Best Louts Poems
Ahhh the luck of the Irish
complete with leprechauns
and pots of gold
The Emerald Isle
God's country
filled with lyrical voice
but no one hears her cry
that fabled luck
truly a fable t'would seem
suffering
the only thing in abundance
it is their only pot
that remains filled
an impoverished relative
showing up late for dinner
tossed a few scraps
from the rich relatives
but not allowed to sit at the table
a history rich with servitude
famine, plaque
and indentured slavery
spit upon by class distinctions
laughed about as uneducated
their brogue common
ahhh yes the curse of the commoner
in a society that rewards
upper class and the deemed
right of birth
drunken happy go lucky louts
that would steal your pants
rather than wash his own
and on and on the prejudice flows
from old days into the new
of drinking and gambling
even in the movies
portrayed as a rogue
these perceptions followed
fine people across the sea
where they built the cities
endured the hardships
and still no one hears their cry
no one gives them their due
they did the jobs
others were to afraid to do
the hard labor
standing on steel skyscrapers
so many descendent's
of this proud people
have formed the foundations
of other countries
and still they do not control their own
now the world frowns
not understanding the religious battle
that dwells within
it's all they have
their faith
it makes perfect sense to me
for yes the Irish
would start a fight in a church
for they are not afraid
to stand up for their beliefs
they are just hollow
for so much
has been taken from them
so much suffering
has been endured
so they cling to their faith
as a man clings to a life preserver
for to lose that last vestige
they will lose themselves
ahhhh the luck of the Irish
maybe they should pass that luck to another
then maybe someone will hear their cries
someday they may follow the rainbow
and will truly find that pot of gold
Categories:
louts, introspection, people, places, social,
Form:
Free verse
This is the best beer I've ever had.
Yes, The best beer I've ever had.
No beer is really bad, but
This is the best beer I’ve ever had.
Beer’s invention was accidental I’m told.
Something about stored grain and mold.
Before the Sphinx, beer was made and sold;
And at times, more valuable than gold.
Drank my first beer while serving Uncle Sam.
Got drunk on ‘33' in Saigon, Vietnam.
By 19, I was a soldier becoming a man;
So, I drank ‘til I didn’t give a damn.
Since then, I’ve travelled the world all around;
And tasted each brew that I’ve found.
Most are named for people, animals or towns;
And are glorious shades of gold, red or brown.
There are pilsners, lagers and ales
Swilled from bottles, cans, mugs…even pails.
If you want to get drunk, you can’t fail.
Drink too much, you may end up in jail.
Drank Stegmaier in old Scranton town.
Folks bragged it was the "best around“.
I tried their Golden, their Porter, their Brown;
And I must say, their judgement is sound.
In Ireland, the Guinness is Stout.
‘Tis a brew those Micks can’t live without.
In the pubs, they all sing and shout;
Until, eventually, they're all drunken louts.
In old Germany, there are too many to choose.
Every Berg and Stein make their own brews.
I tried each one on the Rhine river cruise.
So many to taste. How could I lose?
I enjoyed Sapporo in Tokyo, Japan;
Served by a Geisha at the wave of my hand.
The Singh Hai in Bangkok was grand,
As was the Ninkasi in ancient Tehran.
Tried a lager called Foster’s down under.
Drank too many. My head pounded like thunder.
They say Foster's once laid Dundee asunder;
But they love it… though you may wonder.
Enjoyed Red Stripe on Jamaican shores
And each one tasted like more.
A local beauty I was hoping to score;
But next morning, my head was so sore.
Henry Hudson’s serves Budweiser Light.
It’s weak, so you can drink it all night.
Yes, it takes quite a bit to get “tight”;
But it’s cheap and that makes it alright.
Yes, beer is a beverage so grand,
One of God's greatest gifts to man.
When life gets too tough to stand,
Just open a chilled bottle or can.
This is the best beer I’ve ever had.
When I arrived I was down and quite sad;
After just two or three, life isn't so bad.
This is the best beer I’ve ever had.
Yes, the best beer I've ever had.
Categories:
louts, adventure, best friend, celebration,
Form:
Rhyme
My prankster, older son, came home from college, just the other day.
He saw such great possibilities, in how, he, with the Trolls, could play.
Now, you must remember, my son, has always been, a tad bit wild.
But, he truly is a charmer, when he has a new brainchild, compiled.
The Postman had been so Leary of dropping off mail, with the Trolls about.
So daily, I would greet him, explaining, they were really harmless, big old louts.
And I complained a little, of the time spent, to convince him, back at the house.
So my son took up the cause, yes, he was actually going to try to help me out.
Each day, he got the mail, I was so proud that he was trying to solve my plight.
He said he had an idea, which he would try, the last day in town, to set it right.
Of course, I believed him, he was my son, and I felt such pride, as he drove away.
Then I waited for the surprise, he’d set with the Trolls, to make everything OK.
The postman made his rounds, as usual, until he came toward our house.
Then he shot off like a rocket, which was truly outward bound… the louse.
So I ran out to catch him, for in his hurry, he’d forgotten to drop off my mail…
But he was so fast that I missed him… so back to the house I did sail…
In front of the garage… sat 3 Trolls in bib overalls in their rocking chairs.
Across their laps lay shotguns, yes, the really heavily gauged ones…
And there before my eyes were crickets playing banjos all around…
With ‘Deliverance’, the song they’d used, to make that mailman bound…
But don’t worry; I got even with my prankster son… To end this tale…
The next time he ask for money… I said… the check is… in the mail.
1st place in the Contest: Smile Your on Candid Camera
Categories:
louts, adventure, fantasy, funny, imagination,
Form:
Light Verse
That day in the October sun
The British they marched along
Across Mater Barber’s wheat field
A force in red, quite strong.
The drummer drummed, fifers they played
We heard their martial song,
And we leapt out to meet out foes
To break that scarlet throng
When the British came along.
From our guns, hot fire leapt
Trumpeting the fray,
The lobsterbacks, down they went
Not long here cold they stay.
Another volley and they broke
Then turned to run away.
We pushed at them in hot pursuit
Our hearts intent to slay
Our guns trumpeting the fray.
They ran headlong that afternoon
To earthworks and redoubts,
Denying us the pleasure
Of a quick and easy rout.
We charged the wall repeatedly,
To club and kill those louts.
They repulsed us so many times,
They knew how to build stout,
Those earthworks and redoubts.
Then a general a cabin saw
His name shall not be said,
For crimes committed later on
That nearly cost us our heads.
He saw a weak-point in the line
His troops that way did tread,
A strike to turn the tide that day
He left those British dead.
But his name will not be said!
The line it broke, the British ran
The minutemen gave chase.
Paste their camp, they took the plunder
Capturing many in haste.
Redcoats ran to Old Saratoga
A frightful, desperate race,
And settled in to lick their wounds
Hoping hard to hold that place,
But the minutemen gave chase.
But John Bull face an arduous task
Oblivion did Burgoyne see
Outnumbered by a tough, game foe
Who surrounded everything.
His Hessians broken, bloody, sore
Sheltered only by some trees.
He came out and laid down his sword,
In those woods of victory.
In a wood called victory.
Categories:
louts, america, freedom, history, independence
Form:
Narrative
Apple brought culture,
delightful extravaganza.
Fab group
harvest idiomatic jive.
Knockers, louts
many neutrals,
organized parasites, quietly rebel,
submit to uncompromising venom
when expediency yielded zealousness!
© Harry J Horsman 1994
Categories:
louts, music,
Form:
ABC
The nation is very rich indeed
But,
Wounded out of loss direction;
Wounded out of lack of ambition,
Weeping out of lack of impulse;
Wounded out of lack of imagination,
Ingeniously exhumed out of the citadel of corruption;
While the funereal ultimately boils down to collateral.
