Long Hoodlum Poems
Long Hoodlum Poems. Below are the most popular long Hoodlum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hoodlum poems by poem length and keyword.
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
What’s In A Word
Humor: by Miracle Man
November 25, 2021
Today, much time is spent on word substituting,
we’re currently being asked to cease using the word looting.
Hoodlum sympathizers have deemed it a racist word,
but to me, looting’s appropriate, and much preferred.
Some waste time lobbying on a better word campaign,
but taking from another what they've labored to obtain.
In every sense of the word you've become a looter,
and must plead your case before some prosecutor.
Over time words evolved and many are now taboo,
and being called white privileged, I find offensive too.
But I tend to agree and, as always, a straight shooter,
smash and grab is more refined than just plain looter.
“Fools live to regret their words,
wise men to regret their silence.”
Will Henry
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."
Though semitic thru and thru
yours truly (me) dons guise of being Irish
trumpeting hoople linked with
the folklore and culture of Emerald Isle
juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2024 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull
o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed
stitch of truth.
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2021 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
[ credits to LAURENT YVAN from France who read my poem ]
Launched over ages of primaeval forces
my nomadic ancestry calls out to me
winds howl driven over rolling hills
atop a ridge of rugged mountains
beyond vestiges of the long silk road
the Mongolian empire looks back at me
the spirit of the great Genghis Khan
runs feral forever through my veins
Mongolia and its harsh wilderness
its barren lands its haunted past
drumming echoes of summoned spirits
unleash the wrath of heaving heavens
I’m more than hoodlum with a vision
I’m a rebel at the helm of my said destiny
My brothers and I are born of a lineage
that’s jagged ruthless rich and proud
fierceness and freedom integral to our dna
we’ll defend our land and way of life
with brute strength and sheer intimidation
in spilled blood we write our history
come hell highwater feast or famine
the spirit of the great Genghis Khan
runs feral forever through our veins
We’ll round up the horses
and harness voracious winds
go out protect and safeguard at all cost
wave our swords and in hearts instill fear
cast our thunder over hills and valleys
earn respect for our ancestors’ inherited land
a kingdom conquered piecemeal by our warlord
father to our people and to our nation vast
A deep longing larger than life compels me
to preserve my legacy against betrayal and conspiracy
dark alliances with sights on pillaging and plundering
no more brutal bloodbaths and massacres
neo-medieval Mongol tribes and clans united
The spirit of the great Genghis Khan
feral through my veins forever runs
and that’s the Mongolia that calls on back to me
Read on air by invitation ~ May 30, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2025, 2nd plance 2022, 3rd place 2020, Front Page Pick 2022
Submitted on May 26, 2020 for contest BRIAN'S CHOICE V sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
Bidding your time for what kind of love
What a nice life what a nice night with a picture in a camera
Time unravels without you
Now serving, who without what
Be it something I could have ran with
The words roll out faster than the carpet
What is significance what is lost forever
In a moment of a dream
Fear slows time
Peppers dawn
Lotus swan
I can’t say what I believe
I died a thousand deaths
Without the 1000 hugs
That belief is villainess
Albatross bleeding
Such a fuss, hoodlum, villain
Peppers dawn
The authentic wreckage of confronting choices
Together thousands become millions
And its loneliness, no reasons no questions
Silent seed whispering soul
Queries the lost the unborn and free those born to truth
Lotus swan
The trail was thick with bities and the billabong was high
me mates were all a yabbering 'bout the price of meat
The cavvy horses trotted right on course, nothing seemed awry
the jiger boss yelled "Buckeroos! git that stray dogie to teat!"
Old Bluey barks to say G'Day as he helps the boys to muster
all the new calves to the bank, away from the duffers.
A camp fire smokes and Cookie clucks wrapped up in his duster
as Hoodlum sits a peeling spuds dreaming of his mother.
The suns gone down like a gob smacked floozie behind the range.
At last, it seems, we're ending another dusty day.
The night hawks giddyuped, there are bedrolls amongst the sage,
yet were' not within a cooee of the end of an Aussie's play.
*Image of Remembering Sirs & AUDIO To Sir with Love by Lulu.
To Sirs with Love Clerihew
Christian Charles Roberts,
One of the converts,
Sir Sidney Portier's
East End school proteges.
2023 January 07
*3rd Place*
BRIAN STRAND CONTEST NO 1167
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2023 January 09
*HMS.
He had played the class hoodlum, Denham, in the movie, "To Sir with Love," with the decedent, Sidney Portier.
Undisclosed particulars of his passing, leaving behind his wife Christine whom he had married on 12/26/73, 49 years ago to the day, also leaving behind two children (03/17/44-12/26/22) at 78 years old.
Self quarantined misanthrope pitched into purgatory wham!
Ably cane resign eternal damnation (mine)
courtesy devil specially engraved telegram
prestidigitation found me vanishing shazam,
without a trace I disappeared in thin air voila
Earthly travails atop horns of dilemma ram
into me buttucks pitching yours truly ma'am
hoisted by my own petard sheepishly wool
ewe (red dully) bull heave human bug eyed
recalcitrant specimen (me) nonetheless lamb
basted skewered (think shish kabob) log jam
succinctly described helplessness to preserve
ultimately repurposed into green eggs and ham
harmless recluse no more valuable than flotsam.
Grant simple wish to withdraw into hermitage
coronavirus (COVID-19) just desserts we wage
us *****sapiens on trial across web world stage
severely misappropriating Earthly resources rage
understandable Gaia she pointedly reminds adage
inescapable comeuppance whereby our civilization
written off as atrocious, hellacious, malicious, page
poisonous primates essentially, dismally, yes clearly
bollixed, failed, leveraged, & tortured planet I gauge
hell in a handbasket ironic tragicomic fate wise sage
of yesteryear did prognosticate now we scurry hither
and yon, to and fro Smashing Pumpkins immortalize
metaphor likened each one of us as rat locked in cage
bajillion eons ago once upon a time our noble savage
ancestors levels playing field now new bacteriophage
relentlessly pits twenty first century civilization doles
microscopic organism (battling unseen enemy) voyage
around sun fraught tooth and nail powder milk biscuits
a Prairie Home Companion ruse buzzfeeding courage
for shy people (yours truly) communicating message,
albeit urgent to revamp paradigm to live social - nsync
with eco friendly coda allowing, enabling, & providing
liberty and justice for all living (colorful) things hostage
at mercy of self proclaimed superior beasts above average
with intelligence, yet rendering oblate spheroid garbage.
No major inconvenience incapacitates rather humdrum
bard (rarely bored), I wanna pitch headlong into scrum
no need to scream and shout, cuz I speak softly to mum
(Mother Earth) reassuring, she inevitably bests hoodlum
standing arrogant, boastful, deceitful comfortably numb
oblivious when day of reckoning delivers offal maelstrom.
brings world word ii gunnery duty
as extremely frightful flashback
which utterly displeases this elderly mortal
and such behavior moi aback!
Born in this same house
on Leona avenue, this oldster doth dwell
which neighborhood once felt like heaven,
but now seems like hell
pet peeves arise with ever more frequency
from increased unpleasant encroachments
along this very narrow street
some young hoodlum
left trash scattered on property
that blew everywhere pell mell
but also parks a slew of cars up and down
both sides of this narrow thoroughfare
blithely co-opting an unused driveway
by an elderly lady who lives alone
oh, or a male friend of his
who guns the engine of a rosey roadster
at the crack of dawn
and when confronted blurted out
“i gotta do what i gotta do”
these complaints, i feel a need
(albeit anonymously)
this doddering soldier
of misfortune doth wish to tell
hoping the police can crack down
e’en if they need (billy me) to be idle
voicing rebellious yell!
address and name withheld on request
on account to avoid getting
preyed upon via ruffian's quest
so…please do not misperceive me a pest
but feel grateful (before
being dead) to clear me chest
only a concerned citizen kane at best
and a harmless curmudgeon i attest!