Make up your own, or change something established, just as long as it is Jazz related.
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Jazz Poetry
- Thread starter Jazz Spazz
- Start date
Chucky Smith
New Member
I THINK that I shall never behold
A Jazz team win the gold.
A Jazz team whose desire is held at bay
By careless chuckers such as CJ.
A Jazz team that looks at standings aghast,
longing not to be dead last.
A Jazz team that may in summer draft
A player with the middle name of Taft;
Upon whose bosom the quest will be placed
To overcome the greatest challenge faced.
A championship to set me free,
But alas Stern controls the referee.
A Jazz team win the gold.
A Jazz team whose desire is held at bay
By careless chuckers such as CJ.
A Jazz team that looks at standings aghast,
longing not to be dead last.
A Jazz team that may in summer draft
A player with the middle name of Taft;
Upon whose bosom the quest will be placed
To overcome the greatest challenge faced.
A championship to set me free,
But alas Stern controls the referee.
dipship31
Well-Known Member
Loved it except the bolded lines
Chucky Smith
New Member
LOL I had to find a rhyme. That's the best I could do at the time.
Mongoose
Well-Known Member
Yo, yo, the name’s G-Time
Big frame, big game, call me big time
Ball hard every night and day
From the ‘Burg I rep it in a big way
Come too close I’ll hit you with the blow-by
Straight to the rim I’m just too high
Stay back and I’ll hit the J
Try to stop me there’s just no waaaay
But it’s not about me, it’s about the team
Going to the tourney with a full head of steam
‘Chip’s real close, it’s at our back door
Get a few dubs we’ll be in the Final Four
Not stopping there, that’s not in store
Push it to the limit we want more
Big frame, big game, call me big time
Ball hard every night and day
From the ‘Burg I rep it in a big way
Come too close I’ll hit you with the blow-by
Straight to the rim I’m just too high
Stay back and I’ll hit the J
Try to stop me there’s just no waaaay
But it’s not about me, it’s about the team
Going to the tourney with a full head of steam
‘Chip’s real close, it’s at our back door
Get a few dubs we’ll be in the Final Four
Not stopping there, that’s not in store
Push it to the limit we want more
Oh, Gordon my love
My desire burns white hot
Like the shades of the dove
My loins will quencheth not
Please, oh Gordon my sweet
I beg here on the ground
Hinder not thy sacred meat
Or the gentle touch of thy mound
Gordon, oh how you make me wail
Forever prodding my soul
How I long to hammer the nail
Into your gaping hole
FIN
My desire burns white hot
Like the shades of the dove
My loins will quencheth not
Please, oh Gordon my sweet
I beg here on the ground
Hinder not thy sacred meat
Or the gentle touch of thy mound
Gordon, oh how you make me wail
Forever prodding my soul
How I long to hammer the nail
Into your gaping hole
FIN
Are you kidding me? Ol' Bill would've loved to have had half the writing prowess I've got. Yo.
Chucky Smith
New Member
Chucky Smith
New Member
There once was player named Bell
That was sent to the Jazz from hell
He was brought in for experience
But has not made a shot since
Despise for him I cannot quell
That was sent to the Jazz from hell
He was brought in for experience
But has not made a shot since
Despise for him I cannot quell
Joe Bagadonuts
Well-Known Member
Stop rhyming. I mean it!
Chucky Smith
New Member
Sonnet 19 - How Do I Hate Thee
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee for your horrendous shot selection
My soul withers, I can’t help but feel dejection
When I watch you botch the most simple plays.
I hate thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet terror, by fluorescent and metal-halide.
I hate thee freely, as others on the bench doth ride;
I hate thee purely, as the Jazz fall to last place.
I hate thee with the heat of a thousand suns
From my younger days, as Jordan shot in Russell’s face.
I hate thee with a sense so deeply scarred
With my lost sanity,—I hate thee with the breath,
anger, tears, of all my life!—and, if God cared,
I shall but hate thee slightly less after death.
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee for your horrendous shot selection
My soul withers, I can’t help but feel dejection
When I watch you botch the most simple plays.
I hate thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet terror, by fluorescent and metal-halide.
I hate thee freely, as others on the bench doth ride;
I hate thee purely, as the Jazz fall to last place.
I hate thee with the heat of a thousand suns
From my younger days, as Jordan shot in Russell’s face.
I hate thee with a sense so deeply scarred
With my lost sanity,—I hate thee with the breath,
anger, tears, of all my life!—and, if God cared,
I shall but hate thee slightly less after death.
Joe Bagadonuts
Well-Known Member
No, but how about a virtual donut? They're on the house today!
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Take seconds if you'd like. There are plenty more where those came from.
Joe Bagadonuts
Well-Known Member
Losing is feeling is bleeding, all three
Are crushing. The Jazz crumble, those
Three are, where moments of amusing free
Throws miss like Miles’ threes. Salt Lake froze.
Shots fail in the surreal season’s fall
When Early Oops sustain whole weeks
Dashing full tilt through a sad hall
That leads further on and madness seeks
Only shots drift wilder, more each day.
Sloan stops, Derron sways, movements still.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, playing may
Become standing, dribbling, and veins chill
No more cheer as blood flow ceases within ESA.
All is lost, is it not? The fanz agree
But then a sudden change. Gordon rises.
Are crushing. The Jazz crumble, those
Three are, where moments of amusing free
Throws miss like Miles’ threes. Salt Lake froze.
Shots fail in the surreal season’s fall
When Early Oops sustain whole weeks
Dashing full tilt through a sad hall
That leads further on and madness seeks
Only shots drift wilder, more each day.
Sloan stops, Derron sways, movements still.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, playing may
Become standing, dribbling, and veins chill
No more cheer as blood flow ceases within ESA.
All is lost, is it not? The fanz agree
But then a sudden change. Gordon rises.
freakazoid
Well-Known Member
I do believe I'll never see
A thing so ugly as Kobe
Ronny T. is from the east
Child of the predator beast
Joakim Noah's face is wack
His mother wants her money back
K-Mart always seems to look
Like a dump that I once took
Fisher with his stupid grin
Sometimes I wish to cave it in
A kid with crayons, must have drawn
The Birdman's dumbass tattoos on
Glen Davis doesn't like Big Baby
But he'll be nice, just pass the gravy
Carmelo really likes to smile
His team is losing, all the while
Chrissy's nickname, CP3
With Deron gone, he still drinks pee
Now comes beauty, from above
I just found a thing called love
Two young rookies, with Pizazz
But only God can make a Jazz
A thing so ugly as Kobe
Ronny T. is from the east
Child of the predator beast
Joakim Noah's face is wack
His mother wants her money back
K-Mart always seems to look
Like a dump that I once took
Fisher with his stupid grin
Sometimes I wish to cave it in
A kid with crayons, must have drawn
The Birdman's dumbass tattoos on
Glen Davis doesn't like Big Baby
But he'll be nice, just pass the gravy
Carmelo really likes to smile
His team is losing, all the while
Chrissy's nickname, CP3
With Deron gone, he still drinks pee
Now comes beauty, from above
I just found a thing called love
Two young rookies, with Pizazz
But only God can make a Jazz
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