Best Flea Bitten Poems
Here comes Buck Toothed Chuck
from Hickville Street,
sorriest feller you
ever did meet.
Walkin' his flea bitten dog
down the street, scratchin’ his head
and flip flopping his feet.
If he asks for money
best say, "No way"!
'cuz it'll slip through his fingers
in less than a day.
He'll be spittin' tobackee
the whole day through,
'cuz he ain't got nothin'
better to do.
There goes Buck Toothed Chuck
from Hickville Street,
hasn’t had a bath in
over a week,
Best steer clear cuz' the
smell ain't sweet,
sorriest feller you
ever did meet.
In the Australian vernacular
he was a ‘flea-bitten’ grey.
Not dappled like a dream horse
but speckled like a rock and not a
fine large horse like Tom Cable’s
roman-nosed, Major.
Dad had traded for him- with Tom -
two rolls of barbed wire and a fence strainer.
He came with a used saddle and bridle and
the high spirits of the seldom ridden.
Dad knew, that before he would let me mount him,
he had to take the 'curry' out of him -
rode him hard through a ploughed paddock.
Rode him until he stood in a foaming sweat
ears sideways, subdued.
I can’t forget being led, those first few rides
“Don’t let go of his head, Dad” I’m not ready yet,” Dad
and I knew the horse sensed the trembling in my being,
until one day, his bone- jarring trot, became a solved puzzle.
I felt a gathering- a sense of balance
between the pony’s mouth, the stirrups and the reins
and suddenly from a secret fulcrum
I was posting, “Let him go now, Dad,” I shouted,
A sweet transition to some rhythmic, magic floating
Around the homestead once and back I was cantering.
I pulled the reins, “Whoa boy!”
That first halt obeyed filled my head for days and days.
You made a lot of money
selling lewd photos of nude
Then you parlayed your profits
into cyber surfing —
triple X cinema ***** crude
Nasty video sex business you were so into
Your vested interest was
a skin flick portfolio bankroll ...
Dirty money bottom line
Letting curious customers
put their cyber bit coins into the virtual pay slot
So they can take a ride on the carnal carousel
Then make them get off ...
Have them taste naked flesh boiling hot
in an abominable lascivious pot
You are so proud of yourself,
Mr. Sleazy bit coin billionaire
You make it so easy —
sex suckers love to lick poisoned lollipop sticks
Getting minds addicted to wicked desires,
those tempting tokens are gonna take ‘em there
You’re so filthy rich cavalier ...
crushing souls, you really don’t care
What those turned-out cyber tramps,
hopefully, will come to one day understand,
those grimy bit coins
is greasing somebody’s dirty hand
And that palm is on a beach somewhere
getting a penthouse triple X suntan
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty old man
with a Howard Weinstein leer
Bit coin billionaire,
you got sticky floor hands
and semen oil slick hair
Spreading your cyber surfing
triple X flotsam everywhere
You’re just a devilish voyeur,
a nickel-and-dime fleshpot billionaire
Your trashy ways smells like
a STD flea-bitten garbage can
And your infectious craves are a
CDC health hazard quarantine
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with semen snake oily hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy green scaly skin
In need of some brimstone lotion
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with sticky floor hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy lucre ashy skin
In need of a brimstone suntan
This poem was inspired by the
talented Richard Lamoureux’s poem,
“Church Perfect Surface.”
— Romantic Warrior
This is a rat infested; flea bitten, trash seeking, concrete hardened,
Winter frozen, nose closing stench I call life.
Poverty my wife:
Ash my nourishment; paper my blanket; disorder my order;
Sewage my water; concrete my mattress; streets my room
No-one is who I am
Living to see another day my plan
Been all over the place but still the same street
Cracked the hardest sole by the greater feet,
Which though winter or summer bring the strongest cold?
BUT YET SO BOLD
To crack a smile of serenity, freeing me, peacefully
Un-comprehended but well complemented
But can’t dare to share it
With my enemies: the rich; the government; the wealthy
I salute you poverty, there were not supposed to be
Don’t they know the richer they are the poorer I become
I know that I’m black but poverty is where I’m from
They may get richer in rand but I’ve got more in cent
Common and the ones jingling in my pants
That’s why I say:
“This is a rat infested; flea bitten, trash seeking, concrete hardened,
Winter frozen, nose closing stench I call LIFE.”
POVERTY MY WIFE
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx
Handcuff Wrists
What constitutes correct campaign contribution?
Also, show me what should be right solution
That will put proper feather in our each cap
So we can avoid having a political mishap.
Maybe might be a maximum requirement
And where all of the money may have went
Instead of person who is healthy and hearty
Perhaps let it go to whole political party.
After all of the speeches had been rehearsed
Make sure all the money is equally dispersed
Even those needle-nosed and eyes that squinted
Ensuring that they were all properly vented.
Another glamorous person recently suggested
Whatever interest appearing to be vested
Should in limbo more than likely be placed
So that unbiased their voters can be faced.
