"pratt" poems
I'm an idiot, idi-fool,
Idiot, idiot, idi-tool,
Idiot, idi-lump,
Idiot, idi-chump,
Idiot, idiot, most uncool.
I'm an idiot, idi-goon,
Idiot, idiot, idi-loon,
Idiot, idi-berk,
Idiot, idi-jerk,
Idiot, idiot; a buffoon.
I'm an idiot, idi-plum,
Idiot, idiot, and so dumb,
Idiot, idi-pratt,
Idiot, getting fat,
Idiot, idiot, feeling glum.
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
Oi Modi you ****** yes Lalit,
Unpleasant to taste on my pallet.
Arrogant and so brash.
You make threats with your cash,
Your face should say 'Hi' to my mallet!
But Modi is right I must say.
The IPL in India should stay.
They cannot just give in
To all terrorist's whim.
Life has to go on, come what may.
Lalit K has a tongue and a brain,
Can he use both without causing such pain?
He works best under stress,
Well here is a fine mess,
Will he anger again, or refrain?
Tendulkar did something today.
Two hundred runs all in one day!
Majestic and cunning.
It simply was stunning.
No bowler could stand in his way.
How Sachin keeps on being humble,
Is enough to make braver men crumble,
If Modi learned that,
He'd be less of a pratt,
And my poetry jibes would then stumble.
These two things that happened together,
Were both better than English weather,
In the passing of time
One event will decline,
The other, remembered forever.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 11:05 PM UTC
I don’t believe in growing up
I’m still a schoolboy pratt
Whenever I see bra-straps
They just fidget to be snapped.
*
Sunburnt brit:
It’s the new colour
In the Dulux range this summer.
*
If dogs had people’s thumbs
And people had dogs’ tongues
Would they be texting messages
While we were sniffing bums?
*
The cutest thing is when confused
Mummy’s little soldier
Waves the skirt of truce.
*
I guess there was a last time
I sat on daddy’s head
And grabbed on tight to his greying hair
As he led me by the legs
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
The Tigers were sent in to bat,
Could England make the most of that?
Tamim was put down,
Sidebottom did frown,
Then he bowled much too short, the pratt.
One hundred did Tamim then make,
When needed, he applied the brake,
But the rest of his side,
Though I'm sure that they tried,
Come on guys, stay in for Pete's sake!
When batting, my England weren't great,
The Tigers gave the match on a plate.
The catches they muffed them,
And the keeper he stuffed them.
Shape up Tigers, before it's loo late!
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 3:16 AM UTC
Call myself a Christian,
what the ****** hell!
If Azrael was to get up close,
Then to God He'd run and tell.
"Father, goodness check this one,
something is wrong and needs to be done!
He wears red nail varnish and sings to the dead,
with powerful women alluring his head!
Death Metal songs, Pagan best friend,
flippant poems, the list won't end.
The lost soul should be flogged and hung,
he listens to Camel and Neil Young!
I caught him missing church last week,
his doubts are strong and will is weak.
His other best friend is an Angel he says,
he's seen Her pure light, the love in her gaze
And then there's the spirits, the circles the mirror,
and he says it all works, oh my what a horror!
Just to love Jesus is never enough,
can't tolerate all of his poetry stuff.
Won't you send him a plague, or a bolt from the blue?
There must be some kind of way to get through!"
The Good Lord will pause, says"Azrael you pratt!
It's only Jeremiah, the skinny welsh ****
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 12:16 PM UTC
Over the clamor of the generators
The incessant roar like a hungry crowd
Your voice is lost
Dying over the sands
Wavering, beaten by Atlantic waves.
I can't hear your whisper
Over the din of foreign motors
Over the persistent pounding of
Pratt & Whitneys.
Your hellos are lost to me,
You have to scream
Over the home-bound rotator wailing
I can't hear you in the cabin
The distance is so great between
Your side of the bed
And mine
Raise your voice over the void
I've been calling to you for years
But the continued return of echos
Seem like your distant shadow
Is a mirage
You have to scream
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
He’s like a ham actor
Who has only one goal
To see himself in
The starring role.
Talent doesn’t matter
As long as he is zealous.
If he bombs it’s because
Everyone else is jealous.
He goes flap, flap his yap
But be careful, it’s a trap.
He loves to holler up a storm.
But has no talent to perform.
He thinks he is a superstar
Just waiting to be crowned.
Others say behind his back
He’s nothing but a clown.
All he needs is a big red nose
And he’s working hard on that.
He thinks he’s the big ****
But really, he’s just a pratt.
He goes moan, moan and groan
But leave him totally alone
And while he swears he is fine
He will fail to remember his lines.
All the world is a stage, it’s true
So politics is like theater, too.
And this poor clown with big feet
Tries to deliver his speeches sweet
But his lies trip him in the last scene.
He ends up looking false and mean.
He lies and lies his lullabies
And tries to act so famously wise.
But he only fools the less than bright.
The rest know he’s just not right.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
She loves insulated cable kiss fights
What, the lion mouse or something
Civil action quiets the pratt
You talk to me like a brick and a lampost.
Love me the media
***** peel for us, you
a germ in the cesspool
Debate ******* worship of theatre
Less is more, a comic-erotic
She is less insulated with comic-erotic
The lion debates mice of worship
For civil germ to host pratt-party
And a lampost
You talk and peel like bad skin
**** me the media
Dirt worshipped in the hairy eyes
a sappy sad man who is exposed
Something ******* and unknown
More is shown through less of talk
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
I see my city from a distance,
small points of light inscribe
the shapes of it's skyline against
a dark blue and purple night
and I know I am near home.
I lead a tired life
in ratty sneakers
and find myself on Pratt Street
well after the bars have closed
but before the sun.
I walk these streets and think
about the years of pavement
under my feet and the
people who populate my memories
and my city.
There are lives, being lead
in the quiet and ignored way
that city lives are,
behind every lit window.
My city isn't defined by
the height of it's buildings
and there is little neon,
but if you are very silent,
and more than a little patient,
you can hear her breathe.
My city is a portrait,
from Monument to Key Highway
and all points around and between.
I stand, in the stillness of the
streets well after the bars close,
and know that my story
has been played at different
points throughout her heaving mass.
And it is played now, by me and
the many millions like me.
We are a city united in our mutual
distaste and love for the buildings
and lights and cross streets
that house us and are our
home.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
this isn't a poem
but I met aubrey plaza
chris pratt
and
nick offerman
they were so fabulous,
kind and
considerate
I feel lucky to have met them
and now i'm crying
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:03 AM UTC
I feel like a ripple in the harbor.
Throwing myself against
the Hull of your chest.
A place I used to call home.
Not far from Beason
liquid green
caresses silt that has
always pumped life
into this broken city.
A city where sirens and
church bells sound the same
if you just listen
to the hum of floating taxis
circulating you straight to
the heart of a
civilization learning to collect illumination.
I drag my feet along E. Pratt
listening to the whispers of our past,
a quiet riot in the distance.
Somewhere in this city
a woman is taking her son's hand
for the last time
a brother is tanking
his last free throw
somewhere
a daughter scribbles
her name in side walk chalk
one
final
time.
These children were the
city's flesh and blood.
Fells point in their bones;
a piece of Pigtown in every cell.
We've learned from
our mistakes that
burning down convenience stores
doesn't make life more convenient,
but owning a gun does.
What is the cost of protection
when you're not the one paying the price?
I hope that one day
we will build upon the ashes
and Light Street will burn bright again.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
its not midnight
someone just turned out the lights
on my party
of one
its not bright out
its the fire blazing without a coal
in a hearth
with no screen
thats not a flower
its a **** with a smelly bloom
in a pasture
with no fence
im not a comedian
im only a guy with pratt falls pocketed
with a pun
and a play on words in hand
there is no love
there is only a trust between two
there is a kiss
a late night call
and sanity
there is no sanity
there is only a belief
a trust
in what cant be robbed
in what cant be...
what was i saying
what time is it?
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
When I found you on the rooftop
Crumbling at the knees,
You confessed to me the air
Made it hard to breathe.
You felt complacent
But knew you had somewhere you had to be,
Just getting harder to leave.
We found some solace
In the undergrounds of Charm City.
You said “These basement shows relieve the angst inside of me.”
I said “It’s gonna get better, love, just wait and see.”
It’s getting hard to believe.
Wandering hearts.
We were lost in the Art Space, the soul of the city.
Looking for answers
All we found were strangers and bands bonding over riffs.
She’s still waiting for the air to be breathable again.
There we were, sardine packed,
Shouting out for the band.
Vibes of Old Bay Punk echoed off the walls.
Jimmy’s worried the neighbors might call a noise complaint.
Tommy’s laughing as he turns up the stereo.
After the show
We stumbled out of the basement
Off balanced and content.
Smelling like sweat and Natty Boh.
The high wore off and we were back to where we began,
Wandering the streets with shattered lungs and dreams.
On Charm City rooftops
You broke down all around me
Along with the railings in the basement of Art Space.
By one or two we wandered into the Ale House.
We were just in time before they had last call.
Somewhere on Pratt street
We ran into Remy.
He was looking for Megan and a taco truck.
Found our way, unwinding on a bench by the harbor.
I swear there was magic in your midnight eyes.
You held my hand, and breathed a bit lighter.
The air is not so bad...
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
and the word
rolled of my tongue
raced past my lips
to pratt fall to the floor,
buster keaton style
only to lie in a curlicue
puddle on
the ***** sky blue lino....
people applaud my performance
in a politely
dissaffected way,
before
returning to they desultory
gossip with regard to
the state of the art draped
upon the walls....
strange blueprint of
mug ulgy beasts.
they say, in excellent
babylonian accents
dropping
tibits of manna cake
and spilling ambrosia nectar
all the while....
**** me
i am going to have to
get the clouds steam cleaned again... hope
monsoonal cleaners are'nt
busy this week..
and the word squiggled away to hide in the corner
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Skip skipped
then all at once
fell over himself
pratt.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
Baltimore holds its breath.
It's the morning after.
It's Day One.
We are brought curfews,
we are told that they wished to destroy us.
There are soldiers standing on our streets.
We are not sure if we're safe.
We're not sure if we'll ever live it down.
Baltimore: (Noun) 1. A city in Maryland.
2. Slang for Riot.
We're anxious.
Because it's over(?)
We are proud.
Because it's all we have left.
We cannot let this be a sad chapter!
We have to make something good come from this!
We have to get up,
dust ourselves off
and stand up.
We have to finally embrace the conversation
that we refuse to have.
They burned us!
******* it! They burned us All!
The implications reach beyond
the city boundaries.
This can't end on Pratt or on Gay Street.
This can't end with barricaded Police stations
and tanks on our streets.
We need to discuss this.
People burned down their own home.
This is worth discussing.
Our lungs ache with effort.
Our minds race with possibility.
Our hearts long for hope.
Baltimore holds its breath.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
her smiles brought enough joy to make the sun rise;
her hair was the night sky with occasional caramel streaks
and there were endless fields of sunflowers in her eyes.
her voice was liquid silk that filled the doubtful abyss,
but should you anger her would start a storm, yet still,
at the end of the day,
she'll come into your room to tuck you in and give you a good night kiss.
the wind laughed with us as we made silly faces
at the ghosts under my bed and the monsters in my closet,
she pulled them out and filled herself into the empty spaces.
the ocean waves sang symphonies as we ostensibly
walked along trails of light and picked apples in the midnight city.
the snow whispered as we taught ourselves ballet,
we splashed into puddles of pearls as if we were mermaids;
we were our own superheroes that saved the day.
the leaves on the trees fluttered as we cut up sundresses and skirts
for my glowing red bear and princess barbie dolls
that danced in the rain and rolled around in the dirt.
the ladybugs cheered as we watched movies under a blanket of stars,
we ate cake and giggled on a bed of light in the dark,
and before she left for the night,
she slipped a handful of quarters into my hand and tucked her orchids into my arm.
there came a time when her headlights faded;
her own ghosts and monsters took over and left her jaded.
i couldn't tell, between the hospital gowns and jackson-pratt drains,
if she would get better, because remembering her pain
could possibly be my only memories of her that really remain.
the monsters carried her away, their stomps leaving the world,
my world, tilted;
and as i stumbled, i awakened a once-placid cumulonimbus.
the rain seeped through my umbrella and her orchids wilted.
the monsters felt sorry and took her to a kingdom of golden clouds.
they gave her wings and breathed harp strums into her lungs
and her breast
and her liver
and she suddenly emulated the sun and that made the monsters proud.
from the kingdom above, she looks down on my father and my two little brothers.
and though it feels like was all just a dream,
the woman that loved me the most was my mother.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
How far do you want to push this,
How far do you need to act like this to show him you don’t care,
How far are you gonna make him feel bad,
Far enough to where he ends it,
He leaves you forever,
Not turning around,
Never saying good bye,
Just a lonely life ahead of you,
How far do you have to pick on someone before we all lose them?
Why would you do that?
How come we just can’t get along with each other?
Why can’t we be friends?
Why does that one person deserve all the pain you put them through,
The words you say to them stick in there heads forever,
Never leave them,
Even after they leave us,
They might not show you that it hurts,
But they do hurt,
We are all people and we have feelings,
So why don’t we stop this,
Before we find out how far,
How far is.
Cassidy Pratt
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
Sentient husbands
The seed and pa jo Rogan
Fear factor. Steve stabwell honey
Something slumming Logan
And Michael as the mass hell coming
*** Steve is Michael
Logans Gabriel
Russ is prophet of the higher word
Titles bright. Angel saved from hell
The lord is blessing.
Morph. When russ lights his spoken torch
Without the **** ingestion
Or the sentiment slowing porch fire
Torch wired for the divorce of his flames
I'm investing
Divorce from angels title demon
Screaming.
Saving dreams from spoken reasons.
Satan was a being of greed and seeming
Prosperity. In finding need
To bleed for Jesus to be seen and
Hell to keep its disease.
Steven your seed will be breath.
Not to breathe with out his greed for your eternal strength and peace.
Logan knows his approach to baby wit
Ma will be slow but holding.
Boasting golden shields.
Jo Rogan terrified. Square lives.
He won't be allowed kani
Manta and his needs spared to nines....
For four square sentient wives
*** he spared shared lives.
Chris pratt.
No history his tatts.
Reveal shape-shifting gifted vision.
Spector. Television
The seed has intelligent
In medicine. He shall have seven children
Omasku Niskani will be with me in the veteran.
*** his younger will be indifferent to time.
With six with the 9.
Russ is signed to sentient contract.
With selling symptoms
He spits like Ali hits in prime.
The seed is god in his high. Try rhyming
With.....
As russ speaks he says
(Not in rhyme)
Timing. His ducks 7 sliding
Call him prophet giant.
Call his logic defiant. But his word is is his ****
So **** the truth.
It still sticks
The truth ***** but he's sick.
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 9:12 PM UTC
This thoughts in my mind
Repeat over and over
Picturing it like a movie on rewind
I reminisce the past as I close my eyes.
Memories come flooding back
Breaking this this cage of glass
I simply don't think anything through.
Now I'm here, what can I do
My heart is now broken and ripped in two.
The secrets I locked inside my mind
Is best kept tucked away hidden from the light of day.
If my secrets was revealed
I wouldn't have my best friend
Eric Pratt to enjoy in his company anymore.
The truth about myself is smashed into millions of pieces stored in a box labeled top secret,
So my tears and fears won't come true and ruin all the things that reeked havoc in my addicted lifestyle
No one can know ...
I now swallow my key
So I can't lose my friendship
And ruin my life from the mistaken
CRYS and immoral lies
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
Inkwells were filled
by Janice; she was
the ink monitor for
the week. I was never
chosen for the task,
much to my relief,
but there were those
who raised their hands
enthusiastically for
the job, but I kept mine
firmly out of sight
beneath the desk.
Janice did the job
with dedication and
a serious mien; her
fair hair tied back by
ribbons; her slim fingers
engaged at the task
of filling the inkwells,
her tongue poking out
the side of her mouth
in deep concentration.
Last week Fred Pratt
did the job; I didnt
watch him at all.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC