Best Dung Poems
Surly Sally slipped and lost a flip flop
at a hearty party in a bungalow with Billy.
while dancing and prancing to hip hop
whirling and twirling and spinning silly.
Can you reverse and remember the flop she flipped?
Well it ludicrously landed in the party punch bowl.
Nobody noticed while they slurped and sipped
and the dancers dipped and ripped and rolled.
They dipped, danced, pranced and laughed,
pirouetted, and sweated,
tipped and turned till totally daft.
Beer and booze abetted.
The next night they stayed sober and soloed somber.
Crashing and complaining Billy’s head hung,
both believed they’d been belted by a bomber.
Surly Sally swore she felt like dung on a rung!
Let this be a lurid logical lesson,
to those who think it’s only fun and frolick to abuse booze,
Or you too could be confessin’
And for lack of the light of this litany you’re liable to lose!
An answer to a challenge for John Freeman’s Alliteration contest
by my poetry friend, Gwendolen Rix.
An article about a dung beetle
Says they devour matter that’s faecal
Imagine eating pooh
It’s what dung beetles do
The fetor of their breath must be lethal!
08-19-17
This rhyme may seem strange but each word's truly equal
Now Beetle's tale's done no need for a sequel.
They'd chat by the teazel of matters so lethal
Of sequels and prequels and justice so penal.
In fields green and fetal past signs with a decal
He'd meet Sheetal the Beadle who spoke of things fecal.
With eyes prehensile he'd spot every weevil
And warn all the people of dangers so evil.
This Beetle was legal though far from regal
He'd wheedle and wheeze with his diesel-powered treacle.
He found a gold needle a prize for his easel
And painted a weasel avoiding the measles.
Again there once was a beetle so feeble and small
Who lived in a steeple with people so tall^-^
And painted a weasel avoiding the measles
He found a gold needle a prize for his easel.
This Dung Beetle was again legal though far from regal
He'd wheedle and wheeze with his diesel-powered treacle
And warn all the people of dangers so evil
With eyes prehensile he'd spot every weevil
Again, he'd meet Sheetal the Beadle who spoke of more things fecal
In more fields green and fetal past signs with even more decals
Of sequels and prequels and justice so penal
They'd chat by the teazel of matters so lethal
NOW Beetle's tale's ended again no need for……….a sequel
His adventures were splendid each moment so……….regal.
This rhyme may seem strange but each word's truly equal
A lesson in language both _^_ playful and………. legal
The Dung Beetle though small had a heart brave and true
Proving size doesn't matter in all that we do.
The woman married at a young age
to the eldest son of a farmer-
my maternal uncle and neighbor.
Usually, she woke up early at the crow's caw
and swept the dirt floor of the house with a broom
often wiping it with water and a nura ( wet cloth )
After that she took a bath, changed her clothes
and wiped with water the surface before the holy Basil(Tulsi)
in the middle of the courtyard
as well as the surfaces at the portico and inside the house
where the family Deities traditionally reside.
After these tasks, she prayed the Deities and holy Basil
while burning mekruk(,an incense).
The prayer was once again repeated at dusk
lighting a lantern or candle.
As a routine she grinding,hand-pounding
and flapping paddy,(sometimes cutting firewood)
alone or with a sister- in -law,
cooking food( burning firewood) and serving the family members,
cleaning the kitchen and utensils after the food served.
After these she washed clothes for the family members.
And in the afternoon she wove clothes
at the fly scuttle loom in the outhouse.
Besides, she helped the neighbours in times of need.
She treated her father-in-law and mother-in-law with devotion,
regarded her husband's younger siblings
as if they were her own children.
Many children were born to her
but, she died prematurely at the age of seventy.
After her death I sometimes remember her
as one of the symbols of traditional housewives
of the old past .
.
Stinch is my weapon
Rolling my prize possession
In a perfect ball
Morning comes with a smack around the ear hole
Shaking me to the foundations of my sole
The morning meeting at 9 am
Is like the sound of a bell sent up from hell
As all parties take their seats
Competing as if they were in the Olympic qualifying heats
Musical chairs would be perhaps a better description
But at least half of the attendees would not understand the diction
The chairman calls for attention, we are about to begin
And pray to the Holy Father above to please forgive our sins
As we are about to enter into a fierce debate
As a result of these discussions we will open up the floodgate
I will not be held back in my opinions!
But they are valued the same as a one pound bag of onions
I hear what the other attendees say
And watch them scream to try and get their way
But I am just a no-one
A wanderer amongst the cow dung
The lowest of low
And to be honest, it show’s
That I don’t like going to the 9 am meeting
I would rather be sat by desk eating.
Cow-dung cakes getting sold in a blink,
So it seems in India one may think.
Duly gift-wrapped and given,
To get with someone even,
Pretty sweet revenge proves with that stink!
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Online shopping seems to have taken India by storm that would include even cow-dung cakes-- one of the most currently popular gifts ordered—often with a request to gift-wrap before delivered. And stocks run out, an eight piece package may cost up to 400 rupees. Hope, I won't get one for this ditty.
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Happenings | 08.03.2017 |
Mr. Camel is fascinated by his friend Dilbert Dung Beetle’s diet.
He thinks eating up excrement, feces and manure is a riot.
It is tasty! Delicious! You should try a salty elephant pie!
Dilbert Dung Beetle says. You would love it if you gave it a try!
Mr. Camel watches Dilbert dig in, gulping down gobs of the stuff.
He thinks it must have a weird smell, but Dilbert can’t get enough.
You might sample a tiny bit Dilbert says, it is delicious you see!
