Best Sycophantic Poems
Mr Bombastic
So sycophantic
Spins discs of plastic
He’s so sarcastic -
Thinks he’s fantastic!
He’s on a health kick
Eat prunes in aspic....
His guts turn spastic
Diarrhoea quite drastic!
02/10/20
Simple silly scribbles after eating prunes for breakfast whilst listening to an 'in your face dj' on internet radio!
I AM A SYCOPHANT
I love eye-service
A great deal of sycophancy
I am big on people-pleasing
I do eye-service
To Him whose eyes are ever on me
I love to make Him feel good about me
So I flatter Him with praises
I honor Him with dances
I sing of His past deeds as if they happen yesterday
I thank Him for what He has not done as if it is already done
I never miss opportunity to impress HIM
I am always all over Him standing, kneeling
Atimes, I roll all over Him on the ground
Many times I jump up on him like squirrel
I often weep because of Him for no sad reasons
I never miss opportunity to boast about Him
In my sycophantic eyes, He is above reproach
I can never complain about Him
Because I am his biggest fan; He can do no wrong
All His ways and words are eternally right in my sycophantic eyes
Because I am His pleaser
I dote over all His published works and theses
I am a collector of everything ever written or said about Him
I make Him the theme of my songs and poems
His friends are my friends and His enemies, my enemies
I never miss opportunity to show Him off
I drop His name to flaunt my connection with Him
I place Him higher than my loved ones
His ways, I walk, His words, I utter, His kind of life I live
In my sycophantic way, I write Him this poem
He is my God…in whom I live and have my being
Part Two
SEVEN STARK WORDS
Seven alliterative blockbuster words struck so
they rhymed initially in juxta-positioning lineal parallels
pausing but in the fourth
to resume breath in the fifth
Leaving the interstitial morphemes in resonating ellipses
The economy of your parsing has wreaked havoc down the ages
in all trans-explicatory tongues
Tough-minded men come from afar
with other gods to serve
and sacrifices to make in the name of their Lords
bent your versification to limp rhyme
and left meaning a hung pursuit
in the hands of plagiarists professors preachers
who
not knowing nor divining the reason for your craftsman’s
concatenation of weighted phonemes
advanced theories for your elastic pregnant mind
strung myriads of pages in exegeses
each staking a claim to posterity
the villainous hanging on your lips
In a time devoid of papered learning for the poor
When to be born a Sudra or Pariah was a sin
When masters were those top-heavy manically-mantric Brahmin priests
Preying on the duped loyal sycophantic Vaishyas
wishing to earn karmic merit with their agricultural gain at their altar feet
such servant-financers as they by legions now lay their souls down
as even the long-gone royally leisure-dispensing Kshaktriyas
how would he who sought the spread of knowledge
not seek to encapsulate learning in mnemonic couplets
arranged according to rigid design
for those who could not count either
Ten fingers in the hand so
Ten the number of facets of a thought
a subject
a theme
even if theme subject thought were stretched too thin
The shop floor view of the newly promoted
Oh to be the factory foreman and to wear a posh white coat
Just the thought of all that power brings a lump right to your throat
No more dirty hands or hob nail boots or boiler suits for you
No more rushing through your break time just relax and drink your brew
Carrying your briefcase, there’s no need for you to hide it
We all know that like your head there’s not a lot inside it
With your clipboard and your pencil you can wander round the site
Whilst assuming great authority you put us workers right
You believe we are in awe of you and hold you in esteem
If that is what you really think your living in a dream
We have seen all your back stabbing and we don’t know how you sleep
Everybody knows you as a sycophantic creep
We heard you telling everyone in the works canteen
That you now had access to the managers latrine
It’s true that for promotion you were first past the post
Yet the workers here all see you as a bigger pratt than most
We have read all your new rules and how we face the sack
We are all in the union and we’ll be fighting back
Don’t go thinking as a foreman that your future is secured
Your about to be upended by a young smart-arsed shop steward
The young generation, who believe in dissolution,
promulgating the manifesto
“tradition is the grave of the banality,
only solecism is the quickening of new life…”
yell upholding a flag similar to a bad check
which is unable to secure the needed guarantee for the debt.
They are sycophantic speculators hopping on the bandwagon
of the time, they are nothing but a product of a certain moment
of the swinging pendulum, their unfounded thought changes in consonance with the direction and the amplitude of the pendulum.
Although they think highly of themselves,
they assert themselves as the forerunner of the times,
actually, they are unbridled reckless colts jumping, hopping,
and running blindly in the wilderness.
They consider heteronomy as a shackle,
they, therefore, rush to a smithy and heat the shackles to cut it off,
they insist upon autonomy as the beat of the heart,
they, therefore, lay on the cold operating table to cut it open
to see the inside of the heart bearing an excruciating pain
but they found it full of red and blue blood
clotted in two atrium and two ventricles, the blood
contaminated with filthy and turbid human minds
which carried on from generations of generations
of past unchanged.
They try to ascend their thoughts, nonetheless,
above the traditional ones, it’s nothing more than
a word game, a disgusting prank.
Are they mad? Though they cannot even jump
nor have wings, they try to fly,
ah, poor generation, ill, crooked, lost,
who were not even touched by a drop of Medusa’s
poisonous blood, flap wings imitating Pegasus about to fly.
Well! sycophantic misanthropist, verbose agitator of spite
Club footed whore master, couldn’t goose step for his life
Malicious propagandist, spreading hatred in every breath
His wife willing disciple, poisoned their 6 children to death
Demanding patriotic nationalism, big speech carcinogenic
Snickers in vehemence, sardonic grin, genocidal eugenics
Never dirtying his hands, an aryan superstar, not by blood
Master race aspirational, looks into the mirror then shrugs
Doctor of nihilistic supremacy, swearing hypocritical oaths
5 ft 4” gigantic paradigm, inferiority complex, slow growth
Promising victory up to the last, faithful to his fuhrers flag
Cowers from nearby artillery, blasting Swastikas into rags
Hiding amongst his sewer rats, goes insane down a bunker
Mixing morphine with champagne, to alleviate going under
Saved the best cocktail for last, cyanide and bullet casings
Fitting end to crawling malaise, and cockroach infestations.
Biting Satire Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
24/02/2021
I was told in the beginning
That a wish may not well be unicorn
With two winged thrust-thronged
To soar upon the cumulus,
And for those who are wishing
Wishes to fall on their laps
Were wholly rendered redundant,
Those who want to attain,
Tainted and tarnished past attainment
Forgetting forward fortune
And glory in goods temporary.
Now those who dole out mischief;
Sowing the seed of acrimony
Rotten in corruptible credo
Reshuffling reservoir of redundancy
To establish the roots of inertia,
Of Demo-CRAZY
Of masq-UERADES
Of lob-BEASTS
Of cons-titu-PATION
Of elders
Of fools
Of economy
Of pain
Of nemesis
Of crying jags
And hopelessness, deep furrows on wanton minds
Remembering the deceit of denigration
That brought doomed to deserving daddies
That it is always a surprise,
Unwilling stallion in the midst
Of same blind, semblance sahibs,
A remembrance of the past remembrance
Raising the boys to take the Salutary gauntlet
of the favour done
To pave the way
For stock taking and a quiet get out,
Of the unending, pass measure euphoria,
Then it fell on the laps
Of a fiery warrior; then
The dance of the macabre
And a sycophantic applause,
Mutatis mutandis, endless queues
Of rebounding stomachs
Roaming, rounder the ruins
Recounting remnant reservoir
Denouncing, declaring deceiving
All one enmeshed in the same pot
For the final stir of the arbiter.
Dont tell me after all this while you still want a proof of my love
Look into my eyes and you can see the truth pure like a dove
Did everything to please you never sycophantic
And u still want proof
When with you my love for u makes me
Psychopathic
And u still want proof
I sacrificed my hair and went bald all for you trigmatic
And u still want proof
Used my fees and allowances to buy you a benz 4matic
And you still want proof
I redefined love practically for you pragmatic
And you still want proof
I even tattooed your name on my arm how romantic
And you still want proof
Dedicated my life to your servitude yet you still egocentric
You are my sunshine my baby
My priceless jewel my royalty
I'll lift your breast to that firm position till it is perky
I'll make sure u ain't skinny neither part of team itty-bitty
Yeah I'mma mk sure you are fleshy but not plumply
Marilyn Monroe staright Outta Ghana, damn you are pretty
And am not letting go of you even if it meant being sticky
Yes you aint perfect
But I'll still love the unholliness of your lips
The lackadaisical swinging of your hips
Your high pitch laughter that grinds everybody's gears
For in my eyes you are that perfect lady made just for me to have and love ??
The incongruity sparkles, dirty diamonds in a drain,
With hackles rising, lips drawn back, in lemon peeling pain;
A psychodrama stage of sleight springboards the stupid head,
“I know,” she thinks, “I’m always right, I know that’s what he said.”
The egotism sponges as a leech ingesting blood,
The eyes are wide, the **** erect, the loins in moistened flood;
A stimulating shafting sort of sycophantic surge.
“His words are all about me now, he can’t control the urge.”
The craziness develops like a Polaroid of junk,
A dustbin lid, a bag of nails, a blue remembered funk;
A schizophrenic symptom in a druggy wrecked-up mind,
Ideas of reference screech, protesting honour is maligned.
The fantasy grows darker like a stain that slowly spreads
Upon the crotch she fumbles with, her fingers cold as lead;
In face of letting loose of grip please don’t forget to smile,
It’s only pretexts in the mind that bothered for a while.
EMOTIONAL PERIHELION
Alpha rhythm
Relaxation to angst
Indifference inspired hate
Electrified mutiny. Powerful schism
Scofflaw perplexed;
Sycophantic insensate-
Brutal – inhuman – Trait
Trail of honey to lead the insects-
To altruistic rape.
Drug down into a selfless feudalistic hate.
Sadomasochistic shapes
Shadows crawl back in
And begin to dissect
Honor to inject and action to defend;
With pride, dishonor dies. Says goodbye,
To shame and regret.
The end.
Written: January 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
Quote by Geoffrey Chaucer "Time and tide wait for no man,"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time, a poltergeist whisper
slipping through the cracks
Moments shimmer
akin to Petunia petals aloft,
a hypnotic dance —
ephemeral yet priceless.
Time waits for no one;
haven't you felt its rush?
Time waits for no one —
It simply drifts away.
With each tick, clocks transform
into the fabric of history—
you seize fleeting seconds
as if they could stretch forever.
Wilted Orchids echo
forgotten dreams,
pulled by unseen forces
upon a canvas of memories.
Each speck of time,
a mason's chipped work.
Harmonic motions dim
in the palms of eternity;
calming breezes frown
upon autumn’s sunlit glow.
No one halts time—it surges on!
It speeds faster than a blink.
Nostalgia weaves itself
around crystal vessels,
while moonflower garlands
bloom amid hazy dreams.
Tattletale smiles escape
into hollow nights—
a foggy embrace
filled with haunting whispers and grins.
Tulips muted bluish—gray
etch their tale in time’s shore.
Embrace winter’s trudge
and find solace unvexed:
surf through waves of magic
knowing love beams bright.
Galumph through life
daring despite harsh fates:
vagabond dreams vaudeville
within flummoxed hearts;
a rainbow palette spreads
beneath a hammock sky.
No matter what, it lies ahead.
After passing, it's futile to cling on.
Desolation puckers beneath
the glistening dew decline,
an abyss where bleeding
wrists are fodder for worms.
A sycophantic squire crafts
kismet kernels stripped—
flesh ripped by careless slips,
losing grip on whispers;
breaths juggle surly skies,
sharp as bleak thorns.
From cradle to grave,
We've learned —
that time is wealth
we must cherish.
Darkness veils endless roads,
plummeting in twilight throes.
tangled fears mimic
Dionysus amphetamine highs—
brimstone offers esoteric solace
that straddles the magnetic edge.
Whispers eviscerate as they swirl,
amber kisses across fallen stars.
Crocuses bloom in purple
while goldfinch trill
yellow celandine riddles.
Employ your edge before it fades.
Everyone longs for plenty of time.
You can't carry time with you
money cannot reclaim lost time.
Winnie the Pooh is invited
A fictional figure, a child’s
Friend and now a king’s witness
No sword heaved from a stone
A cuddly toy bear among the elite
More important than you or me
More relevant, than economy.
A leader living a child’s fantasy
The king’s clothes of equal absurdity
Yet the reality, covered in pomp
Advisers see nothing wrong or
Too sycophantic; just go along
A coronation, sing his favourite hymn
Poor bonny prince, lonely, soul.
Imaginary friends answering the call
Crowning a commonwealth leader
What would your friends think?
Carry a teddy to the office on Monday
Unemployment the following week
Yet the king will sit on his throne
His wife and Pooh to share his power,
Riches, palaces and home. Reassures
The country's confidence in the few.
God save our 2.2 king and of course, Pooh.
David Cox 29/04/23
I see smoke billowing out from the horizon
The grey strokes swirling and twisting into the tangerine sky
The painted canvas appears to deceive
Dark silhouettes loom large, the end draws nigh
I see distant hopes choke on the toxic
The clouds drift away, in search of tranquil
Such a meek surrender to the hostile
No, there is no grace in this goodwill
I see dark malice embrace the unsullied
The salvation that once set you free
Chains you to the dungeons of your sycophantic soul
I see the slow poison consume, and I don't like what I see
Emotionless wrist cutters scream in chaos.
I spit black horror in their stupid faces.
Sycophantic bastards burn in the flaming pits of hell.
But me I break spines and hearts in equal measure.
Brittle bones splinter in both directions.
A lack of brains paints me sombre.
If all of creation is against us, then why do we carry on existing.
Right-sided circles exude nothing but calm.
Whilst left handed doorways smash our faces in.
My heart erupts like a volcano
bursting with scathing songs,for
the lobes of tyranny,fattened
by the deceptive lyrics,from
sycophantic lips
My tongue,a molten kalam,shall
consume the valve of fear,preaching
caution to frustrated souls,now
my music must rise ,from
the din of ancient sighs,remixed
in the swelter of pain and anguish,rehashed
in the gurgling sound,of
blighted bellies
My anvil honed labial,shall
spin arrows to pierce,their
stubborn ossiccles and
invade the cosmos of haughty drunkeness
My strident cry shall spin a noose,for
the drooling neck of despotism,hawking
chaos on our conflagrating land,where
swamp dwellers bath with spittle,and
princes pawn peasant's heritance
My touching tune shall rouse,fascist
minds to the scent ,of
our brewing anger,and
restless impatience
I shall continue to sing until,this
gathering storm harvest hearts,and
stir furious fists,to deal
deathly blow to the cenotaph of tyranny.