In the funky train,
All the hoo-ha-noisy end in fisticuff;
And the crumpled greenback hand-out cough,
The law has nothing to handcuff,
Kindred turned puppets loss of self-worth in defacto state
of war,
Faced with hemorrhaging despondency;
And splitting migraine disillusionment,
Miseenscene always greeted with fire and blood,
With fight and struggle half dead;
To trip in goats, straw and timber carrier,
Inevitable suicide spoof of teeming commuters,
And a caterwauling exodus end in thousands of legs under
the sea,
Carnival of Sharks tongue-smacked and praise-devour the
abundant feast;
While the aura of authority has little or nothing fish,
Often, sudden delight death cry of assailed victims,
Owa! Owa! Owa! {Alight}
A cry for shanty shambles bus stop,
As if deaf, the tyrant conductor
Lashes out in blinding curse and abuse;
Pressing and shoving for umpteenth fares,
Owa! Owa! Owa!
A plead for just a measure of tonic air,
Hard kerchief to wipe off addicted
Face of invincible gossamer,
Diabolical gene galloping in strides;
As compassion flees from rigours of heart of stone,
If swearing non-syllabic stunned altercating joust;
Could result in re-ordering of the lost world,
Plotless plastic lives of mean children of absentee Mamas
and Papas,
Would gauche braggadocio even king to brutal submission;
O! wretched loud louts touts,
Very loud louts touts foaming with tactless forming;
A riposte, may your road be rough,
A stamp on every man destiny.
Categories:
louts, urbanloss, cry, loss,
Form:
Free verse
Remember ninety-five
When we felt free
We felt alive
We hugged and kissed
Rejoiced in freedom
Rejoiced and sung
Songs of freedom
Mandela walked
As skeptics talked
But he walked on high
And touched the sky
He loved and he gave
The spirit of the brave
He forgave and reconciled
A sad and battered child
He gave us hope
He gave us life
He freed us from our thoughts of strife
He crossed the divide
Of crossword puzzle blocks
And gave us the clues
- We threw down our rocks
But here we are now
Tectonic plates crash on our brow
Where is the hope gone?
Where is the future that we had won?
As we slipped from meritocracy
To simple mediocrity
We look around
And all we found
Was our hopes dashed
Dashed to the ground
Our children suffer, forlorned
Whilst louts with shovels shovel the gold
Of our future that was pawned
For the few our future was sold
And as the fat asses
Roam around in masses
Eating the hay that was made when the sun still shone
Eating the food that the cattle had won
But brayingly they still prance around
Relishing in their new wealth found
As the baby dies hungry and cold
And the baby is buried in hallowed ground
Remember back in ninety-five
When we all felt thrilled –
Alive!
Remember the victory songs
Of how we would right the wrongs
But now we wrong the right
As for gold and wealth we fuss and fight
And in his cold and lonely grave
Mandela turns
And weeps
As his long road
Stops
At his grave
Categories:
louts, africa, angst, lost love,
Form:
Ode
Limerick : Once Gout which got a Lady in disease
Once Gout which got Lady in disease
Which meant she couldn’t hop ‘bout with ease
In doubt came together
With Louts feeling Super(ior)
To keep Gadabouts (from) eating Chinese.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
louts, friendship, humor,
Form:
Limerick
You watch the news and see all those louts
who drink and abuse, by making fools of themselves
To fix their spews, so they don’t go south
let’s not sell them booze, to feed their mouth
Categories:
louts, crazy, health, image, life,
Form:
Rhyme
Bertie Brown the Bantam weight was training for the fight
The tickets sold the seats laid out all ready for the night
‘Buster Brown can knock ‘em down’ the posters all agreed
But this one worried Buster sending tremors to his knees
He badly needed solace to prepare him for the war
but all he found were cronies and the Yes men at the bar
so with seven pints of Guinness drunk to sharpen up his wits
Bertie slipped down off his stool and flexed his mighty fists
To the cheers of husbands everywhere he set out for the bout
Followed closely by the eager mob and half a dozen louts
The front row seats fell silent as Bertie took the stance
belt pulled tight, and sleeves rolled up, shirt tucked into his pants
his opponent came out swinging, a jab, a swinging right
as full of Guinness Bertie swayed with all his wobbling might
But as he counter punched his right with a wild and powerful swing
He spun round twice and lost his feet and landed on his ring
Then struggling dizzily to his feet his face now pale and wan
He didn’t see the knock out blow from Elsie’s frying pan
The Friday fight was over, and the crowd dispersed quite sad
It hadn’t been the best of scraps, though the best that Bertie had
At least she hadn’t cut him up, or blackened both his eyes
For Berties missus, Elsie was at least three times his size.
