Porcupine Pie
Porcupine pie, porcupine pie, porcupine pie
Vanilla soup, a double scoop please
No, maybe I wont, maybe I wont, maybe I will
The tutti fruit with fruity blue cheese
Ah, but porcupine pie, porcupine pie, porcupine pie
Dont let it get on your jeans
And though it sounds a little strange
Well, you gotta eat it with gloves
Or your hands will turn green
Ah, but porcupine pie, porcupine pie, porcupine pie
It weaves its web from a drink
And I do believe Im gonna get one
Vanilla ? ? ? for dessert chicken ripple ice cream
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
One dark night
I hang a dried porcupine fish on the ceiling,
And with a nylon thread, in the dark, it looks like it is having a nice swim in the air.
I didn’t mind it has taken life, and so
When friend Sammy drops by,
He calls it art.
Inside me, it is what I call myself, an air porcupine; I love the spines all over me,
So no one touches me, and I would hurt everyone near me,
I call it my life, what does Sammy know anyway, except a claim for art,
One dark night, the porcupine fish got carried about his swim
And plunged into my open mouth and clogged my heart, I struggled for breath
From then on the nightmare did not stop…. life moves on with the porcupine fish.
How would Sammy know that art has coarsely etched life? The spines all over me,
The porcupine swimming in my belly, my chest congested, my tongue tied, my teeth gritting, my heart bleeding in a hundred pains with a hundred wounds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beloved Porcupine
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine,
Confirmed it is; earth turns around a critter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
How could thee misbehave to a crit benign?
sly vulturettes desired the round flitter,
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine.
Now who will stand on supermarket line?
guilty thou art, dishonored and quitter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
Thou shalt nought mistreat a love so divine
In slopes thy porcupine will slide 'n' skitter,
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine
Thy porcupine cared for Italian, to dine;
In poem verses betwixt, embraced emitter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
Stirring thy mind, inspired poesy, Einstein,
perceptive kind, critter wisdom, on twitter
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
A pentameter humorous Villanelle.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Porcupine
Any hound a porcupine nudges
Can't be blamed for harboring grudges.
I know one hound that laughed all winter
At a porcupine that sat on a splinter.
poem by Ogden Nash
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In Memory Of Adriene Rich
A poet in the shape of a porcupine
a porcupine in the shape of a poet
the blogs are full of them...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A porcupine speaking to its baby says, ""O my child of velvet.""
Ashtray Heart
You used me for an ashtray heart
Right from the start
Case of the punks
I feel like a glass shrimp
Make invalids out of supermen
Call in a shrink
And pick you up
In a girdle
You used me like an ashtray heart
Right from the start
Case of the punks
Another day, another way
Somebody's had too much to think
Open up another case of the punks
You hid behind the curtain
Waited for me to go out
A man on a porcupine fence
Each pillow is touted like a rock
The mother / father figure
Somebody's had too much to think
Send your mother home your navel
Case of the punks
You picked me out like an ashtray heart
Hid behind the curtain
Waited for me to go out
Used me like an ashtray heart
A man on a porcupine fence
Hit me where the lover hangs out
While they crushed me out
You used me for an ashtray heart
Look behind the curtain
You looked in the window when I went out
You used me like an ashtray heart
Brush me off
While I was burning out
song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(Family Poems) Marriage Proposal
I understand when you
Say you love my daughter but
The way she reasons it
She would in all fairness
Marry a porcupine in flames
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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The quill worker
Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods and fills,
To the north the open country, southward the Cyprus Hills;
Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows,
Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose;
Never a habitation, save where in the far south-west
A solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest,
Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine,
Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
Neykia, the Sioux chief's daughter, she with the foot that flies,
She with the hair of midnight and the wondrous midnight eyes,
She with the deft brown fingers, she with the soft, slow smile,
She with the voice of velvet and the thoughts that dream the while,--
"Whence come the vague to-morrows? Where do the yesters fly?
What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky?
Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine,
Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine?"
So Neykia, in the westland, wonders and works away,
Far from the fret and folly of the "Land of Waking Day."
And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee door
For a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the hour is o'er.
For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has stayed
To rest and smoke with her father, tho' his eyes were on the maid;
And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshine
Will broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Mad as a Hatter!
The world becomes my Porcupine
Sitting Forks of DOOM!
Clams that eat my Potato Bake
Apocalypse in my room?
Goldfish, Rock and Soup Supreme!
Plane-Like Grass Defined.
Kitty, Cracker, Frog eats both
What the hell is with my mind...?
poem by Jake Harris
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An Intellectual Life...
inside this glass world
lives the porcupine
fish
the sea is made of
pure air
everyone is swimming
with the hands and feet of their
minds
one eye sees through another
eye like light piercing a sea of
transparencies and ripples
of doubts are reinvented
it is a deep ocean
imagine a world of porcupine fishes
silence are not knives here
there are no stab wounds on the water
everyone knows how to breathe
without making any sound of rustling leaves
outside this glass world
lies the world of fences and over there are the greener pastures
the fences are high like clouds on the cliffs
and the pastures have no milking cows in fact
it is a jungle without trees
and you will be having a hard time to imagine a
justification why this world is becoming a puzzle
of new languages and reinvented scripts and scenarios
but this is it, this is the way how fists land on chests
how lips design the shape of spits
long ago, they drew ivory towers and disoriented pillars
long ago, they were whistling out of touch tunes
now, there are heads rising from the armpits
feet from abdomens fingers from the anus
and they are talking about dormant diseases that
come out in the open only after your 50th year
out there the mockery is getting louder
the air as colder as men whose blood is removed from them.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ode to the town of Porcupine ON. Canada
Roy Rogers & The Rocket man (They were my heroes)
(Ode to the Porcupine)
There's a place east of Sault St. Marie where I go
On highway eleven north of Toronto
Near the Texas Gulf Kidd Creek Copper Mine
It's the city of Timmins and South Porcupine
There's the Hollinger mine and the Shania Twain Centre
So proud of 'Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under'
Les Costello 'the flying father' and Shumacher town
It's the place where Frank and Peter Mahovlich were born
Chorus:
In summer the farmers rise early at dawn
Their hands tell a story of ancestors gone
They'll feed this great nation with tractors and hoes
At the ol Mounjoy Market their produce are sold
Verse:
When I was a boy we'd play cowboys and Indians
With my trusty dog Ginger by old Feldman's mill
Roy Rogers and the Rocket Man they were my heroes
At a nickel for popcorn and two bits for the show
There's the one forty four goes south to Sudbury
On the way there's Gogama Indian territory
And were next of kin to the great Cross Canada Highway
You go west to Vancouver and east P.E.I.
As sung by Loopen Cash
By Paul Henry Dallaire
Paul Henry Pub.
SOCAN
poem by Paul Henry Dallaire
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The Sucker
finally you give up a load
from your shoulder
the pleasing one that elf
that used to flatter you but you did not know at first
it has the mouth of a leech
the face of the boa
the skin of a porcupine
you see how it has hurt you
you dislodge it like a louse
and with your fingernails
you press it against the wall
it bursts
and so you go away satisfied with
your last laugh
here
revenge is sweeter....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Enan
did i tell you
that a poet was not born in a day?
oh, it takes a lifetime
to become one,
it takes a thousand years
of sensitivity
to feel the thorns of a worm
the skin of the porcupine
it will take another thousand years
to tell which is green
which is blue
from the blind eyes of the
fingers
i must tell you
the poems may have come
not in trickles
for they come not but in a flash flood
in a flash of lightning
stabbing the mountains
in the roar of thunder in the bellies
of the tigers
oh well, they have all been there
we only need to discover.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Diggers
Bristling Billy the porcupine,
A person that nobody liked,
Sinking a shaft on an ant-bed mine,
Came on a burrowing lizard's line,
And the lizard was badly spiked.
'You're a blundering fool,' said the snake's half-brother,
And that was how one thing led to another.
Weary Willie the wombat king
Said he was champion excavator;
But the Bristler said, 'You ain't no such thing;
You couldn't dig up a new pertater!'
So a match was made on their mining skill,
Bristling Billy and Weary Will.
Both of the creatures were stout as steel,
With knife-like claws that could dig for ever.
The wombat dug with the greater zeal,
But he hadn't the style or the action clever
Of Bristling Billy, who looked a winner
Till he struck some ants, and he stopped for dinner.
Down where the ants had hid their young
Underground in a secret tunnel,
Scooping them up with his sticky tongue
Into his mouth that was like a funnel:
'Why should I dig for your wagers scanty,'
Said he, 'when I'm feeling so full and ant-y?'
A kangaroo who has lost his cash
Was wild at this most absurd come-uppance.
'Now listen, you poor ant-eating trash,
I'd give you a kick in the ribs for twopence!'
'Well, when I've finished with this here diet,'
Said Bristling Billy, 'you come and try it.'
Bristling Billy the porcupine,
A person that nobody likes,
Wanders away on his lonely line,
Rattles his fearful spikes.
Says he, 'There's none of you long-haired squibs
Is game to give me a kick in the ribs.'
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Reuniting The Rehash
the pieces do not remain as pieces
in a certain longing they come back and
find a way to compose themselves again
like a quilt
an abstract painting of green leaves looking like
some cuttings from a woman's old dress
and black twigs protruding from a canvass like
some needles and pins
reuniting into a unified creature in space
a porcupine fish perhaps
or a brown cone from a pine tree
images of the past summer
streaks of light at twilight after two shadows
finally say
'it is over'. They had enough.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No One Demands
... that there must be respect
to the wings of a fly, a mere fly
on top of a garbage
from your kitchen,
that there must be respect
to a leaf of a mahogany
on a permission to take it
away from a twig,
that there must be respect
for the handful of water that
you drink from the river,
that there must be respect
for the porcupine fish
from the bottom of the sea
even if it's form be
hateful,
the air is sacred
the sea is sacred
the tree is sacred
like every man, every baby,
every eye
every hand
the spider is sacred
and so is the carabao
resting in the mud hole
after a hard day's toil
every carapace
an empty shell
every grain of sand
belongs to no one
respect and live
on the blessings
of Mother Earth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thinking Too Much
the whole day there is so much thinking
and something that i cannot understand
runs inside my spine
it is like a very thorny vine
a porcupine perhaps
or some kind of a new breed of
an urchin
the whole night they will all be running
over my head
under my hair
the conscience who is not a stranger
shall listen like a child to his mother
the pillow cannot help
on this matter of an indecision
to be
or not to be me
to hate much
and set aside love
to play and
forget the rules
to sleep and wish
death
to wake up
early and then
regret
please slay me with your love
that which this hate
plans to achieve
too quickly
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ego is the propeller
Be a boaster, a poser or a jobber,
Be a leader, a crusader or a seer,
Be a ruler, a dictator or a devastator,
Be a hoarder, a miser or a grabber,
Be a touch-me-not, a porcupine or a hypocrite,
Be a lover, a devotee or a door-mate,
Be a voyeur, a rover or a womanizer
Or be a masturbator, a molester or a rapist,
They are so as their egos manifest
And demand to get them fed.
The humblest of the humble or
The noblest of the noble are of no exception.
The lion chases and the deer flees;
The lion pursues and the lioness eludes.
04.01.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Molested Porcupine On My Head
Regarding the daily disintegration of my bad haircut
in awed astonishment, the moth-eaten ends forming
the outline of a badly battered mop
No amount of hair-spray, coaxing and determined blow-
waving can save the mutilated hair from resembling a
molested porcupine nestling on my head
Even greater my fascinated discovery that hubby thinks my
hair looks good, I made five backward somersaults in my
shock at his heresy, how strange the world
That he should like my Last-Of-The-Mohicans outline today,
I suppose I’m not a crocodile any more, more an electrified
hedgehog from now on...
poem by Margaret Alice
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