Long Ill bred Poems
Long Ill bred Poems. Below are the most popular long Ill bred by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ill bred poems by poem length and keyword.
With my usual paucity of luck I was assigned to seat 34B.
I wanted to be left in peace but as you see, 'twas not to be.
The urchin sittin' behind me pitched a screamin' fit!
He kicked the back of my seat and his mom cared not a whit!
I got so angry that I could have thrown rocks at a hearse,
But as time flew on (so to speak) things got even worse.
The little old lady on my left babbled about her back operation.
The sot on my right snored in my ear without cessation.
He had bladder problems that caused him to climb over me,
To relieve himself of used beer in the restroom constantly!
The guy in front of me adjusted his seat creatin' a very small gap,
And in doin' so spilled my coffee from the tray all over my lap!
Sporadically, an inconsiderate, ill-bred jerk released odious gas.
I think next time I'll spend a few more bucks and travel first-class!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Grandpa the Master Magician
Grandpa was old and creaked
like a well-worn floorboard
but he always carried a smile with him
which generally won the day or the situation.
He had just spent time with his two grandchildren
which had added fun to his morning’s recipe.
They saw Grandpa as this master magician
capable of producing an egg from either nostril
..…. boiled or not.
An eggcellent start to any day!!
Later, on an icicle of an afternoon
and confronted by a presumptuous wind
which blew him around street corners;
he found himself happily chasing his youth.
Newspaper and chocolate treat acquired
he set off for the finishing line of home.
He noted that the traffic lights were changing to red!
So, although not at the proper crossing, his GPS
i.e. Grandpa’s Priority Selector
was saying…GO! GO! GO!
However so was a fast-approaching Fiat 500!
Grandpa felt validated by time and experience so..
he sailed forth but time and his knees didn’t agree.
His legs instead of speeding up, started slowing down
which was the exact opposite of the flying Fiat,
driven ruthlessly by a manic-panicked driver
who exaggerated a swerve around Grandpa
with arms orchestrating her extremely annoyed thoughts.
Grandpa tottered on oblivious to the orchestrations.
He felt composed being lean, leathery and learned
as opposed to the driver’s ill-fed, ill-bred, ill-mannered approach.
However Grandpa, the master magician, wasn’t to be thwarted
so as his feet touched pavement, his hand touched cap,
then his winning smile and a flicked wave of politeness.
The driver just continued with her orchestration of
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C Minor
while mouthing, “Is your brain on holiday!”
However life was to offer Granpa a final judgement
for as the traffic lights winked from red to green
our driver was still in a boil of botheration until…
a honk of reprimand from behind grabbed her attention.
Frustrated she tried to floor the accelerator pedal
but only succeeded in stalling the engine.
The horn hoots and toots began queuing up
until the Fiat 500 burnt rubber and swivel-hipped away.
Grandpa’s face showed not a flicker of amusement
but he allowed his bones to enjoy the moment -
particularly the funny one!
Then the wind giggled up, clapped him on the back
and then kindly blew him gently home!
Goodness me, fiddle dee dee and la de dah
Mary turned into a black sheep, baa baa baa
That naughty little lamb
Has contrived a big scam
She's gone too far astray and has lost her way
Mary's been tinkering on an old fiddle
But she can't play worth a piddle or diddle
She's as crazy as a loon
Mind and fiddle outta tune
Even the cow can unravel this riddle
I heard about the guy, name of Jack Horner
Who hangs around the lamp post on the corner
Mary does his bidding
It's true. I'm not kidding
She didn't listen when I tried to warn her
What'd you plant in your garden, Mary Mary?
I heard smokin' it will make you quite merry
The feds have grown wise
To her innocent disguise
My goodness! She's become very contrary!
Mean ol' Mary dressed up as Little Bo Peep
To bully and mock the flock of grazing sheep
She is shamefully cruel
I'd meet her in a duel
To put an end to that mean-spirited creep
Last weekend she frightened Little Miss Muffet
Who was eating a light lunch on her tuffet
Munching her whey and curd
When Mary dropped a turd
Then ran off, telling Miss Muffet to stuff it!
What a fussy hellcat Mary has become
Her lies have people describing her as 'scum'
She's bonkers in the head
Obviously ill bred
and if you believe a word she says, you're dumb
Evil is a person who chases blind mice
But by now we all know Mary is not nice
She screamed at them, "Now run!"
Then shot 'em with her gun
One day that ghastly creature will pay the price
The Big Bad Wolf's a hero in Mary's thinking
Cuz he's dreadful to others without blinking
He was mean to two pigs
when he blew down their digs
Mary's just as horribly cruel, I'm thinking
Like Humpty Dumpty, who once sat on a wall
Mary's wicked ways will lead to her downfall
A powder keg's been lit
It will hurt quite a bit
But she's a bad egg who always starts a brawl
Pray tell, who tore the neighbors’ flowers out?
What sort of child fell madly on their bed?
Surely one unruly and ill-bred!
What had it been that made this child pout
and then go out and ever dare to flout
the rule of being mannerly – to shred
those pretty blooms? Found out, she homeward sped.
She stood accused. The neighbors had no doubt.
And did this little girl’s heart fill with guilt
for her misconduct? She could not deny
what she had done. Why had such wrath been spilt
on flowers? Soon all knew what went awry!
Her father’s disregard had made her wilt,
so flowers felt her rage. I know. ‘Twas I.
Aug. 1, 2020
for the 'STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (16),any form,any theme' Poetry Contest
(a story related to me by my mother because I was so young I do not remember this!)
With shouts of glee, twin hellions fled
across the park while I would tread
behind them. Always it was me
who had responsibility
of them, who acted so ill-bred.
They wouldn’t heed one word I said,
and I would watch them as they sped
on skateboards, weaving recklessly
with shouts of glee.
But then at night, with stories read,
they’d sleep like “princes” in their bed.
And Mom and Dad would both agree
they were so sweet. . . All I could see
were imps who’d wake to cause me dread
with shouts of glee!
April 19, 2022
For Regina McIntosh's Your Favorite Theme Poetry Contest
People are obedient to the power they serve
the source of all conflict and war works for the devil
No one in governmental positions ever calls for peace
they put sanctions on nations to fill their own ill bred pockets
we all can see clearly that greed plays its hand through bloodshed
Those old men sacrificing the young to do their dirty work
cowardly office boys sitting on their laurels hiding behind a desk
the mask has slipped revealing back stabbers
hiding behind a smoke screen the true origin sits
Pay the piper to play a different tune one with hope for the future
this destructive path the world is on is driven by fear
believing in something without evidence to back it up as existing
Slowly many will awaken to find it all is to late
when a majority can no longer be achieved without conflict
sad state of affairs as many have avoided learning
from the past mistakes tyrants and dictators work against God
Going from one kind
of hell to another
The women would change
— but his torment remained
**
Fidelity’s Orphan
The lies are easy
but truth gives me trouble
Veracity’s mistress
lingers unwed
Deceit an enchantress
that woos in our folly
Fidelity’s orphan
— unnamed and ill bred
**
Bridges
Wit
is the difference
between a quote
— and a quip
**
Robin’s Hood
To live
outside the law
if righteousness
decrees
To stand alone
against the throne
fugitive
— and free
**
Misdirection
You can’t change what is
with what isn’t
You can’t say goodbye
with hello
You can’t fix what’s wrong
with ill mention
You can’t touch the sky
— from below
**
Lessons Belie
You can never teach
the heart of a poem
only its form or structure
at best
What’s beating inside
every lesson belies
and no box or its wrapper
— will ever attest
**
Ancient Jaws
Hiding
below the surface
Water
muddy and stark
A snapping
turtle waits in silence
Lurking
— in the dark
**
One Eye Left Open
All change is internal
the outside world staid
Heaven’s dead reckon
is trapped in the senses
Caught in a mirror
of transient reflection
One eye left open
— the other relayed
**
Between The Notes
Idleness
hides the most
attractive
industry
Often
the most valued
part of
the day
Lost
in the magic
of chance
undetermined
Rich
not in money
but in wonder
— assayed
**
Safe Harbors
Encircled by memory
old feelings surround
Confronted by turmoil
they seek common ground
Each musing familiar
old thoughts from the fray
Marching together
— to carry the day
**
Never Stop Believing
Never say no
till you’re
too busy
to say yes
Never stop writing
till the
words
have regressed
Never stop asking
till the
last question’s
gone
Never stop believing
till
right
— becomes wrong
**
In those far days, stars had stilts, shafts
that pierced every eye with a legendary knowledge.
