Long Low class Poems
Long Low class Poems. Below are the most popular long Low class by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Low class poems by poem length and keyword.
4/14/02
You asked me one day if it would be okay if we could consecrate our love
I told you that I was still a virgin and that my stuff was precious to me from above
At this point in our relationship you told me that you loved me
At least one time you did decree
Several times throughout we kissed, we fondled one another
You were such a gentlemen and you said you understood my brotha
And that me being a virgin wasn’t a bother
It’s been six long years, these days baby that’s a long time
One day you took it upon yourself to pop the question about love sublime
“DID I EVER TELL YOU THAT YOU WOULD BE THE ONE
THAT WOULD DEVIRGIN-IZE MY BEHIND AND PLACE ME UNDER THE GUN”
You begged and you pleaded for just a little squeeze
Just to let you smell my nature, you said: “PLEASE BABY PLEASE”
I gave into you and said just a little peek but you must not tell cause,
This is on the down-low you know on the sneak
You tipped right on through
You tickled me, you wiggled you moved all about. It was oh so sensual
I never felt anything so emotion-felt, in all my days
I began moving about in many, many ways and at this point my virgin-est behind
Wanted to know how the un-virgin lays
He moaned than I, as he tried entering my anatomy, he made me yell out and cry
I don’t need no baby daddy right now, I’m to young
My mom and dad would die
He stuck his tongue into my ear, then licked me down as he began to lie
He said: baby girl believe me when I say this; I’m a man not a boy
I take full responsibility for all this joy
I’m not ready to be your baby daddy
That’s when I said: “BOY DON’T BE COY”!
He said I got protection for me and you,
Now let’s get down to the business at hand,
“You know I love you Boo”!
I knew I had love for this brotha, but what I wasn’t sure of is,
If what we had between the two of us was enough to become a father and a mother
All of a sudden something clicked; that’s when I belted out:
“GET UP OFF OF ME, SLICK”
Get you lying tail off me, quick!
I remember you now, you’re the joe-blow who’s face was plastered on
America’s most wanted
The most wanted dead-beat dad, labeled low-class!
He hemmed then hawed, trying t get back in, buut my still virgin behind got my head on
straight to continue with my dignity and grin.
Never attempting of striking it rich,
whenever my cravings give me another itch,
I'm used to a quite and simple life:
enjoying good food and sharing a coldl glass of wine
when relatives and friends drop by;
why be someone you weren't meant to be?
Any millionaire around the globe,
sipping champagne desiring what I love?
With my beach cap pulled down,
so that my short hair doesn't sizzle and change color,
as my light skin turns to a golden tan;
yes, I thank God for a breeze cooler than a fan!
Whole afternoons are spend on this pristine beach,
with a waterfront that a Californian will envy,
to melt away that old cliche' of vanity;
come down here...the East Coast is a wonderful shore!
Low class, middle class and the upper one,
all share this unquenchable feeling,
to lay on the salty sand and begin to dream;
Am I talking non-sense or tackling the zest for living...
that this society has been unawarely denying??
Striking it rich is a temporary fancy,
imagining the possessions money will buy,
and many untaught temptations will materialize;
some will die by snorting deadly coke,
others squandering it on mistresses and hookers...
God, how the human spirit is corrupt and consumed by lurid
and unhealthy desires that once were out of reach!
And hopefully someone will ponder this,
to wake up to this gruesome, and parlous reality
and spend his or her fortunes wisely!
What good people will do for the betterment of the deprived ones?
First give them love from the heart, then help them financially...
that's the smart way caring, of planning to strike it rich;
what's the use of looking at your glittering gold,
and not giveit away to help anyone whose thirst and hunger
show in the sunken eyes...waiting for someone to feed their bellies!
If I ever stroke it rich, I wouldn't be here enjoying this sunshine,
but I'll get out there and search for the needy and helpless ones,
and stop the selfishness and madness that money provides;
if I share my good fortune with them, others will follow my example,
and a real change will take place...no poverty everywhere in our world!
Follow me, and search for everyone alive...to give them back their precious life!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
It was a train
that took my mother west
away from her family farm
to seek adventure. She found work in San Diego,
joined the Navy and met my dad.
It was the 1950’s.
Planes were not yet a big deal
and many traveled long distances
by train.
It was a train
that carried my mom away
from a husband impossible to live with.
The year was 1960. For traveling far,
the train was the poor man’s choice.
Trains and buses were plentiful
when my mom brought her 4 young girls
back to her parents’ farm
to then start over.
It was a train
that my father purchased two tickets for
so that my sister and I could visit with him
out west where he lived near Seattle.
The year was 1969.
On a black and white TV, with my dad,
we watched astronauts walking on the moon.
It was a time of social unrest, and technology would soon
be soaring past the moon!
It was a train
that brought my sister and I home
from the lovely visit with our dad.
I recall having to walk past a troop of flirty boy scouts
that occupied one of the train’s cars
each time my sister and I made our way to the dining car.
We watched mountains turn into cornfields
as the train carried us back toward the Mississippi.
A most memorable experience it was.
It was a train
that brought me only a few other times after that
to visit my dad out west or my mother in Iowa
as I traveled with a spouse and two sometimes-wailing kids.
Like a train, my life kept moving.
After 1984, I’d use the train no more.
Trains had become nostalgic ways to travel -
used more by people with the luxury of time,
people who enjoyed eating meals as
scenery sped past them outside their windows.
It’s the plane
that modern rushed humanity today are using.
Buses are low-class and cars are for road trips.
Trains, though still running, are not much heard of.
It’s not so easy to find
a very accommodating route by train.
My life has flown by like a plane,
but if it should ever slow down,
I think I’d like to take again – a train!
Oct. 27, 2021
For the Railroads, A Historical Glance Back Poetry Contest
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
A breathe of life is in all.
Billions of filthy containers,
Nothing good is expected from them.
They are full of something,q
We've both got to check the profitability needed to replace the trash in them.
I'm afraid and need a motivation to keep the breathe alive,
Don't wish iniquity keeps dominating.
Not to allow self-deception to qualify somebody wrongly.
Today seems to make some of us low class members,
And some of us high class mates.
Situating both the poor and rich under equal sunshine,
Tells of defined indifferences,
We all receives Jehovah's rain.
Truth be told,no soul is called perfect in appearance,
Maybe we still got to grow?
Throwing jabs in suspense.
Wishing to be known?
Pls then we kindly should stay awake and take some pills.
A powerful dose to cure the fake personality role being played,
Or life deserve to be lived by futile deals?
There's a strong pain felt by ridiculed souls placed on trade.
But the skillful men will forever keep their stands before the seats of the great men in diadems.
Remember perfectly because the Greatest Supremo want us to keep this as part of his powerful anthems.
So who did choose to ignore money?
Please tell me there's no one you've ever known and would know.
Yes,others choose to dig for knowledge.
Then the system of things prove that we chase currencies or search for hidden ideas.
Ignoring to picture the result of a wicked man's target setting is a first mark to his downfall which always urge the discreet man to fear the true GOD who is in the highest place.
The warning is still coming from afar,
Yet many ears sleeps in a buried world.
Just because poor happiness is taken as a major fame.
Such a wrong identification?
Good bye dear friend,
Good bye my fellow keeper,
Until we meet to commune with the one who through him we exist in this lonely place.
That's where we would inevitably receive the reward we individually deserve.
So until then,please let's fare well.
Renegades Foreva!
Renegade teenage rage babes
thinkin’ they all grown, all knowin’
when they seedlin’s barely sown
bleedin’ teenage angst with teenage crankst
always rhymin’ and mis-timin’ some poetry-crimin’
mis-mashin', diss-bashin'
word-clashin' song
heard on some half-sappy, sex-happy,
yap-rap, smack-attack vid
made by some brotha who’s just anotha
angry angst-ridden
wannabe gangsta kid
With a street beat
they be hummin’ or singin’ along
repeatin’ the deceit
not knowin’ curse verses
are just plain wrong and mostly maligin’
while grownups in earshot
takin’ all them swearshots
wishin’ them words had sweeter rhymin’
or that kids be more discreet
would take their claptrap,
no-class, crass-crack lyrics
and just tweet ‘em or mime ‘em
But if ‘dults could go back, meet themselves
when they was punk teens
fittin’ into pre-shrunk his or her hunk jeans
listenin’, partyin’ to poppin’ rockin’
unusual musical junk boy band scenes
and lettin’ out star-struck
super-charged
groanal hormonal
no-one-could-understand gland screams
then they’d be amused ya know,
might change their views ya know
cause remind ‘em not so pristine
when child and ‘dult they was in-between
Kids always lookin’ to find
who they are and who they be
imprisoned involuntarily
in their youthful penitentiary
no matter what century they be from you see
So if thinkin’ rap sucks cause
it’s just no-class hurls and low-class slurs
then fire-up that flux capacitor of yours,
head back to yo’ past and meet yo’ younger him or hers
see your own rebelling mis-teen-stakes
then rapping notions you might reshape
or rapping judgments remake
or least maybe now tolerate new-age teenage
rapping outbreaks and in-yo-face ear-quakes
realizin’ that come whateva or wheneva
that all teens now, before an’ where-eva
will evamore and eva be
natural renegades foreva!
© 2014 all rights reserved
'Camp Chippewa, ' its tennis and rifle range, X-Class sailing,
And classic 'Old Town' canvas covered wooden canoes,
Not the low-class aluminum canoes of a 'Camp Thunderbird.'
Cass Lake - garden of the Mississippi's hidden currents,
Nature's setting for Star Island's fresh blue berry thickets,
Brisk, though swimmable waters, still safe to drink.
Cass Lake - child of the first dam, city sewage dumped below.
Kathy and I were warmly received by Chippewa's staff,
And given a hot meal and tour by the owner's son.
Though it was too early for the new season's initiates,
The rustic setting and friendly staff made us feel at home.
Early afternoon found us approaching the dam's spillway,
Though Kathy thought me crazy, we unloaded the canoe,
And I paddled it alone through the one open gate, YAAHOO! !
How many dreams can you remember coming true?
This whole trip was a waking dream, a gift for me,
Including having a wife who was willing to share it.
Miles of river already, dust shaken from our gunnels,
Adventures of the days to come hanging like a white sheet
Strung between trees in an unwired, impoverished village,
Only imagination powers the projector of what can be. (7)
Poet's Notes:
(7) This wonderful image is the child of an experience from my American Peace Corps experience in East Africa. Once a month a VW Van would show up in even the most remote villages and they would hang up a white sheet across ‘main street' and show ‘free' older movies to the locals like ‘Tarzan, The Ape Man.' Villagers thought that Tarzan was quite a funny, if stupid guy. You don't talk to monkeys you eat them! Of course, then, between every reel, there would be ten minutes of hard core advertising for everything from toothpaste to cigarettes to alcohol and always girls hanging on the arm of the man buying these products! I always assumed that advertisers paid for these monthly films but I do not know that to be true.
I inhale temptation;
shrugging shoulders of
mortality.
Suck teeth stained
with indifference;
While copyrighting
my daydreams.
I’m an American Badass,
low class, white trash,
with expensive delusions.
I get impatient with repetition,
So I shovel spiritual vagrancy into the
mouths of my peers
with metaphoric spilled beers
and ashy mouthed proclamations
of a wandering disposition.
I sing songs tied to the same ragged beat,
the one that makes the speakers
bleed just as much as the crowd.
Heavy Metal rants,
just sharp enough to rip
the pants of your morality
… but, just for the night
In the morning the truth of why
you’re here, and anything else
that seemed unclear…
will be hanging low,
just over your head
like ripened fruit;
Fighting gravity the
way you’ve been fighting
responsibility…
It’s right in your face.
Like heavy elbows in a mosh pit.
Your stomach is curdled,
soul a little sick,
but your eyes have never
been more focused.
You understand what is important:
The friends willing to toss a full
beer,
brave the circle pit,
pick you up, dust you off…
And throw you back in
with a smile.
The Scars you’ve earned,
and the blood you’ve saved.
The pain you’ve felt,
the joy shown through busted lips
and scabbed knees;
the chaotic calm of life lived
on the brink.
The Circle Pit Sanctuary.
Where the lost can rage,
and be at peace.
Where the broken
find the truth in the
lies of their lives.
Where the hopeless
can strike at the wind,
and fall against muddy Earth,
to be picked up by
a brother,
by a sister,
by the music of
the anger being
purged from a spirit
that might not have
otherwise made it
….to the show.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
I hate hoodrats,
To me they are no match.
I hate them with the passion.
I always prayed in the hood,
As a child, that when I got
Grown I would go buck wild
Beating anyone their backend mass,
Because they are low class,
They make sure that the strong,
Black family existence is a thing
Of the past. I hate their food stamp
Selling, never excelling, treacherous
Trashy tails. They are sell-outs,
Because they let the government
Bail them out and enslave them,
Our men, and beautiful children
They are hindering progress of the future.
I wish that there were sharp-shooters,
That would zap all of them in the back of,
Their red, orange, purple, and blue hair.
They walk around without a care,
In the world. They are lost souls.
Sold out to Satan wrecking the Black nation.
They cause other strong Black women from
The hood that have a little success, a whole
Life of professional distress. I hope one day one
Hoodrat would understand, that they are part
Of Satan’s plan to rob, kill, and destroy, all
Of the little black girls and boys, and most
Of all killing the men, while causing who to win?
Satan. One day I will get enough Godly strength
To pray for them instead of physically slapping the
Hell out of them. I through prayer will slam Satan’s
Silliness out of them, but for right now as I work the
Plow and get enough knowhow. Just shame, shame ,
Shame, shame, on all of the hoodrats’ hellified names.
Defend the poor and fatherless: do justice to the afflicted and needy. Deliver the poor and
needy: rid them out of the hand of the wicked." Though this seems to be directed at other
gods, it is good advice for humans as well. Psalm 82:3-4
Wealth obtained by fraud dwindles, but the one who gathers by labor increases it. Proverbs
13:11
What do you say now?
Is there anybody who want to foul?
Standing behind and knocking,
Little lady....I see this sparkle rocking,
Life is full of dream,
Can't distinguish the laughter from the scream,
Out from the frying pan...straight to the fire,
Serif stuck to support.....I never mind,
No answer but I'm super,
Have mercy,oh kind!
Life is full of twisting,....I and that lady felt in a deep love,
No money but made each other have,
I was just a dreamer,.....
Questions we both asked,...why this night is not for our two?
Gradually protracted the range of pain from our affection shoe,
Her complexion is beyond the pan of ebony,
It was silly,
Watching her in a magazine!
Liberating men on their gusts is sequentially annihilated by power....But what should I say then?
A prediction propels the phsychologist...
but what is the outcome from that list?
What is the source of inspiration laid under the equilibrium of an action?
A beige model,...thus the life prospects of a solemn speaker.
Endeavoring the downcast,setting pinnacles to catapult those beneath,
what is the supremacy of outcasts limit?
Elude with nothing but a pinched of a capricon's feather....
Rich man sitting in a pub....unconscious of his expense,
A white coloured worker aim at counting even a penny.
It's a secretion to tie many,
Veil the remarks of the low class in society,
Makes an uncovering of their best nasty,
Keep on jeopardizing the honorary of a paupers good motives in building societal ray,
Wax blended with a marble clay.
Yeah!....yeah!
A swampy worms will be their king size bed....
A pinhole camera is before an eye...gonna see,right!
Just an optimal glance welled,
It's branded with a momentum....if Job was shield with the pinion of might.
These old boots, they've sure been around. They don't know where their goin' but they sure know where they've been. Drinkin' Corona and dancing with a Mexican Senorita in Jaurez, the smell of perfume and Tequila fill the air. Gracias for the good time, but these old boots got to go. Hitched a ride on an old cattle truck to El Paso, my Stetson blocking the sun and hiding my bloodshot eyes. Throwing cow chips at an old wooden fence, I count the $100 dollars I just made at the slaughter house, the foreman said "you work like that you'll make good money boy". "Thanks, but these old boots got to go" I said. "That $100 dollars sure went fast", I told the deputy as he unlocked the gate at the jail sitting in downtown Amarillo smoking a Marlboro with my thumb in the air, thinkin', these old boots got to go. Tired and weary, I got a motel room for $50 bucks I made on a sway-back horse in a low-class rodeo outside Albuquerque but don't remember much about last night other than the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table. Dippin' in a can of Kodiak, I'm thinking to myself, these old boots got to go. That Budweiser sure did taste good after bailing hay in the snow in Durango, as night fell pickin' my guitar as the cowgirls on the dancefloor cut a rug. I thought to myself, the good times don't last forever so these old boots got to go. I've been a lot of things' and nonthin at the same time, money in my pocket and a liquor bottle, I roll on down the road like a tumbleweed blowing in the wind. Back in big sky country, the prairie grass sways in the breeze casting shadows on my tombstone. Hard work and hard drinkin' caught up to me, but I had fun y'all, these old boots got to go...........