ChatterBank0 min ago
A woman's poem
14 Answers
I was going to put this in the poem's section but don't know where it is or if we have one.
He didn't like the casserole
And he didn't like my cake,
He said my biscuits were too hard
Not like his mother used to make.
I didn't perk the coffee right
He didn't like the stew,
I didn't mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and
smacked the sh*t out of him...
Like his mother used to do.
******************************************
I love a good poem, don't you?!?!
He didn't like the casserole
And he didn't like my cake,
He said my biscuits were too hard
Not like his mother used to make.
I didn't perk the coffee right
He didn't like the stew,
I didn't mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and
smacked the sh*t out of him...
Like his mother used to do.
******************************************
I love a good poem, don't you?!?!
Answers
1 to 14 of 14
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He deserved that smack missprim that you gave
Moaning at the missus isn't brave
This coming from a species that can't multi task
They need a degree to make up a flask
Us the weaker sex they can often shout
Can you pass me a beer I'm all out
They sprawl on the sofa feeling rather grand
In their manly couch potato/remote control land
There's us woman that work,cook and clean
We are world leaders in house hygeine
Do we moan and complain along the way
No we just do it day after day
There's times where a little disheartened we could get
When on occassion the bathroom floor gets a little wet
A daily task as women we manage to achieve
But they can't master the art of dribble free relieve
But we soldier on always giving our best
As the couch potato dribblers put us to the test
Girl Power xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Moaning at the missus isn't brave
This coming from a species that can't multi task
They need a degree to make up a flask
Us the weaker sex they can often shout
Can you pass me a beer I'm all out
They sprawl on the sofa feeling rather grand
In their manly couch potato/remote control land
There's us woman that work,cook and clean
We are world leaders in house hygeine
Do we moan and complain along the way
No we just do it day after day
There's times where a little disheartened we could get
When on occassion the bathroom floor gets a little wet
A daily task as women we manage to achieve
But they can't master the art of dribble free relieve
But we soldier on always giving our best
As the couch potato dribblers put us to the test
Girl Power xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Yes, I love a good poem, Pam Ayres is brilliant.
I love this one.
The Embarrassing Experience With A Parrot
by Pam Ayres
At the Cotswold Wild Life Park,
In the merry month of May,
I paid the man the money
And went in to spend the day.
Straightway to the Pets Corner
I turned my eager feet,
To go and see the rabbits
And give them something to eat.
As I approached the hutches
I was alarmed to see
A crowd of little yobbos,
'Ollerin' with glee,
I crept up close behind them
And weighed the scene up quick,
And saw them poke the rabbits,
Poke them! . . with a stick!
'Get off you little buggers!"
I shouted in their ear,
'Don't you poke them rabbits,
That's not why they are here."
I must have really scared them,
In seconds they were gone,
And feelin' I had done some good
I carried on along.
Till up beside the Parrots Cage
I stood to view the scene,
They was lovely parrots,
Beautiful blue and green,
In and out the nestbox,
They was really having fun,
Squawking out and flying about,
All except for one.
One poor old puffed-up parrot
Clung grimly to his perch,
And as the wind blew frontwards
Backwards he would lurch,
One foot up in his feathers,
Abandoned by the rest,
He sat there, plainly dying,
His head upon his chest.
Well, I walked on down the pathway
And I stroked a nanny goat,
But the thought of parrots dyin'
Brought a lump into me throat,
I could no longer stand it,
And to the office I fled,
Politely I began: 'Scuse me,
Your parrot's nearly dead."
So me and a curator,
In urgent leaps and bounds
With a bottle of Parrot Cure
Dashed across the grounds.
The dust flew up around us,
As we reached the Parrots Pen
And the curator he turned to me
Saying 'Which one is it then?"
You know what I am going to say,
He was not there at all,
At least, not where I left him,
No, he flit from wall to wall,
As brightly as a button
Did he squawk and jump and leap,
The curator was very kind,
Saying, "I expect he was asleep."
But I was humiliated
As I stood before the wire,
The curator went back
To put his feet up by the fire,
So I let the parrot settle
And after a short search,
I found the stick the yobbos had,
And poked him off his perch.
I love this one.
The Embarrassing Experience With A Parrot
by Pam Ayres
At the Cotswold Wild Life Park,
In the merry month of May,
I paid the man the money
And went in to spend the day.
Straightway to the Pets Corner
I turned my eager feet,
To go and see the rabbits
And give them something to eat.
As I approached the hutches
I was alarmed to see
A crowd of little yobbos,
'Ollerin' with glee,
I crept up close behind them
And weighed the scene up quick,
And saw them poke the rabbits,
Poke them! . . with a stick!
'Get off you little buggers!"
I shouted in their ear,
'Don't you poke them rabbits,
That's not why they are here."
I must have really scared them,
In seconds they were gone,
And feelin' I had done some good
I carried on along.
Till up beside the Parrots Cage
I stood to view the scene,
They was lovely parrots,
Beautiful blue and green,
In and out the nestbox,
They was really having fun,
Squawking out and flying about,
All except for one.
One poor old puffed-up parrot
Clung grimly to his perch,
And as the wind blew frontwards
Backwards he would lurch,
One foot up in his feathers,
Abandoned by the rest,
He sat there, plainly dying,
His head upon his chest.
Well, I walked on down the pathway
And I stroked a nanny goat,
But the thought of parrots dyin'
Brought a lump into me throat,
I could no longer stand it,
And to the office I fled,
Politely I began: 'Scuse me,
Your parrot's nearly dead."
So me and a curator,
In urgent leaps and bounds
With a bottle of Parrot Cure
Dashed across the grounds.
The dust flew up around us,
As we reached the Parrots Pen
And the curator he turned to me
Saying 'Which one is it then?"
You know what I am going to say,
He was not there at all,
At least, not where I left him,
No, he flit from wall to wall,
As brightly as a button
Did he squawk and jump and leap,
The curator was very kind,
Saying, "I expect he was asleep."
But I was humiliated
As I stood before the wire,
The curator went back
To put his feet up by the fire,
So I let the parrot settle
And after a short search,
I found the stick the yobbos had,
And poked him off his perch.
miss p, yours reminds me of this:
A WOMAN'S POEM:
Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong. One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks, One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he's gainfully employed, When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door. Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man who'll make love to my mind, Knows what to answer to 'how big is my behind?'
I pray that this man will love me to no end, And always be my very best
friend.
A MAN'S POEM:
I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with
huge boobs who owns a bar on a golf course,
and loves to send me fishing and drinking
This verse doesn't rhyme and I don't give a Sugar.
The End
A WOMAN'S POEM:
Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong. One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks, One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he's gainfully employed, When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door. Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man who'll make love to my mind, Knows what to answer to 'how big is my behind?'
I pray that this man will love me to no end, And always be my very best
friend.
A MAN'S POEM:
I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with
huge boobs who owns a bar on a golf course,
and loves to send me fishing and drinking
This verse doesn't rhyme and I don't give a Sugar.
The End
I like to think of you ladies as the fairer sex not the weaker sex. I made a big mistake very early on in life. I was conceived male and things just went downhill from there. I have always regretted this from when I was just 40 microns long and I smugly said to my fellow swimmers "I will see you guys around". I have paid for my arrogance ever since by not being able to do girlie things although I can type quite well.
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