"waddle" poems
If I'm a plumber then she's my princess peach,
if she's Zelda, then I'm her Link.
If my life was Contra, then she's my Konami Code.
Can't you tell ny Lady is the subject of this ode?
If she's Curly Brace then I'm her counterpart Quote,
Seriously, I'm in love with her if you didn't catch it I left a few notes,
If I'm the Belmonts, then she's the vampire killer,
if I'm Michael, she's my thriller.
If I'm Pac-Man, then she's my Miss
If I'm Alucard, then she's my transformation into mist
If I'm Kirby then she's waddle Dee,
quite frankly this is getting sappy so I'll get to the point.
I love this girl more than a stoner loves a joint.
(bonus points if you can name all the games referenced, and the Konami Code)
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Ripples riddle the mirror,
Below, faint shapes shift
Elegant forms float here and there,
Little legs thunder, leaving a gentle wake
in lieu of turmoil.
The air is thick, the sun falling,
Already lost behind billowing storm clouds
Etched chaotically on the horizon.
Invisible but for the ubiquitous light.
It is the dragonflies time,
A darting zip and an effortless flutter.
From surfacing **** to towering Reed,
Searching for something we can only pretend to know.
Determined housewives, faces set,
Arms pumping and hips swaying
Their Anatidean waddle so fitting
Their quacks, a wall of stereo.
A lone rusted sign warns of gators,
but of signs, there is that one alone.
No rogue bubbles or beady eyes,
no ticking of swallowed clocks,
no suspicious splashes.
nothing.
My battery is now as low as the sun,
and my pen is as empty.
A not so subtle poke in the ribs
from a universe in protest of the
bad poetry being inked.
c'est la vie
or as we say in English
**** it
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
*** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he said to the man running the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any *****
The man said "Go away you filthy perv."
"Cocktails is all I've ever served!"
"Why don't you take a hike?"
The Cuck said "Go ***** a ****
The he strutted away! [struttin' struttin']
He gotta get paid! [by the hour]
Gotta go to work! [at Trump Tower]
... 'Til the very next day.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he slapped his **** onto the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any *******
The man balled his fists and said...
"Why don't you go get a pocket toy and ***** that you filthy pervert who can't get laid so he comes and bothers the cocktail man because he has no game!
How about you go to another bar and stop acting LAME!"
The Cuck said "Your sister wasn't lame."
Then he zipped up his pants [waddle waddle]
as he strutted away [got the zipper stuck]
but that's all okay [showing off the package]
Till the very next day.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he said to the man running the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any ******
The man got ****** then he started to smile.
"Come on, fellow! I bet you haven't had ***** in a while."
Then they strutted away [my **** itches]
but that's okay [they don't care they're *******
watch out for snitches [shut yo **** mouth]
'Till they arrived at the trap house
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
"Here you go sir, she'll make your **** stir
She's even got a sister you can **** next to her!"
The Cuck's mind began to go....
"How about.... no!"
"But I like this place...
It makes my heart race...
and it would bring me joy....
it would make my day...
do you think we could...
do you THINK we could...
double team your wife so you don't have to pay?!"
Then he scrambled away! [zipping up his pants]
The man was angry in a trance! [hope he tied his shoes]
He even left the ***** [why'd you do that]
Instead he ******* the Cat.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
A night sometime in mid-July
and darkness hums between the trees.
My eyes look across sodden grass
for another life to waddle past.
A creature,
a ball of bristles
appears from the bushes,
listen out for a snuffle, a mumble.
There, by the fence,
a wooden coat speckled with milk.
Its movement lazy like a man
on a summer Sunday walk home.
Does it come often? I wonder
as a breeze races over my lawn.
A sniff of a fallen branch
before shuffling along.
The evening crawls on,
a caterpillar over a leaf.
I decide to wait a while,
watch my guest awake, alive.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Are you my penguin?
Yes. . . this may surely sound odd
But, the beauty of the basis of this question
Is true
You see, these simple little lovely tuxedos
They waddle around the forever winter
All by there lonesome
Until they spot another little tuxedo
Roaming the winter flakes
They fall in love
Rub their icy beaks
Together they are one
They waddle together now
Have little tuxedos of their own
Raise them, then grow old together
Never leaving one another's side
That is the love I feel
That is the curious little emotion I carry for you
I have penguin love for you my dear
I've known it a very long time now
So I ask you, my sweetheart
Are you my forevermore?
Here to stay until we are old and crazy?
Are you my true love?
Are you my penguin love?
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
As I sit outside “Motherhood Maternity” store
in the comfy chairs. Waiting for sticky buns,
writing thoughts of what some call poetry.
The little mothers-to-be go in,
smiling and happy.
Some waddle in, others still may have
that FUN coming in the future.
They are fun to observe
all expectant like. Anticipating
the new life growing inside -
BOY? GIRL? Of course some
wanting it OVER - NOW!
And I can see why.
Then, occasionally there is a parent
passing by, ragging on their child
over nothing. Making life miserable
for all within hearing distance.
Destroying the young spirit.
I'll bet they were not smiling like the others
going into “Motherhood”. Maybe they
are looking forward to eighteen and
want it to happen – NOW! Poor kid.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
I know you’ve just gone
but I miss you already
Oh, why not just stay
until I’m all done?
Not meant to be a lover,
but call me your concubine
to meet your needs
as well as mine
Oh, come into me
in the flesh, in the flesh
I want to feel meat
in the flesh, in the flesh
I know I’ve been here before
but I forget already
why I’ve now come
to feel this again
I never wanted a friend
I waddle around
asking, “are you my lover?”
Two birds of a feather fly on
Oh, come into me
in the flesh, in the flesh
I want to feel meat
in the flesh, in the flesh
Oh, why are you here?
In my flesh, in my flesh
I want to feel it
I want to feel
Oh, come into me
in the flesh, in the flesh
I want to feel it
I want to heal
I know you’ve just gone
but I miss you already
Why not just stay?
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 11:59 AM UTC
You like to party, I am a partier
You like to wander, I am a wanderer
Your thighs are the closet to Narnia
Is it cool if I go and get lost in that?
I'm the lion, the witch in the wardrobe
Massage my lap, I have a sore bone
Of course cold on the dance floor
Like an Eskimo's toes in the North Pole
With both toes poking out of two holes
In the Eskimo socks, I'm hot
Like a cauldron from a warlock
Wearing sweatpants in a sauna
Who's your father? I'm not
I'm motherfuckin' Raven Bowie and here's my ****
Rooster, Cock-a-doodle-doo sir
Take a hit of the hooka, now make it drop
Girl's ***** was bigger than the stomach of Rick Ross
Holy mother mountain of tender tendon to get lost in
Bounce, bounce, that castle ***** that bottom
Make it wobble, wobbly-waddle 'til my third leg has to hobble
You don't want to look back on this night
And think I should have been freaking on a *****
Freak-freaking on a *****
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
PARODY OF "THE DUCK SONG"
A duck walked down where the Democrats go
And he said to the man runnin' the show:
"Hey! Got any guns?"
The man said: "No, we just sell this ********
But it's dumb, and I'll bet, you'll buy all of it!
Can we count on your vote?"
The duck said: "No."
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
'Til the very next day...
When the duck walked down where the Democrats go
And he said to the man runnin' the show:
"Hey! Got any guns?"
The man said: "No, like I said yesterday
We just sell you ******** okay?
Why not vote for our guy?"
The duck said: "Good bye."
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
'Til the very next day...
When the duck walked down where the Democrats go
And he said to the man runnin' the show:
"Hey! Got any guns?"
The man said: "Look, this is gettin' old.
I mean, ******** is all we've ever sold.
Why not give us your vote?"
The duck said: "How about... no."
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
'Til the very next day...
When the duck walked down where the Democrats go
And he said to the man runnin' the show:
"Hey! Got any guns?"
The man said: "That's it! If you don't stay the **** away,
you're a terrorist bound straight for Guantanamo Bay.
So give us your vote!"
The duck said: "Adios!"
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
'Til the very next day...
When the duck walked down where the Democrats go
And he said to the man runnin' the show:
"Hey! Got your Free Speech?"
"What?" "Got your Free Speech?" "No, why would I - oh..."
"Then one more question for you:
"Got any guns?"
And the man just stopped,
The he started to twitch,
He started to cry,
then started to *****
He said: "Come on, duck,
Let's go to DC.
Talk to Obama,
So you don't have to harass me."
So they went to DC,
And Obama said “Hey”.
Tried to shake the duck's hand,
And the duck said: "Hmm, no thanks.
“But you know what I think?
And this is real as it gets
I think DC...
I think DC...
I think DC
is full of ********
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle waddle
Then he waddled away - waddle waddle
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
99% of Americans don't know
That penguins run the world
That's why they all wear suits
Because world **********
Requires a dress code
Yeah it may look silly
To see a penguin waddle around
But have you ever seen
Black Friday stampedes
And midnight premiere lines
Our penguin overlords are benevolent
If they wanted we'd all be gone
Or forced to work in their egg warming factories
And they keep operations where it's cold
Because they know we like where it's warm
And they keep an eye on us from our zoos
I've been to the zoo in Columbus
I've seen how those penguins watch us
I know they are in control
1% of Americans know
That penguins rule the world
And now that you've read this,
That makes 2%
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene
It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…
The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…
Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar
So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
...Frankenstein...dear Frank--green with disparity, confusedly amongst parts that
were sum...O Frank--never a creature under no sun could sow dark's reaping so.
Yours is a terrible Art...meat thrown to a black and white world.
Towering clumsily...wobbling that meat before a black and white world...you're
already spoken for by the precedent of your freakdom.
Your wear is worse than the ******* child moon wearing the sun's clothing...
O Frank!
Your awkward beauty...is as winter's very struggle towards spring--only to die upon
your feet while thawing.
You were never cerebral enough to have a clandestine affair with nothingness in motion...
your body's your confession.
You were struck alive...not dead...ALIVE...ALIVE--thunderously so, called an: IT!
Runaway automata...the collective unconscious of humanity's hypnotized waddle--
O Frank...where is your Heaven...where is your Hell?
You can neither be showered by, nor Fall from grace.
The longest-drawn pity to never be taken...O...the duration of your life...YOUR LIFE!
..."ALIVE"..."ALIVE"...cried your euphoric namesake...God taken step of, to play God to thee--
as such...yours is a terrible Art.
One of living-death...O Frank!
Konstantinos Mark
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
the drama in a ****** of crows
the clueless jive of the chickadee
the serious expression of the phoebe
hide and seek flickers
overly dramatic plovers
sleek kestrels, scanning the meadow
gulls always headed somewhere
the mystery of owls
robins, Art Carney-like
nuthatches that waddle through the air
an advertisement of goldfinches
vile, surly winged jays
waxwings, safe within their clique
ospreys, fat on minnows
snapshot herons always posing
patient vultures, ever on call
the perfect beasts to rule this world
they reveal personalities
to this lifetime observer
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Often, we men take for granted,
That you've simply performed an edict of biologic cyclical reproduction.
And not wonder of the incredible largesse that has befallen us.
I am so profoundly transformed by the beauty of your love and your unselfishness.
Though we men oft complain of the seemingly irrelative by-products of this process we go through,
None can compare to the bloating, frequent urination, nausea, emotional turmoil,
Weight gain, wacky food choices, back pain, impatience, depression, negative self-image,
Waddle walk, belly steering wheel dilemma, inability to tie your shoes, hunger,
Relationship insecurity, cornucopiate vomitus, skinny lady envy, clothes no longer fit-itis,
Swelling ankles, chocolate cravings, diarrhea, headaches, pelvic pain, stretch marks, and what should be unlawful super odorous flatulence.
What you've done for us in the space and time of nine months
Is nothing short of the joyous miracle God has bestowed upon us.
I am awestruck that the place I pleasure in most for its tightness and firmness,
Was stretched beyond the limits of what I fear I will never be able to compete with.
I love you as no other man has loved any other woman,
My heart's eyes swell with tears, as it can not express or contain this overwhelming feeling.
For the love I see in their eyes, the endearment I feel when they utter my name(Dad!)
The gift of our three children, aside from the love of my God, and the fascinating adventure of our wedding and marriage, will never be superseded by any other joy; and for which I am forever truly and entirely grateful...!!!
-----ChawzzyScript
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
A team of four - or more than two
Tappy children waddle by -
To see the lake - with a loon, with
Their mother - looking nigh:
Their funny games, which all they play
Throughout the night of orange suns;
Of tannéd eyes the streetlights flay
And run on home would all of them:
Then father comes and takes away
To other places in a night;
All gone the children, gone today -
Perhaps they'll come another time.
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 12:09 AM UTC
I've a song stuck in my head
No words, but it's still there
Trundling on with out a thought
It's something I should share
De da doodle la la de ding
boo bar fiddle riddle king
si saw be bop shhh shhh bing
do waddle dip don boom
There's no direction to where it goes
It's a melody of sorts
I've words a plenty, they don't fit
I've just this thing and all its warts
De da doodle la la de ding
boo bar fiddle riddle king
si saw be bop shhh shhh bing
do waddle dip don boom
I play nothing, but hear guitar
some drums there in behind
A backup singer singing loud
And a bass to keep in time
De da doodle la la de ding
boo bar fiddle riddle king
si saw be bop shhhh shhhhh bing
do waddle dip don boom
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Since childhood,
I have been fascinated by one story,
The story of The Ugly Duckling.
Whether a duckling or a swan,
She always stood apart.
Alone in body and thoughts,
She never was the crowd.
But chancing upon her reflection,
She discovered a thing or two,
She wasn't to waddle along,
Their purpose was not her purpose.
She knew she had to be different.
She had to feel out of place.
It took some time,
And great amount of pain,
To realize,
It was the wind that caressed her wings.
It was the skies that enchanted her.