There were celestial dragons
that roamed the daylight clouds,
actual myths glittered in the sunlight
as they shape-shifted through a gleaming creation.
Olympus could be found in every nest. Nirvana
explored in nightly rain puddles. Heaven was a word
for the ordinary and mundane.
Then a thing darker than the darkest of shadows,
cast its vast leathery wings over the minds
of these lesser gods and their magical beasts.
Conflicts arose in every land, fairies fled
to the timeless flowering fields of Arcadia.
Blood oaths were sworn and few there were
that would arbitrate for peace.
To this day, starlight walks elsewhere,
and we the ill-bred whelps of fear,
must travel with no thaumaturgic succor
or wit to discern
this wonderful macrocosm of us.
In London’s gaslit, art-enamoured scene,
Lived two great wits, with egos sharp and keen.
The Painter James, with monocle and cane,
The Poet Wilde, who found in art no pain,
But only beauty, in a world mundane.
They vied for notice, ‘midst the social whirl,
Two shining stars, one butterfly, one pearl.
Their row, half-feigned for the public’s gay delight,
Was a rap contest in the fading light,
A friendly jousting for the bon mot’s might.
Whistler speaks, "Au cobtraire, you!"
“Now Oscar, pray, observe my ‘Nocturne’ blue,
A symphony in tone, a vision true.
No moral burden, no heavy, social plea,
Just ‘Art for Art’s Sake,’ for the world to see.”
Wilde retorts articulately:
“Your art, dear Jimmy, is a lovely thing,
A shell where the ocean’s music seems to sing.
But tell me, James, without a hint of ire,
When you paint nature, do you find desire?
Or just a canvas for your genius’ fire?”
Whistler snaps back, playing a lyre:
“Nature, my boy, is usually wrong!
She’s seldom perfect and does not last for long.
I merely help her, lend a guiding hand,
To make her beauty understood, and grand.”
Wilde replies, with a theatrical strand:
“I wish, dear James, that I had said that line!”
Whistler’s eyes, with mock-offence, do shine:
“You will, good Oscar, you will, in your time!”
A stinging jest, a hint of plagiarism’s dart,
Which Oscar parried, with his usual art.
The playful jousting became a la carte,
Their friendship ended on bit of a bitter notary.
Whistler complained his ideas were filched away,
That Wilde had stolen his dandyish display.
He called him “middleman,” a critic, not an artistian,
Wilde, in return, called Whistler an “ill-bred” person,
A “venerable impostor,” to make the matter worsen.
The battle moved to newspapers, bold and crass,
Their lively letters, a gift to the masses.
“When you and I are together,” Wilde did opine,
“We talk of nothing but ourselves, I find.”
“No, no, dear Oscar,” Whistler quickly wrote,
“When we’re together, we talk of me, note!”
A final jab, a rivalry complete,
The war of wits, a well-known, public feat.
Wilde had the last word in his novel, Dorian Gray,
Where the murdered artist had his little say.
Their rivalry remembered, for the wit they shared,
Two sparkling egos, gloriously paired.
I looked up the word 'boor' in my Funk n' Wagnalls to verify the truth.
I found that, "A 'boor' is one who's ill-bred, crude and somewhat uncouth!"
I find boors obnoxious and inconsiderate jerks when they flaunt their gall!
Their disgusting, rude and churlish behavior nearly drives me up the wall!
I detest loud-mouthed youths (and adults) who I suppose vie for attention.
Their total lack of respect for anything is beyond my comprehension!
Their public display of putrid language is offensive to others' ears.
Free speech is fine but public vulgarity could be reined in, it appears!
My eyes glaze over when gasbags bore me with trivial conversation,
And don't get to the point and babble on and on without cessation!
In a fine cafe why don't boors stifle cell phones and let people dine in peace!
Their chattering is akin to a pair of magpies or a skein of honking geese!
Teenage boors practically make love in malls that is offensive to many others.
Aren't kiddies today taught be a bit more discreet by their pops and mothers?
They tote their boom boxes with 'music' blaring throughout the 'hood.
I'd like to tell them where they can shove those things if I legally could!
I loathe smart aleck boors who tailgate and impair my driving vision.
Don't they know this lack of common sense is apt to cause a collision?
I reckon I'd better wind this down and not bore with further dissertation,
But no doubt by now with boorish boors you can sense my frustration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in Linda's "I'm Bored With_____" Contest - May 2011