For fifteen years each Friday night Bantam Bertie fights the fight
But up against a heavyweight it’s not a pretty sight
So Guinness drinkers everywhere remember and relate
When fighting after drinking, never punch above your weight.
Categories:
louts, natural disasters
Form:
Rhyme
The brainwashing of non believers has begun
backwards peddling parties on the streets
taking away all basic rights under a family structure
imposing ridiculous arguments hell bent within such destruction
This new age occult removes freedom of speech
where good values have become imprisoned facts
impaired visions caught inside the dark web
Judged by those promoting sinful acts woe behold
educational standards fall dramatically backwards
liars sit on the seats of the state's offices thieving clowns
spreading corrupt pagan literature this vulgarity shape shifts
The truth runs a red light and turns it green
fornicators stealing every humane virtue drunken louts
pushing a strange lifestyle foreign to the majority
tolerance has just jack knifed away from love
Equality has lost all foundations killing the innocent's word
when the temple of our Lord Most High Spirit
is shunned and burdened by man's awful silence
and complete disobedience each one afraid to condemn
what's wrong will never be right
yet they will never stand for what is right and just
instruct the ignorant has now become the policy under clouds
Categories:
louts, abuse, atheist, betrayal, confusion,
Form:
Political Verse
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Eight
At her feet gather daily plumage dark white to brown leather
Pigeons geese crows sparrows larks and wild ducks in sunset colour
And the resident owners of the waters by the fleet
The snow-white swan-lake ships gliding majestic in clover
Every day come older women with children or decrepit
With sling bags stuffed with golden crumbs of yesterday’s baguette
Some Berber women with sacks of semolina for couscous
All to seek good works at her feet where waves lap up and beat
Where the lazy louts of the spoilt winged clans wait on one leg
Pretend to keep an appointment though not to seem to beg
By rushing to providers with an air: hail dope well met!
Till some Labrador runs amuck just missing a juicy leg
Just then on that well-worn wooden bridge past the portcullis
Did Old Khayyam steal in a glance a wisp of a form bliss
Doe-eyed leaning on the rail in a gossamer negligee
The infinitely lamented thing that’s this lady all miss
Once more the Lass from Lahore lifts her dark diamond eyes
The breeze softly displaces the cowlick from vision’s disguise
Does she espy the Bard strain his thoughts fingers through his beard
While the Dreamer Dame of the lake leaves without much choice!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
louts, caregiving, dream,
Form:
Quatrain
COPYRIGHT 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
POETIC LYRICS BY THOMAS L.H. ANDRESS
(Dedicated to ALL THOSE NANCIE KRANGES!)
Bust it!
This here's a TEMPO...for ALL THOSE FELLAS...trying to do what
ALL THOSE LADIES...been trying to TELL US WHAT TO DO!
HEY...BIG SHOT...WANNA CHANCE?
Rolling...Rolling...LEFT-TO-RIGHT-OR...RIGHT-TO-LEFT!
PITCHED-RIGHT...PITCHED-WRONG!
Left-to-Right...OR...Right-to-Left...OR
LEFT-BEHIND!
Are-Ya...TOO-HEAVY...or...TOO-LIGHT?
Grab-a...CUP-OR-BOWL...of...RICE-KRISPIES!
SHAPED...RIGHT-or-WRONG!
Mars-Bars...AND...MARS-AND-STARS...at-corner
BARS-IN-CARS...Cars-and-Bars!
MALTS-AND-FLOATS...or...FLOATS-AND-BLOATS!
BLOATING...LOUTS!
JUST-LOATS!
They're...MEL-LOW-AND-YEL-LOW...or...Just-BANANA-CRAZY!
SO...JUST-BE-MEL-LOW...AND-NOT
Just...Y.E.L.L.O.W.!
YEL-LOW!
Rockets-and-Stars...BUSTING-AND-GOLDEN...STARS!
