Best Rascals Poems
The young generation shouts
“we don’t have a navel because we are descended from above.”
We have no way to measure their eccentric conduct
with an ordinary scale, they drink water from a toilet bowl,
they step on a wall to urinate face down and nibble their own flesh burnt under the scorching sun,
they shout mother down
who watches them worrisomely with great care;
they set against their father who reproves their mischievous behavior.
However, the sisters of those audacious rascals have navels,
they wear sleeveless slip-ons because they cannot afford
neither sleeves nor shoulder straps,
their lower garments are time worn jeans
the miners discarded,
its lower parts are gone above the knees
and holes here and there.
They stroll the shopping mall licking ice cream
swaying from left to right and right to left
exposing their navels. The rascals wowed
peeping at their navels, they jump out from the alleys
and admire their sisters’ graceful walking figure;
then, they say “if I have a navel,
I should have a home to return like the others,”
though they always assert uglier is fairer
and crooked is straight.
I suppose probably they have a body temperature
like all others, you and me.
It’s been four (long) years. Yes, long - to my dismay.
Some think it goes quickly; RUBBISH! I say.
When you have a child, the days will drag,
The season crawl, and the years can lag.
But onward we prevail, with our heads held high,
(and sick in our hair, and snot down the tie)
It’s a given we love them, (bar the high pitched squealing),
But staying home with them, isn’t that appealing,
So we hand them over; guilt ridden and tired,
Wiping someone else’s bum, wasn’t something I desired.
With the promise of adult conversation, a hot cuppa tea,
We march ourselves to work, silently screaming: “I’m free!”
Whilst we bask in blissful calm; uninterrupted wee’s (!)
You pick up, where we left off: potty training, first aid, ABC’s
But beyond this basic care, you all so graciously deliver,
There’s something more to what you do – and here is just a sliver:
Megan, from day one, when she was just a tiny tot,
Taught her how to feed herself, crawl, stand, trot
“Good morning Dora the explorer,” beams Cathy, on a morning,
As I sign her in at the gate, bleary eyed and yawning.
Chris embracing my daughter because she missed me and cried.
Sammy, praising her on writing skills, because she truly tried.
My daily complaints with Claire and Emma S,
Zoe, Julia make the meals; Gill and Lisa clean-up the mess.
Keeping your cool Paige. Sophie. Jess. And Kirsty,
As for the 100th time that day, she claims that she is thirsty.
Georgia and Casey, her BFF's - she prefers you more than me,
Asking them to sleepovers, and “when they coming round for tea?”
Georgia put a spell on her, she’s asked if she can be her sister!
I remind myself she is with you, on the days when I’ve missed her.
Let's go out on the battlefield
Okay, make sure we have our shield
Get your men and all their sons,
Get all of their big black guns
Then it will be all peaches and cream,
Cuz we defeated the other team
We've had lots of fun although,
"GET IN THIS HOUSE BOY!!!" uh oh.
She'd think I'd dropped an atom bomb,
Guess who it is,it's my mom.
The Christmas trees reminds me so
Of Christmases from long ago
Gazing up at the tree so tall
When I were a young girl so small.
Back in the day, when things were tight
For us no pretty sparkling lights
Little candles lit up the tree
Flickering away merrily.
The fairy placed on top, up high
Was joy for my sisters and I
Just a paper dolly was she
Prettiest thing upon the tree.
Made with crepe paper was her dress
Which on and off we'd oft' times fetch
By the time us three girls were through
An awful mess she would look too.
A peek in the crackers we’d sneak
Those on the tree placed nice and neat
Not nearly so neat was the tree
Devoured by the terrible three.
Pretty baubles hung on the tree
Pity they broke so easily
Their usage could have been prolonged
If three rascals hadn’t come along.
So many times the tree was found
Tumbled down when we'd been around
Before mum saw the disarray
The dreadful three had run away.
Scoundrels of the Senate,
once more your faces rise
paid to nod yes or nay,
lame ducks waddling through power’s haze.
Canker-ridden minds,
incorrigible rapscallions,
political impostors drifting far
from the raw cries of the street.
Maggots feasting on hollow honor,
damp squibs in temples built for trust
dishonorable “honorables,”
rotund circles of rascals
fit only for the gallows’ rope.
They clamp greedy hands on bloated figures
while the masses groan in penury and dust.
Myopic spendthrifts,
architects of the nation’s ragged ruin,
yet too blind to guide even the clueless.
They imposed taxes by military decree,
deaf to pleas, blind to rightful protest.
tyrants unleashed marching killers
on the bloodied streets of Lagos.
Their swollen gains are carved
from the pain of millions unemployed
the beggars, the homeless,
the hungering, the slowly dying.
Profligate band of quipsters,
queasy brains feigning wisdom,
bootleg scoundrels play-acting at parliament,
benighted, unskilled,
insane in their stolen robes.
Go now, you dunces
"Senators are no thieves" they say,
"legislators are honorable men"
So they proclaim.
but their reputation lies muddied and devoured.
ask the people they know too well.
Your names are etched forever on the web,
insignia of corruption plain for all to see.
Your pride has faded into ash.
Honor, once cheap to sell,
now demands a price too steep to pay
not with money, which you banter away.
Glory in your fleeting pomp,
your mansions that will outlive your names,
your coffins on wheels they call cars,
your billions hidden in Zurich vaults.
Tremble at the thought of facing the people,
and dread the final mockery of Truth.
When your time collapses,
history will laugh at your reign of folly.
The tears of the masses will find you,
and in regret’s cold light,
sufferers will remember the avoidable pain
their poverty born of your pride,
your betrayal of the true master: The People.
Welcome to your coming misery.
The masses will stand and watch you fall,
rascal usurpers of seats of honor.
Do not dare call them fools.