She had to rise beyond inhibitions,
To a place far far away.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC
how odd, to be a woman and a girl
to wear the dresses but concern about cleavage
more than meets the eye: because.
and so we waddle for the men –
twisting straps, my petticoat drawbridge
i am over-aware of myself: know the pulse and
when to tug draperies from ‘part thighs
they only see what i am okay with,
which does not include exhaling.
i am like a drum, drumbeat
i punch my body until the purple softens
and it sounds beautiful, but incomprehensible:
me, this woman-girl and child cheeks
placed upon petals that flap
with attention, not the old storm breezes –
every april shower molded me into a flower
i rise above each season, gay spectacle
the men that believe hurricanes so enigmatic
must lust me for such a reason –
i have been through many in girlhood
that i bleed one as a woman.
because of word infidelities, the muse
april said that i am only as big as my body
and i grew, grew, grew
until my stem became caught
to where it grew no longer, a woman-child
who took the wind like salad dressing.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
The toddler walks with no grace,
back and forth as he does his waddle.
Sticky somethings upon his face,
happily drinking his bottle.
Once so small wrapped in his swaddle,
looks like mom I can see it clearly,
cute little boy looks like a model.
The one I love so dearly.
The toddler points at his chair,
he knows I understand his need.
I pick him up and put him there,
he knows its time to feed.
I try to help but let him lead,
getting it in his mouth well nearly.
I cant believe this is my seed
the one I love so dearly.
The toddler starts to rub his eyes,
l can almost open my wine.
I sing him gentle lullabies,
I'm thankful that he is mine.
Like an angel he'll always shine,
it is so sad he will grow yearly.
With each step I'll make sure he is fine,
the one I love so dearly.
When he grows up I'll miss the hugs,
I wont wake up so cheerly.
I'll miss him being scared of bugs,
the one I love so dearly.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
pitter patter go my feet as I walk over to visit my *****
swish swish go their lithe bodies as they waddle over to meet me
chomp chomp go their dextrous mouths as they consume the food i tossed into their tank
click clack go their sharp claws as they pinch everything they see
ouch yikes goes my mouth as i scream in pain
stomp stomp go my heavy feet as i run away
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
The night sky is wrapped in curls of black
and the air purrs, fizzes with the sound of hot
fluorescent lights, choking the air with vacation colour,
blinking fast like there’s something in their eyes.
Gulls guffaw in circles over 174,
where inside old wallpaper is torn
and dated lampshades dangle from above.
Two pegs on a line outside my box,
the bed is rickety and isn’t as fit anymore.
The novices, the returnees
seek silver and gold in the oasis
before their feet sting in scorching sand.
Win what you lose, lose what you win,
hold onto it before it tumbles back onto white cushions.
Money hiccups out of ugly machines
when they have a session of indigestion.
Young girls, carefree and cute walk around in a daze
as chubby men waddle along the pavement
thinking of that next pint.
Lined up at the bar with peanuts and bottles,
the large screen projects to all.
A clink of glasses and a click of snooker *****
past nine, past ten, past eleven as well.
And then the plug is pulled out,
everybody settles down to sleep,
but we all know they’ll do it again
when tomorrow’s summer evening calls.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
Is it a dream or distant memory?
An Italian Concerto begins
The alto singer bellows
A passionate tale
Proud and stout
He commands attention
A classic narcissistic symphony
Balancing a tight-rope
A thunderous crescendo begins
Drums rattle and roll
Strumming your violin
You tip, waddle and fall
Boom, Bang, Ting, Tang
A symphony of broken things
Your white walls marred
Sheet-Rock littered floors
By years of crimson scarlet
You know this scene by heart
This is your life
A dramatic melody
A symphony of broken things
You muster your courage
Hit your knees and pray
Picking up the pieces
Hoping his tune will change
You begin an ensemble
Piecing remnants together again
A symphony of broken things
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC
Old men in dresses wave hands across baskets
casting magic spells on sausage and oranges
then hocus pocus over horseradish root as
thick as a forearm, potato-peeled later
we'll garnish meats with mystical power.
They expect us to kiss the ****** feet of
a God immortalized in plaster while granite
saints stand watching a procession of misty-eyed
martyrs shuffling down the aisle like sheep,
and all the while the bells are ringing.
Always the ringing of bells.
Bells rung by boys standing still
ring like angels.
The old men hold crackers up to the light,
then more bells and drinking of blood
and finally its done. They waddle down
the nave casting incense in a metronome spray.
The boys follow behind the hypnotic smoke,
their bells have been put away,
pall bearers of the crucified Christ
they lead us not into temptation,
rather deliver us out the doors
and into the street,
redeemed and safe behind
the hedge of numbing ritual.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC