Long Loos Poems
Long Loos Poems. Below are the most popular long Loos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Loos poems by poem length and keyword.
I chuckle soft when people fume,
And blame the lot in suits and gloom.
“You see those leaders? All a scam!”
But who’s still selling free yarn?
Was it not your own cousin’s name,
On that campaign with matching frame?
The nurse who sighs, “This ward’s a zoo,”
Still checks her brows in selfie view.
She posts, “On duty, Lord be praised,”
While someone’s gasping, soul half-raised.
Yet when they moan the state’s unwell,
She nods, “It’s true,” then rings the bell.
The lecturer, with paunch and tie,
Reads ancient notes with weary sigh.
He shares some grades with knowing nod,
Then says, “This country’s truly flawed.”
He blames the youth for lack of grit—
While half his class just pays to sit.
The copper parked on potholed street,
Asks, “Where’s your licence? Papers neat?”
He grins, “Let’s talk,” with greasy grin,
While tucking morning bribes within.
By noon he’s shouting on the news—
“Society’s gone down the loos!”
We roast the system every day,
With memes and gifs in strong array.
Yet scroll past queues to dodge the vote,
Then mourn when goats are running boats.
We ask for change, yet shift no ground—
Just echo tweets that spin around.
The tailor swears, “Your cloth’s near done,”
But dances at his niece’s fun.
The mechanic says your car’s in queue,
But joyrides round like Fast & Few.
Then tells his mates, “This land’s a mess!”
While wearing shoes you just redressed.
The market lady shifts her scale,
And bags your rice with hidden shale.
The youth who screams, “We must rebel!”
Still ghosts his friend to chase one belle.
We all want justice, loud and bold—
But sow deceit like coins of old.
The pastor thunders, “Give and live!”
Then buys a Benz you helped to give.
He claims the Lord approves his flight,
While dodging tax in holy light.
He’s not alone—we’re in this stew,
From deacon’s pew to bus queue too.
So when next time you curse “the throne,”
Recall—it doesn’t stand alone.
That golden seat’s not self-assigned,
It’s built from all we’ve undermined.
To mend the roof, don’t shout and frown—
Pick up a spade, rebuild your town.
You want clear roads? Then drive with sense.
You want fair rules? Then stop the fence.
It’s not by screaming, “God will run it!”
While jumping queues with cheek and sonnet.
The mirror’s clear, it doesn’t bluff—
We are the system. That’s enough.
I swear , i saw my heart bleeding,
something like tick tock,tick tock
**** this, time she aint waiting for me,
I reminisce, more like jesus christ's
my love for her, juliet and romeo;
the real cameo, bony and clyde
too fast too furious,living life on the fast lane
men. this is a dream that will never ever end
but, here we are
the sun is up again
and am so lost in this game,
am like; can i sell my soul to the devil
she will love me with alil bit more chains and money
ooooh i keep thinking.
but i wont mind then,
fake friends will keep calling
real whores and real balling
real chains but we keep changing
diamonds are forever
but she is gone forever
if she ever loved me for me
but it is real funny huh, money.
how it wets that *****
goose chases become real.
these dreams,two bad *****es beside me
in the morning,two aks by the draw
real blood if you **** up,
whitesand by the doorstep,
am in private, staring at the sunset
but last night, i knelt and prayed
real life is real hard,too baaad, huh
because when i love, i love alot
the heart breaks, they come alot
will i ever give up on loving you?
i dont know? the heart speaks and the mind thinks
am a lil lost boy in the woods,
crapped up by the gangs in the hoods,
carried by adventurers in the boots
but hell yeah, right here, i find myself in you, huh,
you make my dreams come true, you do, boo,
just the two of us, craazy little birds,
lets fly away in the clouds of love
fear not because i shall hurt not
huh.
but , a true dream right here, huh,
endless nights with long calls,
i aint talking loos huh.
a real love story
real honor and glory
sorry to world , am gone *****es
my fingers in a ring
dont dial and ring
cause am gone,really?
am gone.
Matchstick Bikes
To tinkers and toilers
I salute,
From mending boilers
to weaving jute,
Man and boy
for generations,
I will unemploy
your occupations.
To brewers in sheds
I sink a few beers
To wet the heads
of our engineers,
From flat cloth caps
to matchstick men,
I will see the collapse
of pushers of pens.
To bakers, tailors
I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors
who fought and fell,
From doctors, nurses
to hobnail boots,
I will give your purses
to thieves in suits.
To the grieving docks
I drink a toast,
To tackle and blocks
and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops
to fishing trawls,
I will flick my mop
in empty halls.
To union dues
I shake your hand,
To cleaning loos
and farming land,
From railway gauges
to industry,
I will turn the pages
of history.
To factory lines
I raise my glass,
'Neath abandoned mines
of times now past,
From overtime
to austerity,
I will frame the grime
for posterity.
To the silent mills
I tip my hat,
To what ever ills
and this and that,
From a steelworks spew
to a builders hole,
I will stand in a queue
to draw my dole.
To finance, the city
I bow in awe,
To show no pity,
to flout the law,
From sellers, buyers
to pickets and strikes
I will slash the tyres
of your matchstick bikes.
© RJVHorton2016
I bought Trumps book of poems, yes it's true
And I really think you should get one too
Because you just don't know
When tissue stocks get low
So, keep a copy of it in your loo...
Trump sent kamala his poetry book
Said she'll have plenty time to take a look
Her wonky Kitchen table
Is now quite firm and stable
Kamala was pleased it no longer shook...
Tom Cunningham
If I’m ever gifted soup’s book
I wouldn’t even take a look
I’d rip out poems by “Trump”
For use after I dump
The theme is pure gobbledygook...
Jan Allison
I'd use Trump's pages to wipe my hiney
And keep my toilet bowl quite shiny
Not a word would I read
About his need for greed
He's not a poet; he's too whiney...
Lin Lane
Trump's new book of poems is a farce
He can't write a poem from his a r s e
Fake poems galore
Are all just a bore
His poetry book fans will be sparse...
Tania Kitchin
Donald Trump is down and singing the blues
Seeing his poetry going down loos
The thought of success
Had gone to his head
Now his ego is definitely bruised...
Beryl Edmonds
Written by Trump’s own hand
Is a fairytale about finance
His poetry book
For crooks to cook
Up a USA scammer plan...
Karen Jones
Donald Trump is now the new boss,
Those Demo-Craps are paying the cost,
Trump stuck to his guns,
And finally won,
Fake news spread by the media lost.
John Read
Have a fresh start
To a brother that reminds me of him that left at home that is to come.
Part of me is put to take care of those that are brothers on the loos for a word they have are afraid. Those that have the power but afraid it might not be enough to keep them moving.Along the way they feel that the burdens that were told to leave to the master is too heavy but they learned very slow to give it up.
The sheep know that they are lost but still they try to find the way instead of just crying to the master, for the master cannot be too far to hear because he knows that they might go far than expected to go and that is why he brought them whare they got lost,
For the master wanted to know if they would survive the land that they are put into so that next time He the master can leave them to survive while they learn the jungle. For if the master does not leave the animals they might not leave to learn that they have a responsibility, which is do whatever you will, but don’t go on if you know that you are lost-for the sheep know their masters voice and so does He.
Where I walk is not the light I was used to and am trying to come back to the greater light that made me shine that I lost my way out of his ways, which are good and marvelous.
For I’m afraid of the responsibility I have for my hope may be to fail but the faith that is in me is greater, for the master has and said I shall show you the way-but I ran away and am seeking a hand to pick me up for I’m down .a brother in hiding
[Inspired - with much gratitude - by Jan’s poem
There’s No Knocking On Heaven’s Loo Door
and Caren and Tom’s comments on it]
***
The toilets in heaven are cold on your ass
The angels believe that they’re all made of brass
Turns out the reason the lavvies are cold
Is that all those loos are eighteen carat gold
Heavenly shoppers had been sent to Earth
And told to buy goods of exceptional worth
The best baths and basins and showers and so on
But do not return without something to go on
One of those shoppers was sure in fine fettle
Sought out some toilet pans in precious metal
He came up one short of his gold toilet goal
He needed another so that one he stole
The owner told me that that richest of loos
Was nicked by a bloke with a beard and no shoes
One million pounds for my loo that was yeller
I said Jesus Christ! He said yeah that's the fella
So that’s how there’s toilets of gold up in heaven
They said there were two but there’s actually seven
But heavenly humans are not a bright species
And built up an accumulation of feaces
They looked at the task from a different angle
And now drop it in the Bermuda Triangle
Sailors and pilots are frequently struck
And turn up in heaven all covered in muck
Although they’re in heaven they never seem happy
As they use the bathroom because they’re so crappy
It might be a rumour but what I’ve been told
Is they often cry out…
THESE TOILETS ARE COLD!
Slaughter amongst the slag heaps
Bodies bowed over barb wire
Screeching, screaming
artillery arching above
soon to descend
amputating limbs
shattering skulls
blood and brains
splattering stains on
comrades too close
mixing with the mud
Grappling with grenades
Supplies short
London, Lancashire
and Lancaster lads
battling like beasts within
that Hohenzollern horror
hoping to hold it
Bayonets tear through torsos
Poison perfumes the air
wafting on the wind
back where it was birthed
menacing their own men
In Cite St. Auguste
citizens burrow into basements
as if Armageddon has arrived
or roam the streets like revenants
blank and bleary eyed
Their conscious mind
cannot comprehend
the malevolent madness of
what was once believed to be
a sane and civilized society
In the cemetery are set up
machine gun nests
among the monuments
As shells pound the ground
the dead are dredged up
as if to welcome the
new arrivals lying in piles
A sacred space sullied
by sadism
Schadenfreude
Flares flicker
Very Lights
to continue the fight
throughout the night
No rest for weary warriors
as no reserves arrive
to relieve them
Poor planning on the part
of generals pushing papers
and marking maps that
have no relevance to reality
ordering insanity
It has been more than
a year since Ferdinand fell
and Princip with his pistol
opened wide the gates of hell
Reminiscing and full of nostalgia
looking back over the years
A life full of joy and laughter
though some occasional tears
But no real regrets
Oh, maybe just one
For at this time of year
to my mind it doth come
So why before I die
have I never been to Glastonbury
watching from my old armchair
wishing it was me
wishing I was there
For despite
the rain
the mud
the loos
euphoria is all I see
with babes in arms
and sixties hippies
this place I really I want to be
sitting here full of joie de vivre
To see those happy hippy souls
festooned
bejewelled
leaves me beguiled
their visage truly says it all
they dance and sway the night away
a fantasy world of music and colour
this place is truly like no other
It’s never too late for me
to visit Glastonbury ~ my guilty pleasure
donning my happy hippy attire
strategically placing my stick- on tattoos
I turn up the volume ~ I'm ready to go
So singing and dancing the whole night through
at dawn ~ as I wipe the sleep from my eyes
I’m enjoying the luxury of my very own loo…
Written on 28th June 2019 – the first day of Glastonbury Festival
3rd PLACE
Contest: YOUR CHOICE SEASONS-FESTIVALS VERSE ,any form,any theme
Sponsor: Brian Strand
There was an old lady named Lindy Loos
Her skin was a canvas adorned with tattoos
Her back and her front were a fine work of art
But one final message she had to impart
For now she was old she had reached ninety one
Tired and weaker for her time had come
Her tatts like her soul were now creased and faded
No longer danced till midnight or walked unaided
And as the tattooist prepared his ink
Her life in tattoos, well it made him think
of a life laid bare through her many tattoos
For her final inking these words she did choose
‘No more words, no more skin
No more images to ink within
My life like my tatts is now fading away
As I wait for my calling on that final day
Like my tatts I wouldn’t change a single storyline
My skin is my biography so read it if you have the time’
And as he completed this poignant rhyme
She had already gone - for this was her time
Written 26th October 2018
Contest No 510
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st placement
Often people are quick to judge folks with many inkings, but these tattoos can be representative of the trials and tribulations they have had to deal with in their lives, for some are troubled souls whose only way of expressing their feelings is to have them inked upon their bodies. I wanted to say in this poem 'please do not be quick to judge'. I myself have no tattoos, but know many who do.
As I lay in the meadow of flowers blue sky and peace. I slowly drift to sleep
Looked up at the sky
Yelling asking why
Took a bullet to the head
Screamed good damn it
I was dead.
Layed down in the grass
This is death it will last
Felt the blood rushing from my head
Thank god I am dead
My soul is now in heaven
And my body is in the ground
My heart is down in hell
And I don’t make a sound
Suicide was the answer
The gun was the key
Put the key in the door
Im as dead as dead can be
Down there my life had no meaning
But up here im like a queen
Living life with no regrets
Living life were its not mean
Waking up every day is a joy
Down there it was fire and smoke
As the smoke would burn my eyes
And all hell would break loos
Dad would always hit me
Mum would always be high
They never got over my sisters passing
But just made me want to die
Took their anger out on me
And never really spoke
Just kept that bottle of jack
And the pack of smokes
My mother and father never worked
It was I who had to support
So I wonder how they will do now…..
I’ve never felt freer
Never felt more alive
Never felt this happy
Never wish to die….
As I lay in the meadow of flowers blue sky and peace. I slowly drift to sleep…. And suddenly wake up to speak.