The Pieman
I'd like to be a pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, 'Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!'
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies - more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a pieman if ...
I wasn't very well.
Would you?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The I'd like to be........ series
The Sailor
I'd like to be a sailor - a sailor bold and bluff -
Calling out, "Ship ahoy!" in manly tones and gruff.
I'd learn to box the compass, and to reef and tack and luff;
I'd sniff and sniff the briny breeze and never get enough.
Perhaps I'd chew tobacco, or an old black pipe I'd puff,
But I wouldn't be a sailor if ...
The sea was very rough.
Would you?
The Porter
I'd like to be a porter, and always on the run,
Calling out, "Stand aside!" and asking leave of none.
Shoving trucks on people's toes, and having splendid fun,
Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one -
And, when they asked to be let in, I'd say, "It can't be done."
But I wouldn't be a porter if ...
The luggage weighed a ton.
Would you?
The Pieman
I'd like to be a Pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, "Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!"
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies - more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a Pieman if ...
I wasn't very well.
Would you?
The Barber
I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip,
Calling out, "Next please! and pocketing my tip."
All day I'd hear my scissors going, "Snip, Snip, Snip;"
I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip
While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip.
But I wouldn't be a barber if ...
The razor was to slip.
Would you?
The Teacher
I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain,
Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?"
I'd be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train,
And all the books and maps and things I'd carefully explain;
I'd make then learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain;
But I wouldn't be a teacher if ...
I couldn't use the cane.
Would you?
The Postman
I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street,
Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet,
Ringing every door-bell all along my beat,
In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat.
Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat;
But I wouldn't be a postman if ...
The walking hurt my feet.
Would you?
The Baker
I'd like to be a baker, and come when morning breaks,
Calling out, "Beeay-ko!" (that's the sound he makes) -
Riding in a rattle-cart that jogs and jolts and shakes,
Selling all the sweetest things a baker ever bakes;
Currant-buns and brandy-snaps, pastry all in flakes;
But I wouldn't be a baker if ...
I couldn't eat the cakes.
Would you?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fruit Together
A plum went to market
to buy some grapes,
everyone was was there
that day.
They didn't come
just to play.
Fruit was what
they needed most.
The apple came
to buy some pears,
Pears came to
buy some apples.
They ended up
buying each other.
What a fix,
so fruity was it.
Everyone went home
that day,
so they could all
make some fruit pies.
What a site this
was, seeing each
one making pies out,
of each other,
somehow pies
were made this
day, you ask
How was this done?
you figure it out,
I just wrote
the poem.
wrote 4-14-07
Por El Suelo Y A Correr
Al suelo y a correr
Si tardas en volver
sujetalo a los pies
Ocultas el dolor
lo pintas de placer
consume corazon
Por el suelo y a correr
Tienes algo que esconder
Por el suelo y a correr
Sujetados a los pies
Buscas la opinion
En otra habitacion
En otra direccion
Sonrie un dia mas
Por tu libertad
Por una amistad
Por el suelo y a correr
Tienes algo que esconder
Por el suelo y a correr
Sujetados a los pies
Por el suelo y a correr
Tienes algo que esconder
Por el suelo y a correr
Sujetados a los pies
Por el suelo y a correr
Tienes algo que esconder
Por el suelo y a correr
Sujetados a los pies
Por el suelo y a correr
Tienes algo que esconder
Por el suelo y a correr
Sujetados a los pies
song performed by by Zurdok
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Inferiority Complex Involving Pork Pies
Why do you tell such awful pork pies?
All of us here can see through your lies,
If you once to the truth it would be a surprise,
But the Truth very often is a liar's disguise!
Perhaps you think you'll win our esteem,
We'll believe, after all, you're not what you seem,
We'll call you a hero, fulfilling your dream:
Wouldn't it be great if we fell for your scheme!
You'd better make peace with the person you are,
Try not to swagger when you walk to the bar,
Try not to boast about your second-hand car,
It's old and it's rusty and won't take you far!
It's a tragedy, really, that you feel so small,
You're short and you're puny and wish you were tall,
You'd like folk to come running whenever you call,
But when you cry out they don't notice at all!
Your trouble, my friend is the chip on your shoulder
Which seems to grow deeper as you get older,
You'd chat up the ladies if you felt bolder
But the smiles on their faces would turn a lot colder.
And it's all because of those silly pork pies,
The desire to be 'Someone' in everyone's eyes,
You've created an image that most people despise -
For God's sake stop telling such awful pork pies!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Temptation
Lick me said the ice cream,
swallow me right down.
I'm dying to delight your tongue
and make you nice and round.
Eat me said the cherry pies,
the big meringue, the choccy heart.
Don't ignore us cream cakes
or mince pies, or treacle tarts.
You know I'm giving you the eye
said apple pie, yes apple pie.
It hears my calls and sees my thighs
that temptress with a taste divine.
Oh I am lost all to my cost my
my waist expanding as I toss
which itsy bitsy treat to eat,
make me obese, oh help me please.
I'm on my knees, I need food police
poem by Ruth Walters
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Watching My Weight
Cakes and pies, you tempt me so
And homemade candies too, you know
I'm trying to watch what I eat
Holidays coming, such a treat
Watching my weight isn't fun
Aroma's from the kitchen, to the fridge I'll run
Coconut cream pies, are my weakness
Don't want to get fat, would cause such bleakness
So all along, I will have to suffer
Refraining from this, is certainly tougher
I walk alot and count my calories
I must refrain from these food galleries!
poem by Donna Nimmo
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When I Think Of Home
When I think of 'home' I think of cherry pies
When I think of 'home' I think of mulberry trees
When I think of 'home' I think of butterflies
When I think of 'home' I think of bumble bees
When I think of 'home' I think of hummingbirds
When I think of 'home' I think of sun brewed tea
When I think of 'home' I think of morning walks
When I think of 'home' I think of Grandma and me
When I think of 'home' I think of hidden trails
When I think of 'home' I think of lullabies
When I think of 'home' I think of signs of spring
When I think of 'home' I think of pumpkin pies
When I think of 'home' I think of bedtime stories
When I think of 'home' I think of I think of honeysuckle
When I think of 'home' I think of roses blooming
When I think of 'home' I can't help but chuckle
Because when I think of 'home' I think Heaven
When I think of 'home' I think of all thats kind
When I think of 'home' I think of dancing
When I think of 'home' Grandma comes to mind
poem by Catlin L. Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm On A Diet
Oh body what have you done
I always fed you
Washed you
What is the meaning of this
You wanted fish and chips
You wanted pies
KFC McDonalds you got it
How could you do it to me
I gave up smoking for you
Bought bigger clothes
Worked out at the gym
You just ignored me
You grew hair on my back
My girth causes mirth
All saggy and fat
Now see what you get
No more McDonalds
Fish and chips or pies
All vegies and fruit
See how you like that
poem by Phil Smith
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Flying Pies
Flying Pies and exploring eyes
I look out the window as the darkness dies
So we return to days
to continue our ways
only to reap whatever that pays
Satisfying the least your pocket craves
On the wings of a vulture
by raping our culture
with a heartful of greed that obeys
Guilty of the wretched cries
Ignoring all those we offend
and not to consider a mend
They bring blinding ties
the mind sighs as daylight dies
bringing closing eyes and flying pies
poem by Mason Maestro
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Contigo
Contigo mi vida quiero vivir la vidalo que me queda de vida quiero vivir
Contigo tu sabes mi vida estoy a tus pies...
Suerte que mis pechos sean pequenos y no los confundas con montanas suerte que
Tenga ojos grandes para ver cuando te vayas suerte de tener piernas firmes para
Poder correr cuando te vayas... lelolelole...y sabes que...estoy a tus pies..
song performed by by Shakira
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One day perhaps I'll understand.
They say there is no Santa Claus
the bigger kids. Its just your dad
I don’t believe their lies of course
Although sometimes it makes me sad
I haven’t got a dad you see.
He died a long, long time ago
There’s just my mum my sis and me
That’s why I’m certain that I know.
There has to be a Santa Claus.
On Christmas morning there will be.
Some presents for each of us
in piles beneath the Christmas tree.
I only six but I know this.
That Santa works all through the night
making sure he does not miss.
A chance to bring a child delight.
One day I hope to catch the sight
of Santa Claus all dressed in red.
But mummy makes me go to bed
and she will watch for him instead.
She leaves mince pies and ginger wine.
Then she settles down to wait.
My sister goes to bed at nine.
Mum falls asleep and wakes too late.
He’s been and gone, so have the pies
While mother slept, kind Santa crept
into the house and ate the pies.
He left our presents while we slept.
At least that’s what my mother says.
If I should ask why she cries
On this the happiest of days.
Because I miss him she replies.
I’m not quite sure I understand
the reason for my mummy’s tears
Santa has gone back to Lapland
where has lived for years and years.
I think my older sister knows
A secret that she will not tell
She’s not allowed to suppose.
Because she sometimes cries as well.
But I’m a boy and boys don’t cry
But when they cry it makes me sad
Although I really don’t know why.
I never really knew my Dad.
Tuesday,01 December 2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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One day pehaps I'll understand Tissues warning
They say there is no Santa Claus
the bigger kids. Its just your dad
I don’t believe their lies of course
Although sometimes it makes me sad
I haven’t got a dad you see.
He died a long, long time ago
There’s just my mum my sis and me
That’s why I’m certain that I know.
There has to be a Santa Claus.
On Christmas morning there will be.
Some presents for each of us
in piles beneath the Christmas tree.
I only six but I know this.
That Santa works all through the night
making sure he does not miss.
A chance to bring a child delight.
One day I hope to catch the sight
of Santa Claus all dressed in red.
But mummy makes me go to bed
and she will watch for him instead.
She leaves mince pies and ginger wine.
Then she settles down to wait.
My sister goes to bed at nine.
Mum falls asleep and wakes too late.
He’s been and gone, so have the pies
While mother slept, kind Santa crept
into the house and ate the pies.
He left our presents while we slept.
At least that’s what my mother says.
If I should ask why she cries
On this the happiest of days.
Because I miss him she replies.
I’m not quite sure I understand
the reason for my mummy’s tears
Santa has gone back to Lapland
where has lived for years and years.
I think my older sister knows
A secret that she will not tell
She’s not allowed to suppose.
Because she sometimes cries as well.
But I’m a boy and boys don’t cry
But when they cry it makes me sad
Although I really don’t know why.
I never really knew my Dad.
Tuesday,01 December 2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chicken Lips And Lizard Hips
When i was a little kid
I never liked to eat
Mom would put things on my plate
And i'd dump 'em on her feet
But then one day she made this soup
I ate it all in bed
I asked her what she put in it
And this is what she said:
"oh, chicken lips and lizard hips
And alligator eyes
Monkey legs and buzzard eggs
And salamander thighs
Rabbit ears and camel rears
And tasty toenail pies
Stir 'em all together
And it's mama's soup surprise"
I went into the bathroom
And i stood beside the sink
I said, "i'm feeling slightly ill
And i think i'd like a drink"
Mama said, "i've just the thing
I'll get it in a wink
It's full of lots of protein
And vitamins, i think"
"oh, chicken lips and lizard hips
And alligator eyes
Monkey legs and buzzard eggs
And salamander thighs
Rabbit ears and camel rears
And tasty toenail pies
Stir 'em all together
And it's mama's soup surprise
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Works - Universal Life
You wake up in the morning
and put your hands behind your head
as another day awaits your eager mind,
but what job would you choose to find
butcher, baker or maybe a preacher
writing striking sermons
to the multitude it would be read
of the peaceful life that eludes
without their wars and faults.
Maybe not a preacher but a baker instead
baking pies, cakes and bread
wedding cakes, rolls and steak pies,
but even baking has its constant ties.
Back to the reality your in
maybe a lawyer you might have been
questioning the witnesses
that the prosecution has brought forward
to help beat your case.
No its back to the drawing board in your mind
to etch another job to find,
maybe a policeman’s job would be fine
catching murders and thieves
by clues he or she leave behind,
making sure lorries don’t overload,
reforming the bad to good
by helping the deeply misunderstood.
However, even a policeman’s job has pit falls;
maybe a poet’s job isn’t bad at all.
Writing romantic words of love
about the moon, sun and stars above.
Saying words descriptive and sweet
to each girl you meet,
writing a philosophy on life
with its hated and strife,
acting a rebel to society
with banners and placard, not for me.
Maybe a secret agent for me
travelling to different countries
photographing secret documents,
then maybe we’re not all Derek Flints or James Bond,
then why not a Beatle maybe
with lots and lots of lovely loot
and loads and loads of fame
with everyone knowing your name.
No, I’ll just lay here and dream again.
Date unknown (Probably the late 1960s or early 1970s)
poem by David Harris
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Shake
Adesso che sono buono badabenbenben
Adesso che ti perdono badabenbenben
Adesso che mi hai tradito badabenbenben
E come se non fossi stato ferito badabenbenben
Ho un sogno qui
Rimasto cos
Un desiderio, che sale
Ora che sei rimasta sola
Scusa, ma a me mimporta una sega
Adesso che sono buono badabenbenben
Che bacio di nuovo il cielo badabenbenben
Adesso che un sole acceso che non sei te
Accende ogni notte il buio anche per me
Io sono qui
Ancora qui
Con un sogno cos
Che guardo il mare
Ora che sei rimasta sola
Scusa, ma a me mimporta una sega
(Tu dimmi dimmi dimmi) Ora che sei rimasta sola
Che cosa ti e rimasto, cosa?
Ach pies i pir ach pies i pom
ach pies la roba che ga cal don
Cattivo fino allosso.......... yeah yeah yeah oh yeah
Ora che sei rimasta sola
scusa ma a me mimporta una sega
(Tu dimmi dimmi dimmi) Ora se sei rimasta sola
Sai cosa, mi basta una parola,
yeah mi basta una parola
E volo da te, una parola
E corro da te, ora,
e corro da te
una parola, ora, ora
song performed by by Zucchero
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There will be trouble if the cobbler starts making pies.
They teach anything in universities today. You can major in mud pies.
quote by Orson Welles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty, we are pure.
quote by Charles Dudley Warner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.
quote by Carl Sagan
Submitted by Catalin Popescu
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Bureaucrats: they are dead at 30 and buried at 60. They are like custard pies; you can't nail them to a wall.
quote by Frank Lloyd Wright
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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