Best Stuffed Shirt Poems
Like the pompous pied piper leading the way,
chirping his tune of a dawning new day,
frustrations were championed, oh how we followed,
the ego stuffed shirt of a suit cold and hollow.
From the top of the hill, he showed us the view,
convincing our eyes it was harshly askew.
Nearing the cliffs as if caught in a spell,
he fed us like lambs from his poisonous well.
Touting sweet taste of his truth well embittered,
ignoring the signs of nonsensical twitter,
rot with the smell of the nations decay,
we drank from his cup of a water so gray.
Watching and waiting for gifts of his gruel,
the masses assured we were not made a fool,
his promise of greatness was all we could see,
with great expectations of how it would be.
There's no turning back once we swore the man in,
believing bright futures were soon to begin,
blinding frustration gave evil its day
for the pompous pied piper to lead us astray.
He led us to thinking, all driven by fear,
then gave his directives so cryptically clear,
stripping the values by which we would stand
before the American dream had been banned.
Addicted to all the attention and glory,
swiftly he moved to remain the top story,
insisting on walls made of concrete and steel
built by the anger and hate we should feel.
Then some were shaken, disrupting his spell
and found he was stealing our Liberty Bell.
The fog began lifting and soon we would see
the piper exposed as the fraud he would be.
Time has a way, proven over again,
of playing its imminent part.
The shedding of light upon every mans soul,
exposing his darkness of heart.
No longer seduced by the piping we hear,
choosing to see through the veil,
Democracy once again fights to survive,
let us all pray we prevail!
-Jeannie Cronin
English is not a language
one can ever get ahead of--
there are just too many words!
Like 'ludic; for example: meaning
playful, in the sense of spontaneous,
without real purpose....Soooooo,
how come I never came across
Little Ludic in over sixty years
of reading hundreds of books
in my beloved mother tongue,
the language I love,
the language I married.
Even spellcheck never saw it,
or else why underline little Ludic
in red, like a criminal of some sort
who needs a good sorting out,
a spell in word prison perhaps?
If one but takes the time to look,
one can find sweet Ludic laying low,
hiding quietly in the BIG FAT ONE,
the Oxford Dictionary!
Lord and Regent of all word books.
Ludic lives there with his cousins:
Ludibrious and that stuffed shirt,
Ludibry, and the handsome,
macho Ludrico ( who is no doubt
from the Italian side of the family)
and of course, the far more famous
Ludicrous, a celebrity who seems to
want all the spotlight for himself.
Words can be so very selfish too....
I’m your eldest daughter, but I ‘m not for sale
Stop lying about my temperament and telling other tales
Father, this tradition is archaic and no longer necessary
You’re putting your wishes first and mine are secondary
The parade of pompous suitors really makes me sick
If they get to close, I’ll beat them with a six foot stick.
I already have title and wealth living in this house
Why would I marry and live with some stuffed shirt louse
I will not marry someone I don’t love and like
If you will not understand this, I’ll just take a hike
I will leave, like St. Joan, to find another war
The absurdity of this situation I can bear no more
What the daughter really wanted to tell her father in "The Taming of the Shrew" by William Shakespeare
If a “friend” cancels you like a stamp, they never were you
friend in the first place!
Friends give people space to be themslves! They welcomed you,
and trusted you in their heart’s space,
Moreover, not one of us wants a friend, that thinks they are a god.
A Mr.or Mrs, stuffed shirt, an inelligensia of know it all?
A friend need not be a Ph,D to us, nor flash her or hishatred in our face.
That is an inhumane, arrogant disgrace!
Just someone who truly cares about us, who and honors us as we are!
With understanding, grace andd gentleness, of and compassion beyond par!
And always remembers.. we all part of the human race,
By God’s most kind and generous holy grace.
Hatred and genocide in any, a hideous and ugly face!
1/26/2025
It's always a chore to make...and still,
when Halloween comes, I find the will.
I don't rent or buy costumes you see,
but dress myself up like I want to be.
I don't trick or treat as I am too old,
yet, I do it for the kids coming to my door so bold.
Once I stuffed an old shirt and jeans
With rags and paper and other things.
Then I pinned it to the clothing I wore,
Four arms, four legs...who could want more?
One year I wrapped myself in aluminum foil,
Just to see if some of those kids I could roil.
I wasn't exactly the Tin Man of Oz's fame,
But the neighborhood all thought me quite insane.
Having pinned stuffed animals to my shirt one time
The "stuffed shirt" routine was more than a crime.
I have been hunchbacked and straight laced just for the kids,
Some come to my door, just to see what I did.
Last year I took a soft ball and pinned it atop my shoulder,
No, it wasn't there to look like a boulder.
I put a facemask and hat on it you see,
Two heads were better than one, when the kids looked at me.
I've gone to a party wearing shorts 'neath my overcoat,
But being such a flimsy "Flasher", I could not emote.
So, I took the strobe from my camera and held it inside,
Then, when I opened my coat...FLASH...got everyone wide eyed.
I don't do parties for Halloween any more,
Too much work, passing out candy at the door.
But, I still dress up for the kids to know,
That you don't have to buy a costume when imagination will do.
I will wear some wierd outfit that I have tried to do well,
Then yank open the door screaming..."Who's ringing that bell"?
It is often fun to see the reactions my costumes bring each year,
They generally don't know what awaits them here.
It's only once a year that I go on this binge,
The littlest ones never cease to cringe.
Some will run to their parents standing in the drive,
Wondering if such a creature could be alive.
But they eventually come back to reap their treats.
In spite of my bombastic costumal feats.
So, if you come to my door just beware,
More than a crazy poet, you might find here.
Limerick : Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class
Once a Leftist Stuffed-Shirt taught class
He stuffed students’ drains with high-class grass
The girls during recess
Gave him ample access
Now hangs out with big-funding Top-Brass.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
They said they wanted servers
People to wait on others
For tips and a wage
No plans to move up the ladder
Just a day to make some pay
Makes you want to slit their throats
In there bloated three piece suits
Some middle management loser
Who bought his clothes at Macy’s
Is pulling rank and calling the shots
He is just a puppet and a puppy
For he is impotent
Nothing but a stuffed shirt
And dream of getting skirts
I am out of luck and down on time
So he becomes my boss
It is his gain and not my loss
For I want to excel to make the grade
But this is a merry-go-round
At the end of the day I am
Just that…
Day labor
(This is a fictional poem)
Last week I became very annoyed.
I was devastated to see my wife in the new issue of Playboy.
My cousin showed me her pictures after he got the magazine in the mail.
It was horrible and it hurts like hell.
I was shocked to see my wife's bare breasts.
Now I'm angry and depressed.
As men all over the country look at her, they drool.
This is definitely not cool.
My brother said that I'm being a stuffed shirt.
But if it was his wife, I know he'd also be hurt.
This incident has caused me to come unglued.
I'm the only man who should see my wife nude.
There once was fellow could really jump
But his arms were blown off, left with two stumps
When with a new girl
He made her hair curl
He would dive in there, knees first, for a hump
The girl said, "Please, dear, don't do that; it hurts!
And your bare knees are just covered with dirt"
But the jumper's reply:
"I'm a civilized guy
Not a stuffed-shirt or a mud-caked pervert!"
My name, William A Cleator, sounds like a stuffed shirt to me,
but Billy TheKidster sounds like a lot more fun possibly.
Look Back in Anger to June 2024
You, current denizen of Number Ten
With gleaming Colgate smile and Gucci shoes,
Take serious pause for thought, reflect on when
The voters all reject you and you lose.
Your pledges, that you bravely, rashly, made –
They will return to haunt you all too soon.
Your nemesis will come, will not be stayed;
Your wish is like a child’s who wants the moon.
You think it is enough to pass a law
To still your party’s fractious warring faction.
Your judgement is so pitifully poor
You confuse empty promises with action.
The cards are stacked against you, you’re misled,
Mistaken. Constant cabinet reshuffles
Are futile: all the decent ones have fled
And you are left with piglets snouting truffles.
So now you balance on the very brink
Of the event horizon of the blackest hole
In which you’ll vanish, sooner than you think.
And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.
***************************************
The petit levée was when Corbyn rose
But he was premature and showed their hand.
He frightened sympathetic ‘I don’t knows’
Who wanted something just a tad more bland.
Then for the Labour party in distress
Rode up a noble knight in shining armour,
An answer to their prayers, more or less:
Not Lancelot or Sir Gawain, but Starmer,
A stuffed shirt with a rictus, pained expression,
Inspiring as a quarter-pound of lard.
Forgive me if I give the wrong impression
But to be complimentary’s rather hard.
Now Labour’s grand levée takes centre stage.
With vacuous platitudes the press are fêting
A diverse, inclusive, globalist new age.
I’m horrified by our P M in waiting.
If only grammar were simplified
we then could speak uncriticized.
Or, if grammar were abandoned
we’d all be speaking standard.
Think how easy it would be
to speak flawed yet naturally,
and not worry that what we say
is the right or proper way.
The purist will of course object
and castigate me as a derelict,
arguing that ungrammatical English
is speech reduced to gibberish.
But I remind him of this fact:
language is a spontaneous act,
and much of what passes today
as proper English was yesterday
condemned as bad and therefore
unsuitable and socially improper.
How, then, is it today acceptable
when once it was objectionable?
I’ll tell you why and clearly: Because
language does not progress by laws
fixed and rigid: rather time and usage
are what mold and move language.
And so, to every stuffed shirt scholar
I say, don’t get hot under the collar,
what you angrily dismiss today as rubbish
will tomorrow be proper English.