Mr. Camel shakes his head and says “Sorry, it does not appeal to me.”
A beetle races from its deep hiding
To gather more food for the morning!
Amidst its fields of fruits and bananas,
In the open plains of African savanna.
A tiny black bug, glowing in the sand
It shoots across the sun-dried land
Busy pace and not enough time,
to roll back a nitrogen ball sublime!
Every morning at the break of dawn
The beetle is out as agile as a fawn
It is suited black from top to toe,
Like some tycoon with trade to grow!
It wore no tie, has no briefcase
But had jointed legs for life’s race,
two large feelers that sense the air
To locate discards from cattle’s rear!
Large balls of partly digested grass,
Are a high carbon and nitrogen mass,
Will be stacked over and well stored,
For beetle generations,a wealth hoard!
The storage den is a deep deep hole,
That has a fortune of dung ball rolls,
Collected diligently in an insane craze
To store away in the underground maze!
This busy businessman drives no cars,
But still navigates with milky-way stars,
Can precisely locate mound of waste,
And roll them home for a later date!
It’s desire for earning has no bounds
In a day it makes very many rounds,
hoardings often exceed the life needs,
Yet every morning for more it speeds!!
And finally one day it meets its fate,
A flick of tongue and it’s a lizard’s waste!
In the brief history of this beetles life,
Are the resonance of our own strife!
When the earnings exceed our own need,
wealth becomes just a measure of greed!
The meaningless chase of that wealth,
At an immense cost to our own health.
We may detest the beetle for what it brings,
The beetle has no value for gold savings,
Here is a lesson to us all with greed,
What we already have, is all that we need!
And so we traveled very, very high,
Our destination seemingly to reach
The gathering mist and
Dreary grey sky.
The path rather track that we took,
Could have been misunderstood,
For a stairway to heaven.
Are you going right to the top,
Are you mad to go,
Asked a kind old man with a mop
Of pure white hair, walking his dog.
He seemed to think so.
At every curve we went higher,
I feared we could not travel further,
As the track became even curvier,
Our altitude terrifying,
But still we kept climbing.
I did not utter a sound,
Just accepted that we might die,
And might shortly be heaven bound.
No alternative to be found,
We had to face this rocky terrain.
The mist arrived, low and blanket like,
It was recommended that this
Area was good for a hike,
Or mountain biking,
Perhaps even cycling,
And what about the mist,
Pray tell, I Insist.
We finally reached our rustic
Holiday accommodation,
And destination,
Off the grid,
With feelings of trepidation,
Not a property
For which I would bid.
What a magnificent sight to behold,
We avoided little mounds of sand,
When walking on a gravel path,
Towards our wood cabin,
Cows munched grass outside our door,
A worker, hired as a farm hand,
Covered cow dung with this sand,
Thank God for small mercies,
Hallelujah, hubby said.
The Natal midlands, we will
Visit again, but will stay
on lower Terra Firma
So that we may
Live. to see another day.
Ammonia-ed clumps of damp, dunged straw
forked onto her cold barrow, then rolled outside.
Across the field where her ninety pounds
thrust up the dray atop a mulching mound!
Nineteen times before the sour dregs
are swallowed by the day.
Bowed tendons stripe her calloused palms with pain.
She racks each open with a metal comb
to rake her horse’s mane.
Stall cleaned; horse fed, mane combed to shine as gold-
Showered, she brings her smile to our bed.
Do not condemn anyone as poor,
Today, they are poor,
Tomorrow they will not be rich -
Lord can not tell it himself.
They are like precious stones,
If they are taken care of,
Then they will continue to blaze,
They may be reasonably appreciated because they are not negligence.
The pond which water isn't drinkable ,
There also fragrant lotus flowers grown,
Tomorrow they may be worthy of praise,
The molecular bombs are small but they are very powerful.
Those who have many assets,
Do not think they are very wise, decent and polite,
The wealth of those who are looted by them,
They are the real rude.
taste my pencil fingers.
can you taste the poem I wrote for you?
the poems I may still write?
why the sour look?
tastes like scat?
sorry wrong hand.
While shepherds watched their flocks so white
All contemplating dusk,
Their ’phones received some breaking news
All thanks to Elon Musk.
His Tweet announced a virgin birth
In a stable by an inn,
They danced around the windswept heath
To a flute and violin.
In Bethlehem was born a child
A-sleeping in a crib,
They scrolled the Twitter crowd’s response
And thought it rather glib.
The innkeeper was quite concerned
That crowds would congregate,
Quick-thinking Joseph found some wood
And made an extra gate.
A star was shining overhead
That none had seen before,
No pundit was prepared to talk -
Not even Patrick Moore.
The stationers caught unawares -
They hadn’t got a clue;
A strong demand for calendars
For ADs One and Two.
The cattle started lowing -
As only livestock can -
The news spread fast across the plains
To every working man.
The shepherds all were gobsmacked as
Emotions ran so deep,
The spectacle of three wise men
Sure beats watching sheep.
A cub reporter scrambled
As the iPhone users scrolled,
Instructed to get pictures of
Some frankincense or gold.
The wondrous child lay fast asleep
In swaddling clothes and fur,
A shawl fell from His mother’s back
As she spied the gift of myrrh.
When wise men booked rooms overnight
The licensee did smile,
But camels tethered in his yard
Left a substantial pile.
The faith that followed Jesus’ birth
Did prosper and endure,
But spare a thought for stable lads
Recycling that manure.
i’m worthy of nothing, and deserving of all
my couplet cost but a sh*t, yet turned out a ball
By
David Kavanagh