When their speeches were finally written
Leave out words that have been flea bitten
Along with those quite bad and very boring
So we won't fall asleep and end up snoring.
Forget about debates only having a town hall
Sitting down rather than standing up tall
And throwing in this one could not resist
To arm chairs handcuff each speaker's wrists.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
We'll all be old dogs someday
if we last so long.
We'll remember when we were young
and active and greatly loved.
But then one day someone
dumped us off at the side of the road
because adult diapers were getting
expensive and conversations
took us forever searching for our words.
So there we are
on the side of the road, afraid,
slow from age just kind of waiting
for someone to remember
to come back and get us,
while we become increasingly
rattyass and flea-bitten
with muddy poo under our tails.
Will there be
one final round of happiness
for any of us?
I will be a memory tomorrow
To one more lover than I am today.
She will be gone and I'll face my sorrow -
Another country song for Hank to play.
But there'll be others to lighten my load,
An' a little Jack Daniels on the side.
It ain't my first time down this lonesome road -
She won't be the last in my double wide.
So tomorrow I'll grieve an' shed my tears,
Think of the good times we shared together.
I'll remember what we built through the years -
Try not to think of the stormy weather.
Then next week when the rodeo's in town
I'll be buckin' on some flea bitten flank.
And there'll be a smile replacin' this frown -
I'll grab life an' give 'er another yank.
8/28/2017
Crystal, my flea bitten nuisance of a kitten, brought me a little token of affection tonight.
I deplore mice.
Even dead ones.
Filthy buggers.
But, there sat Crystal. Mouse at her feet, mewing at me. As if to say
"See, I love you, even if you are a blood lusting monster of the dark."
I admit, she only mewed once. But I am certain, that is what she meant.
So as not to hurt her feelings, I donned on of my least favorite pairs of gloves and
picked the rancid vermin up.
But I drew the line of pretending to eat it!
I must remember to burn those gloves.
Odd. The candle on my desk sputters. There is a breeze. Although the door to my lair
was tightly shut.
There is only on other way in or out. That would be the small tunnel I dug for Crystal.
So that she may come and go as she pleases.
Ah. But here rests my cantankerous little fiend upon my lap.
The breeze brings with it a scent. One I know all to well.
Blood.
My lair has been breeched.
Time to hunt.
~Lord Kellington
I had gone looking for trouble.
I found it.
I had awoke in a sour mood. Very unlike myself at all. I am usually, always in good
cheer.
Almost, always.
I was spoiling for a fight.
The need radiated from me.
Even Crystal could sense the difference in my demeanor.
The flea bitten, sweet, craven coward.
After donning my new Peacock blue cloak, with the black pipping and carrying my gold
tipped, lions head walking stick. I left straight away.
I walked for miles. Ending up in the seediest part of the city. The Docks.
I aimlessly wandered the filth strewn, cobbled streets.
Passing many an Ale House.
Finally, my preternatural hearing found the sounds of a fight.
Why, it was an all out riot.
Off I flew to join in.
Fists flying. Daggers plunging. Walking stick cracking skulls. (that would be me)
What fun!
I held back from using my immortal strength. I wanted to feel each time my fist met
flesh. To have to Pick teeth out of my knuckles.
One chap actually caught me a rather right smart jab to my chiseled chin.
Exhausted, the men crumpled to a heap.
Only I remained standing....and the fifteen or so Policemen watching the fray from a
respectable distance.
I have always prided myself on being a law abiding, upstanding citizen. As it were.
So, when they started gathering up everyone and loading them into the Jail Wagon. I
went along, as a lark.
What a buffet!
By the time we reached Central Station, I had sipped upon many a fine blood.
When the Police opened the rear doors of the wagon, I jumped down to the ground,
tipped my hat to them and simply (to his eyes) vanished.
Preternatural speed can be so amusing, when used correctly.
By now, my description will be bandied about. A well dressed gentleman ghost. A
polite wraith. A handsome demon.
I like that. A Handsome Demon...very apt.
I am in a much better spirit now.
~Lord Kellington
Fruitful faeries flying freshly frightenly faraway
Flashing flea-bitten furry fireflies fantasy fey,
Faux flash-dancing flowery figs flowing flippantly free,
Ferocious fierce foursome fruit-flies flying fantasy’s flea.
Fast-fingered flicker formidably frugally fit flexible.
Frosting frilly flounder’s fluorescent fetish fully fixable.
Fanciful freckled fathomably frosted filly fibs flitting,
Fashionable forcefully fanatical farmhand fuzzily fretting.
Fun-loving, flippant foolhardy fivefold finger’s foghorn.
Fooled fellow’s fervent fleecy foppish fire fuzzily forlorn.
Fantastical fanged frolicking fishy fuzzy fickle frills.
Fixes froggy’s fanciful fanned fox figs from freezing Frankfort.
