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Best Brown Nose Poems | Poetry

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The Best Brown Nose Poems

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Teacher's Pet

In every class I’ve taken yet
There’s one who longs to be
A brown-nose, suck-up teacher’s pet
And man, it bothers me!

The one who always answers first
Or quickly volunteers
To hand out what must be dispersed
Ahead of all her peers.

The one who helps the teacher out
With every chore and mission;
Whose smiles are phony, there’s no doubt,
Just like a politician.

The one who needs the spotlight’s glow
And thus, appears quite greedy;
But more than likely, that’s not so – 
She’s probably just needy.

Yet from the teacher’s point of view,
That pet makes life real easy.
The rest of us, however, find
Such actions really cheesy.

Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2013

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God Asked Me

One day, one time, God spoke to me.
The Creator who knows everything supposedly,
had a question that needed answering from yours truly.
"You're always helping others in need less fortunate than you,
and many of these people aren't particularly liked by you.
Why do you do all of the charitable things that you do?
What's your reward? What's in it for you?
Most times you commit these acts anonymously,
so you receive no recognition, no praise, no publicity.
I Am All And Know All but this baffles me.
Why do you do what you do SillyBilly?"
My reply to my Creator was simply,
"The meek shall inherit the earth and live heavenly
as promised by my Creator of all that is and will ever be.
My Creator has shared that People Helping People is the key
and I'm just doing what I can to relieve my Creator from some of the responsibility.
It's just my way of saying, Thanks For Creating Me."
My Creator then looked sadly down upon me
and said, "I don't know how to say this, but I'm very sorry.
You are hereby sentenced to hell for all eternity.
I need to work on this. Guess you could say it's my pet peeve,
but I don't tolerate any of they who brown nose their deity."
My time spent in hell has dispelled all of the rumors
about God not having a dark sense of humor.

Copyright © Billy TheKidster | Year Posted 2011

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He was born in backwoods Missouri.
1840 the year he arrived.
Conflict, sickness and hard times prevailed.
Through it all he grew strong and survived.
Skills to live were a gift from his father.
Faith in God from his mother each day.
Never taking his freedom for granted.
Understanding the price one must pay.

He quietly moved into manhood. 
With his siblings he stood sure and tall.
Proud to be part of his family.
Then, the young man heard destiny's call.
Not sure of the path to be taken,
But, he knew he must find his own way.
Calling on God's Divine guidance,
And His strength, love and joy for each day.

Well, for five years he worked in the mill, 
Preparing for what life will bring.
A wagon to build, horses to buy.
Then Sarah walked in and made his heart sing.
Sometimes, one can feel like a shadow;
Incomplete in an unfulfilled dream.
That's how it was for Sarah and Paul,
Till they flowed into one life stream.

Sarah's family were all back in Boston.
She left them to find, her own destiny.
Consumed by the pioneer spirit.
How she longed for the land of the free.
She made it as far as Missouri,
With a plan to move on further west.
Then Paul walked into her life and she knew,
That he'd become part of her quest.

She shared in his hope for the future.
More than willing to stand by her man.
To homestead some land out in Kansas,
Start a farm, raise a family, the plan.
An American flag and the bible;
Wedding gifts from Paul's mother, she cried,
"May God keep you safe in your travels."
His father looked on, full of pride.

They hitched up the team to the wagon,
Bid farewell to their family and friends.
Headed out, into unknown adventure,
Where America's dream never ends.
There were challenges met on the journey,
With a spirit that will not concede.
Swarming locust, dust storms, rivers to cross,
But, they knew where their victories lead.

They traveled through Kansas with hope in their hearts,
For a place where a family could thrive.
Where crops could be grown, a church and a school,
And a town that was fairly close by.  
They found peace in a county called Morris.
Felt like home with some trees and a stream.
Quarter section of land with some promise.
Here they'd build their American dream.

Sarah tilled up some ground for the garden.
Paul began to envision their home;
A cabin with walls strong and sturdy;
A pole with the flag his mother had sewn.
Neighbors came by to lend them a hand.
Soon the cabin was built safe and warm.
Sarah with child, Paul worked on the barn.
And they were secure from the storm.

Well, the days went by, as they surely do.
Then the weeks, and the months, and the years.
Three little children now ran through,
All their struggles, and laughter, and tears.
Paul raised up the flag in the morning.
And they read from the bible each day.
Grateful for all God had given them.
Before meals they held hands and they'd pray.

There was Mary and Matthew and Martha,
Their dog Bo with big ears and brown nose.
Sarah tended the garden and children,
Cooked the meals and made most of their clothes.
Each child was given chores to be done,
Learning honesty, friendship and pride.
Their Pa, a pillar of honor and strength.
And love, the wagon they all would ride.

Paul learned to farm, he planted the wheat,
And hoped for a high yield each year.
But nature can rip through the best laid plans,
Searching for options, it soon became clear.
The forge and the anvil sat waiting,
For the skill that Paul learned as a boy.
He had to provide for his children and wife.
And his knife making brought him such joy.

Between mending fences and planting,
Hunting and harvesting wheat that prevailed;
He worked in the shop with tools that he loved,
Making knives that his customers hailed!
"Nothing less than a fine work of art,"
"An extension of one's very hand."
But Paul ever humble, thanked God for his skill,
And kept working the steel and the land.

Neighbors helped neighbors in times of need.
Being friends reached beyond a passing hello.
They shared in the blessings God gave them,
Through fire and hail and hard driven snow.
While the children grew up with a purpose, 
And a love for this land of the free.
Knowing God is the source of their freedom.
We the People are given the key.

Paul and Sarah provided their family,
With shelter and clothing and food.
Safe from harm and the fury of nature.
Giving love that would always include,
Paul raising the flag in the morning.
Holding hands and a prayer for each meal.
Sarah reading them all bible verses.
Sunday worship to nourish and heal.

They had found their American Dream.
In the land and the friends they had made,
And the freedom to raise up a family.
To choose their own way, and the price to be paid.
From a distance it looks like survival,
But with God, it's a blessing indeed.
Life, Liberty, the quest for happiness.
Planting love as the ultimate seed.  

Copyright © Robert Nehls | Year Posted 2015

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Eat the Excrement

Government policies that toilet stink
Presidentially approved 
by a potty-mouth politrician rat-fink

Give the progressive town halls
more executive bathroom stalls
Read the foul language scrawls 
on the Oval Office latrine 
dollar-bill green painted walls
Flush the rank noise
with a few 
smelly issue tissue tweet bawls

That dung aroma gon make your nose blink,
bowel vapors
will have your thoughts vomiting in the sink

Get the voting public 
standing at nausea attention
Prep the ballot masses of breathy dissension
with sound bytes 
of bitter chocolate bung mint,
duly veto sent
Tell ‘em it’s their sworn patriotic duty
to greedily eat the excrement

Taste the butt-hole flavor
of nasty worded inhalation torment
Truth got swallowed whole ... intestinal sold
Filthy lucre lips
do love the ruble con savor

Condition the brown-nose party bound chumps
to double dip the cow chips
into the raw sewage salsa with the brown lumps

Be stricken by the loose tongue, 
back-end diet
of diarrhea verbose crying
A cheeky butt buffet ... 
odious motives with odoriferous intent
Buy the all-you-can-eat lying,
go feast on the swirling fear excrement

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2018

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I am not a Lamb

A Wolf...A Lamb...A Wolf

Forgetting myself...started with me
To be sweet, to be fit in.
Impress by agreement.  A Lamb I could be.
Convince all my thoughts; 
Copacetic is me

*So it began...
My best thought is, I'm at peace.  I'm content. 
Be positive!   I can do this!  
Be like a lamb.   

Softly;  I'm a breeze.  Calm in my soul.
Gently I'll allow, only good thoughts to flow
Small, inconspicuous... I'll learn, it's me
Just nod in unison, always agree.

*I am a Lamb...

My favorite thought is;  
I'm about love, not despair.
Quiet my being.  
Silently there.
My thoughts do whisper, 
a pleasing hushed ease
'I am not conflict'
For lambs, only, please.

*I am a Lamb.

My finest thought is;  
I'm wonderfully bright.
As a golden suns warmth slowly softens my light.
Embrace others truths,  as they are my own.
So they won't see it, I can't be alone.  Suddenly. I feel 
like a liar!...A cheat!
Conforming isn't me!  
My own thoughts rise, to defeat.
Forcing their way, repossessing my soul
I am 'not' a lamb kept under control!
Fueling my mind, with courage and might.
My confidence is back!  Submission won't fight.

*I am 'Not' a lamb.

My true thoughts are; I'll regain what's been sold. 
Get back my old self, feel enlightened and bold.
My thoughts are not truths!  What I believe, is my right! 
My true self is brave!  Be damn sure, I will bite!

*I Am a Wolf

My only thought now is;  I'm seeing me, so clear.
I am 'not' a Lamb,
I'm a Wolf without fear!
To deviate or follow.  To protest or agree.
My thoughts are my own! 
To decide, up to me

*I AM a wolf!

Now, I am genuine.  Honest and free.
I'll behave as I choose,  I've re-found the true me! 
I will brown nose to no one or be a doormat for love.
Take me or leave me, herein and above.
I'll be contented and scrappy, 'cause that's who I am!
Definitely a Wolf. 
Not particular to Lamb.

I Will not comply
I Will not lie down
I Will not go quietly
I Will not submit
I Will not roll over
I Will not shut up

I Am Not a Lamb!

Copyright © Okanagan Bell | Year Posted 2016

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During a Round of Golf at Pebble Beach

On Pebble Beach's seventh green
I paused to watch an otter.
He dove, cavorted, spun around,
An acrobat on water.
Then lolling, drifting, eyeing me
He twitched brown nose and whiskers.
His thought, that moment, mirrored mine:
"He plays all day, that rascal."

Copyright © David Bose | Year Posted 2017

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It's a November
when I find myself walking 
My hand holding yours
Side by side arms swaying
Your little fingers interlocking with mine.
I believe it is a happy day.
I think it shows on your little sun-tanned face.
I feel it myself from deep within.
Slowly welling up like a spring of water
From a dry ground, long athirst.
I see the sun walking along gently in pace with us
Touching your brown nose and passing your limbs.
Blessing you with a soft radiance and blissful joy a child can only know.
Your school uniform lighter than cerulean sky 
Matching your gaiety, perfecting a mother-child moment.
Dotting the passing clouds with pure colors of your innocence and laughter.
Gigantic floating cotton balls of clouds
like stringed balloons; oh, please hold onto them, 
cease 'em before away they fly.
A moment to treasure when things aren't as happy as they should.
A many of this I pray to come,
A joyful carefree walk with my little boy;
Now, a mother's hand held by her small son.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

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The modern Knight

The modern Knight The Knight of the realm , Was a great man of courage, Who protected the people, Got dubbed by the King, The bravest of brave, Moralitys brightest, Loved by the people, Now the rich mans plaything??? But it became some snobs, crass title, Given to Kerrs, and curs aint the thing, Class distinction, from above, call me mister or sir? The greatest of toads, to serve the toad master, Brown nose, hum dingers, billy stinkers, I ching, Gee golly they call me mr or sir? Right next to the saints, I’ve risen old thing, To keep me head down, I’ll need on me bridle, A martingale strong, So me head doesn’t sing… Don Johnson THE ONE WHO ALLOWED 12 ATOM BOMBS EXPLODED HERE IN AUSTRALIA GOT KNIGHTED FOR SERVICE TO THE QUEEN:} ONLY 12 THOUSAND AUSSIES DEAD FROM STRONTIUM 90 IN THE MILK, AND ALL THE LITTLE KIDDIES GOT IT AT SCHOOL TOO IN THE FIFTYS... I REFUSED TO DRINK MILK AINT I LUCKY ??? check it out if you don't believe :{

Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2014

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This Tear

This tear                                  So tightly held these salty tears                           
so tight my eyes squeeze                   embracing the We like long lost love
and yet you fall, fall with a weight            of remembrance returning to the earth
  of cares sinking in a fathomless lake of woe            moistening it without glaze.

This tear                                           Flicked freely from the corner of mother’s eye
dropping with pointed precision       upon pearl white cheek     flying momentarily...
  or running childishly from the tip    on the fingertips of joy 
beside a chocolate brown nose. Or in gasps of anguish too great for arms to hold      
Circles the world with the bounty of heart…

When released from imprisoned  chest
           bodes more than woe. 
                                  This tear defines the humanity of man.

Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Contest: Personify a Tear

* Do to the 12 line requirement this verse has been altered to be read both left to right and from top to bottom.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

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Never I Did

I never liked you
no, no ... no, no
never I did
I never cared for your fake
Eddie Haskell face at all
Your tart tongue cut my birthday cake ...
seedy, greedy hands took a slice not small
This here Beav got a nose that can tell,
and you no good weasel got a bad putrid smell
Your flattering lips
is always greasing the dish spoon
Serving up hollow compliments every time
your pitter patter enter the room
Been hearing your chitter chatter far too long,
the gift of your gab is like a warped vinyl song
You’re an annoying teapot whistling on and on
I never liked you,
and your bad breath words 
that smell like dung
I never liked you
no, no ... no, no
never I did
I never took a shine
to your Lady Conniva brown nose talk
Always got your face between the buns,
making it real hard for a person to walk
Your motives are naked to me,
my open eyes they can rightly see
You got a wrong purpose in your heart,
don’t really care about nobody but you
But I ain’t gonna let you getaway go-cart
with whatever it is you’re planning to do
Because I never liked you
no, no ... no, no
never I did
Saw right thru your phony facade too
Yes, yes ... yes I did
I never liked you
no, no ... no, no
never I did
Never did like you
Now how you like that — 
hearing the truth!

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017

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playground politics-writer's notes

playground politics

we zap and zip
read my lips
we hide and seek
from teacher's peek
on swings
we wing 
on slides
we cried
marbles play 
swords we flay
should i repeat
another beat
marbles play
swords we flay
never mind 
what we find
king of the hill
jack and jill
story told
she was very bold
jill rode jack
on his back
right over there
under the stairs
we peered
like deer
we all hushed
behind a bush
it was all an act
that was a fact
two bunnies
rubbing tummies
that was it
don't have a fit
we are kids
yes we did
run the playground
round and round
dodge a ball
hide behind a wall
scrape a knees 
fall on a bee
hide behind fatty
flirt with patty
hide a corner
there's a loner
hop scotch here
volleyball there
shoot some hoops
assemble troops
we are kids
yes we did
run the playground
round and round
yet get this
gee whiz
stars and stripes borne
teachers scorn
now they come out
to shout
their eyes
and voices chastise
what fools
no praying, too
we cuss
and fuss
we play
our way
yet they dread
if we bow our heads
is this
not preposterous 
all i know politics seed
its ugly face bred

3/26/17-No rose again Note-Cyndi wrote in her critique (and I laugh at her) that it is demeaning to describe a child as fatty. Please. Can someone direct her and maybe the judges, too, to playground politics, anti bullying and the world that some of these kids face. It's called reality.Yes, they face this kind of ridicule everyday. It is sad. Yet would it be better to write a bunch of brown nose crap just to be politically correct? No. I just write what I see and feel, more of the pulse. No facade. And especially no artificiality that some here like to swim in. 

Copyright © connie pachecho | Year Posted 2017

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Both my kids have Birthdays next Month

Is weird to be born
in society thinks is the 
greatest ever and for good reasons.

I was being breast-fed when my mom heard the news
of JFK
She remembers, I don't.

I don't member RFK either or even 
MLK, but what I will tell ya
is forty odd years later  doesn't ring true
that all three were
“random acts of violence”

We gotta get smart, people
trust our own brains 'cause I tell ya
what slave-owners don't want ya to know

Long as ya buy in to brown-nose *** kissin' consumption
you're riskin' your kids future and furthermore
the half-life for super-powers is about two-hundred
years, ask greece and rome
turkey, egypt, great brittain and so on

just sayin' think on it please
that's all.

Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2011

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Never Hit a Potamus

Never Hit a Potamus

Never hit a Potamus,
on his grey brown nose.
Cos' if you do, he'll flatten you,
by jumping on your toes.

For 7 year olds
Contest to follow
KS 28.1.18

Copyright © Kevin Shaw | Year Posted 2018

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A Cyrano Situation

Pinocchio politicians
got long nose ambitions
Pirate patch parrot thoughts
in the bosom
keel dereliction decisions
Gender gypsy tramps bought,
paid horizontal submission
Whore whispers being said
Global security is premature burial 
on a bald eagle spread bed ... 
squirting liquid lies: moo white noise emission
Face paste looks like a Cyrano rinse condition
Gator tears shaking 
from a dirty tongue megaphone
Broken spit vows 
gutter belly creeping back home
One less bell to answer:
no hearing mo’ tales of wives wronged
Lewd lute lips playing lover musical chairs,
one less sitter — 
drunk odious woman fallen down the stairs
Fake profit fiddlers 
are mannequin pocket piddling
and double-talk diddling ,
Nero nay palms are starting grease fires
in the negotiating kitchen
Nuclear smoke alarm 
on a chirping tweet oral fixation
Fat kick-back Russian roulette fumes ...
it smells like a Cyrano situation
Where’s the ladder and the fire hose,
why ain’t the rubber moving on the road?
Guess you gotta trust the crafty Fahrenheit ones,
with the shortest mercury brown nose

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2018

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Froggy Kiss

“Truth isn’t truth,”
that’s what some Cap’n Obvious toady recently said

He was pissy mad, when his angry tears wet the bed

Lieutenant Rudy Brown-Nose 
a has-been sniffing the swine caboose breeze:
Loco breath wafting 
between sulfuric methane,   prune puckered lips — 
sphincter pie holes half-closed

Politrician power tools pocket plugged into their patsy roles,
says with dark chaos authority: Everything is under control

Public trust pirates, 
		  dressed in 
			populist parrot disguise,
love $inging tavern song$
Foaming out the frothy, dark-amber lager lies 

Iscariot getaway chariots
be karaoke squealing yellow snow —  
highway robbery melodies

Money green
		dollar rain
golden showers

On silver cloud vapor piles,
sticky six-finger flies 
be spitting out 
buzz-kill dung beetle cries

Butt of the jokes be the wench reward
for the stumbling,
	power-drunk whores 

	Wet froggy kisses
scraping the sky
	for a few rubles more

$ee the neon $ign $potlight in the $ky,
it’s showing some Two-Face, penny-wise liar
Ritalin up the final justice score

Bat-crazy, Commish slum lord
got the Lewd tenant
filthy lucre crumbs on the floor

Dog whistles got the railroad cage bent ... 
Wall Street woofers on a barf paid,  carny bark yell
Every foul commodity bowel movement
do slug leave a regurgitated profit stench vomit trail

While the vote suckers are on the slow buy,
their Good Ship Lollipop is on a quick sell 

“Truth isn’t truth,”
is what some Cap’n Crunch croaker just said

That’s a mouth full of self-serving, apron purse ties
Sweet Georgia boo pecan pie is tasty cow pucky lies
Go on ... take another covetous slice, 
and a couple more burglar bites

		Wet froggy kisses
scraping the sea below
		for a few dollars mo’

Spitballing Prince of Tides
		love muddying the waters so 
Sold old truths as new lies

“Truth is truth,”
ain’t what some Cap’n Ahab toady just white lie wail said

It crocodile aqua lava seems 
		the Cap’n Nemo Lying King 
is gonna sleep well tonight, on your hot Pompeii water bed

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2018

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Right Hand Man

Coulda been
the Hand of the Lying King,
if I didn’t tell the truth so much

Coulda been
Caesar’s right hand man,
if I was kill willing 
to have a shogun trigger touch

Coulda been
chief consigliore renown
for the don Corelone spiked crown
But I never wanted to know 
where the blood money 
was body bag buried underground

Coulda been dark knighted Haman Faustian
All I had to diablo do was unjust be Equus no-good;
give breaking bad Darth Vader viper counsel,  wearing a cobra hood
Terminator words that would crush the skull bones

Coulda been  the Vice Hand
standing behind the golden chalice image,
ruling drunkenly on the Babylonian Empire throne 

Coulda been
the Spartan Hand of the Grecian warlord,
but I loved peace too much

Told the Jezebel whisperers of the royal court,
don’t try to finger me to be the next flesh merchant of death ... 
I don’t tear traffick in such    ~    City-state grunts suffer enough

Coulda been
Caesar’s right hand hatchet man,
if I had promoted Herod cockatrice thoughts
to condor hatch crucifixion plans

If I had been parrot inclined
to whisper 
some patriot mischief in Pharaoh’s ear ...
I coulda been 
sitting next to the pirate power,
making the brown-nose boot lickers fear

Coulda been
the Iron Hand of the President,
if I truly had a crafty guile mind to
take a sticky dip ...
deep in them pockets of citizen you

Coulda been
the sixth finger of king Midas’ hand
But, breaking the golden rule,
just wasn’t the ambitious rear end 
I was willing to career bend

If I was more Balaam money bag motivated — 
Fee willing to put a Judas hand under the table;
and with an Iscariot silver patch-eye gaze, 
look the other way         as freedom get disabled

I coulda been
Pharaoh’s right hand man

I coulda been
the one who doused the torch
in Lady Liberty’s hand

I coulda been
Caesar’s right hand man

I coulda been
the one who lit the Pilate
in Nero’s hand

Coulda been
the right Hand of the Lying King,
if I didn’t roar the Judah truth so much

But I was born
a left hand of the Zion King,
who gave a righteous Resurrection roar, 
echoing throughout eternity

Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2018