a wee!"
So you and me,
Aging bladders for you,
"Where's the loo?"
Anywhere you go,
Wait, soon you'll know!
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 9:47 PM UTC