No matter how deep you think you dug
The earth on top still lies fresh
In a heartbeat
In a teardrop
In the flutter of a Raven’s wings
Mere seconds it takes
For those memories
Those feeling that ache
To be dug up and placed at your feet
Soiled from the time wasted
Bitter from the Chance lost
You feel sickened
Like you are nothing better than a flea bitten mutt
You see your failures
All you have done
The chances that you have lost
In the barrel of a gun
Where am I now?
Staring six feet down
At all I could have had
All I threw away
What am I?
Kicked on the ground by my own heal
Bleeding slowly by my own hand
Heart faltering by my own actions
At the edge of darkness I stand
Wondering what could have been
I should have corrected my sin
I should have buried myself with it all
For I am nothing without them
A man I should have cherished more
A friend I should have been there for
A stranger that I could not spare a kindness
I will dig a grave for myself
Close my eyes and dream
Imagine a life where I did not fail
And slowly forget to breathe.
At your very birth,
before your fanciful embellishments,
they not only gazed, but breathed into you
and meant and did you no harm.
You were so pure and they were so true.
Guarding you, guiding you, teaching you,
knowing quite well what you were,
but perhaps not what you would be;
they wished you and were what you wished,
and you could go, do, be as you pleased,
take all and only what was good and enough,
you needed no more than to reach
and they would reach for you
and back to you
and meet you, grasping, halfway.
But you hurled them to the ground.
And horse-drawn chariots and carriages
conveying warmongers and kings and queens,
and decrepit carts stuttering wearily
behind wearily stuttering flea-bitten mules,
trampled and rolled over them roughshod.
You stood among them, broken, shattered,
scattered about your feet.
Those broken pieces wept.
26th March 2005
Wynken Blynken and Nod???
(ah...oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee
barked up the wrong tree –
reed don my mongrel friend)
This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag
to take digs on front page
headline grabbing news, nonetheless dag
nab bit significant dysfunction prevails
when bodily energy
does shutterfly like a black flag
without rapid eye movement,
this lix spittle chap
feels like an old hag
whereat every friggin bone (er)
in this straggly, mangy, and creaky ship
of state feels like jag
head shards piercing thine flesh
with pronounced jet lag
and reacts with
the slightest provocation
like a curmudgeonly
cranky compromised nag,
yet, this muttering mouth foaming
flea bitten doggone chow barker
bows down in (toto) obeisance
(like an obedient Dachshund)
tail wagging, trump petting,
and snout sniffing out provenance
on par with the smell of new sofa despite
fur vent angry ma
stiff masta paws zing
aghast at dog eared, glom haired,
and icky stained new furniture,
how petty, versus slumber
lest awakening the Cerberus within,
hence faux long enough
to excel as the top notch mix breed
boxer golden retriever terrier
male delivery postbag
(as taught at canine obedient school)
upon spilling contents,
the bulk of printed material
detailing importance,
sans letting sleeping
Canis lupus familiaris lye undisturbed,
especially after a bath
when pooch resembles
a limp dish rag
all apropos hot (gravy trained) relevant
topics for instance,
when feeling sleep deprived
detailing how to shepherd
and summon the snoop doggy dog
inchoate hounding gnarly
Marley elusive dream
fostering feigning fearsome nightmare
asper getting lost without a name tag.
I waited in one of the cities dark and dangerous alleyways. The vile odors. The Gads
knows what forming puddles around my best leather boots. The ones with the shine to
blind the eye.
There she was. A common strumpet. Drunkenly making her way towards me. Jingling
her purse of meager coins.
Blood money.
Obtained by logging men on the heads whilst they took their fill of her. Only to have
her sell them to sea Captain's that do not ask questions of where their crew came
from. Or whether they were willing.
I could feel the evil in the air about her. I heard her heart beat and felt her blood pulse.
She was delicious.
Not a drop wasted.
As I sit here, the thought comes to me, that I shall
be damned.
But wait! I am already damned and I thrive within it. I not only thrive...I revel in it.
Now where is that odious, rangy, mouse burping kitten gotten off to.
GADS! She is up the draperies once again!
I will calmly go get the ladder, which I had to buy just for these occasions. I will place it
up against the drapery staff.
I will climb up. Gently coaxing the little flea bitten darling to me. She will hiss and claw
like the vixen she is.
But, alas. I adore her so.
~Lord Kellington
Buddy my friend
you came to my house
unwanted by me. Loved
by our Man, and Dragged in
by the little girl that our man
just Couldn't tell NO! So many
times I have returned home
UN-afraid because I knew you
took good care of your duties
as guard to your "people".
So many times I
have carried you with me
to keep me safe as I went
about doing my jobs as Mom
even when those jobs came
after dark. I was never afraid
when you and your growl
rode shotgun. I have watched
you run for a ball even when
they hid it and just made you
run for the fun of it. I have seen
you turn cartwheels for the same
ball bounced just out of your reach.
No wonder you made them fight you
for the ball every time you did bring it
close enough for them to get a grip on it.
I would have done the same. So many dogs
have come and gone since you came here as
Just a flea bitten bundle of skinny bones.
Some say that animals don't have a heaven
But I think if they do, You are surely there!
I will miss you Buddy!