AND...B-E-Y-O-N-D!
Making-Time...AND...SELLING-TIME!
CHEATING...Time...FATHER-TIME!
He's...YAWNING...YAWING-AND-LAUGHING!
So-SKIP-IT...JUST-SKIP-IT...SKIPPING-LEFT-TO-RIGHT!
AND-RIGHT-TO-LEFT!
You're-Sliding...First-to-Second...Second-to-HOME...OR
FIRST-TO-HOME!
POPPING-AND-HEART-STOPPING!
Snow-Cones...In-The-Winter...OR-SUM-MER!
When-Falling-to-First...or...in-A-LIGHT-OR-COLD...FALL!
And-Mallows...MAL-LOWS!
AND-BEARS...YUMMY-AND-GUMMY!
Yummy-and-Gummy...FOR-YA-TUMMY!
Isn't-IT...JUST-YUMMY?
PITCH-IT-RIGHT...AND...NOT-LIGHT!
QUIT-STALLING...S-T-A-L-L-I-N-G!
Are-Ya-Going-Ta...LIGHT-THE-BOARDS...or-are-ya-JUST-BORING!
JUST...LEFT-BEHIND?
Left-to-Right...and...RIGHT-TO-LEFT...MODELS-are-SMILING!
FLASHING...32!
THIRTY-TWO...WHITE-CAPS!
With...DARK-LASHES-IN...DARK-GLASSES!
WOW...LIKE-WOW!
Glasses-in-the-Dark...LIKE-WOW...THAT'S...JUST-WOW!
Left-to-Right...and...Right-to-Left...THAT'S-EXIT...STAGE-LEFT!
Don't-Be...LEFT-BEHIND!
Are-Ya...RIDING-HIGH-TO-FAME...or-Just...SHAMED-TO...LEFT-STAGE?
Categories:
louts, absence, age, art, baseball,
Form:
Ballad
Villanelle: Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Does he who strums vocal chords show them the ropes
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
The sergeant-major pulls rank when opportune
Though captains and majors aren’t exactly dopes
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
To the Western ear the Eastern’s mono-tune
Do harps and harpsichords belong in same groups
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
Do the Police join the band to play to tribune
Or just one or two here and there simply mopes
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Blame must fall if blame at all on top dog goon
The mess people in power make envelopes
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
The blame for this world the way it has been sewn
Goes for whatever makes possible human dopes
Crooks leaders and louts do they sing the same tune
Whoever wields the baton sure calls the tune
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Categories:
louts, betrayal, leadership, power, ,
Form:
Villanelle
sing a long now la la la la la
A thermometer dash through an eighteenth century painting is said to be as exciting as a needle sewing on a fifty foot blanket. But wearing shoes on a plaid staircase is not for the rampant, rude, or ignorant for plaid is pulsing and pulsing is pushing properly producing pinnacles. Wow. Climb then. Great fantastic wisdom heights of snow globes. Erotic negotiations are prevalent between a duck and a swan or a bud and a stem but never between a pan and a spoon for the only stirring motion is neither a monstrous man nor a mingling main beam. Ok then. Now a license can arrive holding hands with several paper clips. Who smile in adoration at the paper held. Such timeless ceaseless monuments erode no land but combust within causing history to seep out to educate even the most dullest of pansies in a garden row. And a tiny little pill is not a pillow nor is it a pathway. Dim are the lights that shine on a rusted screw. And dare to jump over fifty cows, grapes and cigarettes whilst wearing a spotty blouse? Well do you dare? Does anyone alight the air above such formation in such agility? Mental prowess of the many stripes upon a patterned rug. They are clever and often do quadratic equations to pass the time between the treading of feet and paws and occasional webbed foot. Sing no gospel to a brick. And play no heavenly music to a two foot drop from a skyscraper at midnight. For it is the seemingly static stoked sky that marvels purely at the passing of the clouds. Smile then. Hahaha laughing lager louts lingering long legs hahaha mish mashed potatoe climbing a high tree in a force hundred gale. Xxxxx geometers Z z z Z
Categories:
louts, america,
Form: