Best Shebang Poems
Long ago
a year or so
I received accolades a plenty
I won this, and I won that
I was on top of it all
I was almost the whole shebang
I was important
I was all about me
I pandered and pounded
I wanted attention and I won
I was sad, when my cheating was undone
Caught with the red herring deep in my mouth
I left to sulk a bit and have a wee pout
then I figured out after I was caught
there was a way to still receive
the praise I so sought
once a month
that's how she works
post only then
the egoists trophy is my new perk
I like faint fire I feel
fueling me with fervor
for far off places without you
I like sweet scent of spring I smell
when you fan the flames
ignited by your carefree hand
I like warmth seeping in
letting my blood course free
with unpredictable energy
I like refreshing air I breathe
just seeing freedom lay waiting me -
sole initiator of breezy times
I like option one and two
of the whole shebang of things
I am free to do, or not do
I like how instant choice to vent
is mine, though time after time
... I've crossed no line ...
I like solitary silence
taking me by the hand
Soothing aches you've unhand
I like Creator's time
so packed with magic
My sole therapeutic fix.
*
Armadilly Billy needed repair work on the home, as he wanted to move in.
Asking around Troll Lake Town, the answer was Leavit, again and again.
A bit confused, he needed repairs; he couldn’t leave it, like they said, therein.
So he picked up the Acme phone book, and understanding, then, did begin.
It said: Levit T. Beaver for the best woodwork, to be found, anywhere around.
The rumor was: he was once a movie star, before retiring to Troll Lake Town.
He had the scruffiest crew, Billy had ever seen, inept in absolutely, everything.
Called: The Muskrat Gang, they were tied up in chains, yes, the whole shebang.
Doing time for trying to blow up Leavit’s dam, yep, a real, live, chain gang, bound.
Tho, they were really chained up, to stop them, from aimlessly scurrying all, around.
He thought to give them purpose, before he was through, and a new profession, too.
After they tried to empty Troll Lake, to scoop out all the fish, on one crazy afternoon.
What they got was better, as Leavit tried to teach them work, with all kinds of wood.
He stopped them, and saved some mice, lost in a boat, on the lake, on that day, too.
Oddly, love blossomed between Leavit and one of the mice, her name was Mary Ann.
He was lucky in love, as the other mice decided, to rent rooms, to stay, on his island.
Though he had to admit that Gilligan, Skipper, and the other mice WERE a tad, strange.
And as for the Muskrat Gang, well, they seemed, to pretty much, stay unchanged.
After serving their time, Levit T. Beaver, offered to hire them, to help him clean up.
All their scurrying, was perfect for this, as he paid them in their most, beloved fish.
With the Chains gone, a job and home found, they discovered crime did not pay.
So my Moral, my friend, is that in the end… Crime is Never the Way!
I’d like to discuss the manners of crow,
That dine on the roads where cars come and go.
They peck at road kill without forks or knives,
But ‘caw, caw’ to their friends, saving their lives.
They don’t use napkins, to wipe off their beaks,
Yet they always appear dapper, and sleek.
Do they get embarrassed eating that yuck?
If so, or no, I can improve their luck.
Next time I pass by I won’t hesitate
To place their fresh meat on a dinner plate.
Or wouldn’t they think I’m the grand pooh-bah
By offering them a side of coleslaw?
Lastly, I’ll grill up their newly struck treat,
And locate the whole shebang off the street.
It’s not like I’m going out of my way,
Since I drive by their feast ten times a day.
Also, I think that they’re awfully kind
Staying with us for the long winter grind.
Or is it a guise, since their next supper
Could be us frozen in the road’s gutter?
So that’s why they wear such a nice black coat;
They’re dressed to stuff us dead stiffs down their throat.
I must admit, I thought initially,
That they might have needed our sympathy.
But crow manners, hmm, can there be a thing?
Well, like I first said, it had a nice ring.
Though I may be wrong, it’s happened before,
Like when I thought storks ran the baby floor!
Got a plop in my fizz
And a tiger in my tank
Impossible is nothing
(That’s why Titanic sank)
Got milk? Just do it.
Wash your troubles down the drain
Tastes so good
Cats ask for it by name
Eat fresh. I’m lovin’ it.
It’s finger-lickin’ good
If you won’t eat it
We all know Mikey would
Once you pop you can’t stop
Make the most of now
“Eat Mor Chikin”
(Written by a rebel cow)
Every bubble’s passed its fizzical
Let’s get quizzical
Nothin’ says lovin’
Like something from the oven
Snap! Crackle! Pop!
They’re Gr-r-r-reat!
Just like a good neighbor
In good hands with Allstate
Look, Ma, no cavities!
Think outside the bun
Save money. Live better.
Consider IT done
Melts in your mouth
Not in your hands
(Life’s what happens
While you’re making other plans)
American by birth.
Rebel by choice.
Hello Moto
His masters voice
Maybe she’s born with it
Have it your way
A diamond is forever
Every kiss begins with Kay
You've come a long way baby
Be all that you can be
A Little dab'll do ya
With L.S./M.F.T.
Own a piece of the rock
Where do you want to go today?
We make money
The old-fashioned way…
When you care enough
To send the very best
Oh, what a feeling!
Come be our guest!
Live in your world.
Play in ours.
Get N or get out
For the love of cars
You can’t top the copper top
Easy as Dell
He keeps going and going…
Go further with Shell
When there is no tomorrow
Bo knows best
Think small. Make believe.
Makes quitting suck less
Stronger than dirt
How do you spell relief?
Success. It’s a mind game.
Defying all belief
Challenge everything
Share moments. Share life.
Because you’re worth it
Save a life. Love your wife.
Your list of words is *dubious,
so many came from slang.
I fear my up-tight mama
would forbid the whole shebang.
*Affaire de coeur is French of course
and we may only borrow.
I also know what’s slang today
could be correct tomorrow.
If I write an Irish poem,
I might use the word *Colleen.
Throwing it in just willy-nillly
would seem a bit obscene.
*Ethereal, is my favorite
and lies easy on mind.
*Fuzzled? I think you made that up.
It is not there to find.
*Interstitial? Show me a sentence
where that one could be used.
The *quintessential meaning
of this poem, is that to me,
not every word is equal,
some should be used sparingly.
Don’t think that I *lambaste you,
this is written quite in fun,
just as the list you gave us,
when all is said and done.
*Hither and yon is old English
and out of vogue today.
*Rambunctious, *vacillate, *usurp and *titillate
are in the dictionary
and are good words to be added
to a poet’s vocabulary.
On most of the others
I will simply have to pass.
I would have failed the course for using them
in my English teacher’s class.
Silence occupied the room for so long
No signs of a visitor to step on coming
Trying to entertain himself in craving
Of bygones and the future just like a throng
Shebang of party for a corporation
Another shanty is built for the hapless and poor
To prance inside malls to buy gifts and liquors
Some lull their little ones and enjoy the sound of the nearby occasion
Where some folks went house to house to go caroling
Street children do their own charm to get the pay of their talents
As the street, they considered as their home from abandonment
A strain to other’s eyes but to God’s eyes they are for caring
Some are excited to receive new things from exchange gifts
While others, jazz up old belongings to make it look like new
A mother holding her baby in her arms was cooing softly while lying askew
In the muteness of the night, both fallen asleep and had gone adrift
Into a socialite community a lavish buffet, at which guests help themselves
In the remote area's scarcity of food, at which family members do share equally
With their flickering gas lamp, spend the night hanging around the house lackadaisically
While others are enjoying the spectacle of the brightness of Christmas tree at twelve
The whole night of Christmas Eve was splendid to view
Alive and zest for a family with wealth
The whole night of Christmas Eve, that has dwelt
For the poor is a house frame suffused with a cold dew
A portrait of the Holy Family on the first Christmas Eve
Within that stable, baby Jesus was lying in a manger
A message of love, joy, and peace be extended to every stranger
On Christmas Eve, Jesus will visit every home and this is to believe
Posted in Voicesnet.com
23 December 2009
Before.
Birth.
Cry some breaths.
Eat some chopped liver with tofu and salsa.
Do some things for money and some for fun.
Love some hopefully.
Death.
After
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by me Nancy Jones
between 12:36 and 12:38 EDT on Sunday, October somethingth (my comp only shows time, not date), 2011 CE (aka AD)
for Russell Sivey's 'test named “Challenge - Max 8 lines!!! “
Soiree
See you Saturday
In Santa Fe
Fancy Shebang
Quick overnight boomerang
In convertible Mustang
Masked Escapade
No typical charade
Invitation says masquerade
Frame or Fame
Play the game
Hide your name
Real Deal
Say your spiel
Save the reveal
Quite Gourmet
They’ll serve Dubonnet
For floral bouquet
Midnight Champagne
Take private plane
Mile high insane
Ring the Cowbell
In a nutshell
Just another bombshell
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
If I were rich I would live in Orlando,
Where the sun grooms the watered land,
Where busyness is quelled by knowing that,
You can always live in another city grand.
My Disney poems would be accepted,
As part of the scene, the whole shebang,
As I would hope to complement Mr Disney,
With poetry’s feeling shade on the hang.
I would have the carers that I wanted to,
Tall, handsome, smiley and relaxed at chat,
And maybe have two showers every day,
With only a t-shirts to choose and rat.
I might go swimming in the outside pool,
With a carer, not with a staunch physio,
And I could barbecue mushrooms forever,
With have a large car having Orlando radio.
I may, in the end, write a non-fiction book,
About the Disney films and their morality,
About what’s behind them and the values,
About their promotion of a healthy longevity.
Sea World, Universal Studios and NASA,
Are just on hand by your door step,
And as a hub and centre for internationals,
The diverse culture means no cooking prep.
26/10/2015
Time began with the big bang,
when dis-order became the whole shebang.
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute to the legendary pool shark "Saint Louie" Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld.
Fran, the zoo’s favourite orangutang
Was caught today playing with a boomerang
Later to onlookers she showed her fang
As she stuffed her face with banana pie meringue
As one hand held on to the overhang
From which she forever swang
With boundless energy Fran sprang
And joyfully bells rang and rang
That night Fran got into her yellow mustang
And drove to a karaoke and sang
Her words had the perfect slang
Although most painful was their twang
As though Fran felt a sudden pang
She ended with an awesome bang
Said goodnight to all the gang
Can you believe this whole shebang
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on September 15, 2018 for contest PLAYING WITH WORDS UNDER FIRE sponsored by CAREN KRUTSINGER - RANKED 1ST
I am a mountain
one with trees
growing on it
and grass
sprout- sprouting forth
I am a valley
one with rivers
gushing from its bossom
giving life
to the whole shebang.
I am war
my claws claim lives
defiled,
undefiled
and souls so pure.
I am peace
under my shadow
of generosity,
all lives thrive
and grow like grass.
I am everything
everything it takes
for one to slay
I am nothing
nothing,
but a mug of porridge
filled to the brim
I am a whole lot of things
I am the vivifer of all things within me
my presence
in this thing, this skin of mine
makes me shudder
makes me want to flee from me
for my worthless life
makes me wish I was man enough
to dispose of me.
Because I am
Afraid of myself.
(c) The Kakuru
#MugOfPorridge
the field is given a name
battles are about where they disappear
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are
after the mayhem
peace continues destroying barns
birds peck at exploded eye sockets
take what they see to feather nests in hollow trees
insignia and belt buckles
are hunted to extinction
sold into usury
mists shuffle a daze of time
the rattling roll calls of magpies and jackdaws
echo the click-clacking of jawbones
executing orders and counter orders
the officers that stumbled forward or away
go quietly mad or marry well
later
shell stumped foot foragers tell their slogging tales
then find newly cracked rockers
to slip away on
between the hour before dawn and midday
the violence died away in smoke
muddle and disorder
no land was lost or won nothing ended or begun
only this smoldering
cannon blasted field surrendering its nowhere acres
eventually milk cows and goats are purchased
to he hell into butter
dead horses are brought back
as glue and sacks of fertilizer
the stubborn ghosts of mules bray
on the night before remembrance day
thus now in the kilter and unwinding of years
the unnamed are plowed in or out
framed in visitor centers
the long hauled about laid to primal grist
the fallen slain recalled again
to quicken vintage tractors
the bearded and beardless site-marked and told
by the grave tongued rangers
who speak for the listening gone
and the whole much pounded shebang
grid referenced
as the muzzled earth still heaves up
its lead riddled bones
service roads are built over tufts of d-n-a
spent shells and frayed lapels catalogued
filed away
then the blue and grey left to fight
their own way home
while another day breaks its promise