Long Lucre Poems
Long Lucre Poems. Below are the most popular long Lucre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lucre poems by poem length and keyword.
(this pastiche promulgated many moons ago from those screaming bloody thirsty headlines from the Italian court for justice sans the brutal homicide attributed to this then American college student and her ex-boyfriend). My gut reaction that zero apr guilt linkedin with lovely looking lass, who may very well bear the burden of culpable guilt for the rest of (what this totally tubular unknown guy no war) a fulfilling life.
with the assiduous vigor of a cadre of volunteers
brought sought after fruition of freedom
per the release of imprisoned young (twenty something) American lass
whose former life sentenced commuted to egress from an Italian jail
to her home within Seattle, Washington
whereby family, friends and strangers who fought for her liberation
breathed one palpable surprising sigh of euphoric relief
when the plane who boarded landed safely on the tarmac of SEATAC
aswarm with frenzied television camera crews
scrambled to get the initial scoop and what promises
to land this once anonymous cell bait
an undisclosed amount of lucre
which many on the other side of the pond
find mind boggling if not downright objectionable
moreso livid with rage
against the Machiavellian machine
on account of supposed culpability in tandem with her then boy friend
accused (under the guise of guilty fiat)
sans homicide of college roommate
now sought after garnering this fawning female
(salaciously tagged by Perugian court with the sobriquet “she wolf”
now faces a future replete with riches aplenty
allowing gravity of ugly epithet plus stigma from accusation of murder
to serve as basis for what will no doubt be a best seller
not to mention made for the silver screen blockbuster
with subsequent royal carpet treatment
to compensate for guilty judgment decreed
without tangible evidence nor fair trial to boot!
Who Among Us?
By Franklin Price
12/20/2020
Who among us will now stand up, as our founding fathers did.
Look at where we are today, because we've run away and hid.
Washington is driving us, not the other way around.
They don't listen to the people, don't like the song of freedom's sound
They're on the throne, controlling us, to take away our given rights,
established by the Constitution, which is also in their sights.
Been building now for many years, their thoughts of royalty
The Parties there, pull us apart, there's no middle road to see
They put lucre in their pockets from the rich and well to do.
That's why many are in office, they're not there for me and you
It's time that We the People, who have little but our voice,
make it heard in Washington, so that Congress has no choice.
We must come out of hiding, get our heads out of the sand,
stand up to those in Washington, or we soon will lose our Land.
Put our net and mail to work. Let the ones in Congress know
If they don't listen to the people, then they, for sure, will have to go.
Do I hear that you can't do it, that you don't know what to say
Then talk to friends and neighbors you have met along the way.
Was not one founding father, who first started all this fun.
Gather again the ones for liberty, or these United States are done.
If you believe these words, please pass them along to all you can, in any manner you have; especially to your Senators and Representatives in Congress.
What of violence and God; does not death pre-curse life?
As each and every creature large or small lives through strife.
And, of a righteous wrath, who claims to be source
surely an aberration of mans faulty mental course?
Some claim to be compelled by a higher power and His Voice,
they say they have a calling and have made no human choice.
Violence falls upon the land brought by man on man;
all are left to wonder how this exists without God’s Hand?
Malnourished, over stimulated human kind
find a murderous meanings in the convoluted mind.
Man has given false meaning to accommodate.
Anger does not motivate the most High and holy state,
The wise person will look toward lucre, mortal gain.
God seeks only a loving heart righteousness not pain.
The price was thirty pieces of
silver
From the treasury of the Holy
temple
The contract for life, a deed in
blood
The Chief Priests and Elders
signatories.
The kiss of a friend, the betrayal of
a brother.
Piercing painfully than the dagger of
an enemy.
For the price of 30 pieces of silver.
The treasurer of the Son of Man,
The King of kings in earthen vessel
The lure of 30 pieces of silver
Of filthy lucre,
Ensnaring the soul deadened by
greed
So was the son of perdition bought
For a mere 30 pieces of silver.
That placed the noose over his
head.
Whose destiny was wreaked forever.
The Bishopric transferred to another;
All for filthy lucre.
30 pieces of silver
The worth of the Son of Man
Whose heavenly throne is arrayed in
precious stones,
Whose Kingdom streets are paved of
the purest of gold.
Oh my Lord and my God!!! Have
mercy!!!!
Nigeria my beloved home is under siege:
A death trap I see in her third mainland bridge.
The crying blood of the slain in the North-east
overwhelms vicious politicians with guilt.
Humans with hearts of beasts ravage her North-west,
outgunning her corrupt weakened armed forces.
Catacombs of mass graves quantify losses
incurred from incessant farmers-herders clash.
Darkness looms as stupendous amounts of cash
are cast in an energy sector like trash.
Her healing centres are no more than health morgues,
and her institutions breed intellectual dogs.
Her oligarchs of the six zones unify
to plunder, rape and line their pockets with filth.
With peanuts they entice poverty stricken
youths, just to have their sit-tight bids guaranteed them.
Indulgences from the gullible gratify
custodians of faith endowed with seducing lips.
My beloved Nigeria has failed to hearken
to the values of the elders before them.
With priorities misplaced, we go seeking
for stereotyped reputations in our trips
to foreign climes for filthy lucre to acquire.
Good Lord! When will values my mother-land require?
I saw evil last night
evil in the form of sweet fleshed beauty
evil in the form of twinkling eyes
and the sweetest serpents tongue
I saw evil, perhaps, not in its entirety
for as with goodness evil is an abundant
and all consuming well.
So young, so stained by herself and others
this child daily sought the flame.
The fragile translucent moth
to the kittens lick evil beyond bounds.
A narcotic evil bathed in a surcease of pain.
Failures false balm lures with fresh sexual pleasures
lures with ribald sensation, lures with filthy lucre.
I saw flames leap from the eyes of the sweetest face,
recalling the pill vials abundant place;
recalling the ease of reach.
I saw her thrusting tongue-tip lick and leap.
I saw drool come at the corner of her ripe lips.
the ones she would let his bodies sickness kiss,
all for the high his legal drugs would bring
she stay, she’d F…, she’s give him everything.
In his true sickness he’d pray.
"Lord God please heal me." he’d say.
She’d smile and the horned corners of her mouth would rise.
And he’d seek life’s affirmation between her thighs.
She’d stay………’till he dies.
???THE MONEY, THE MAN & THE BAKER???
In the quiet of the dawn, man was once pure,
Began to crave the bread, its crust allure.
Materialism is mighty like the marvel we foresee.
Man is mesmerized by money's melody.
The baker's hands once honoured, now ignored,
As paper's polluting power swiftly overrode.
The baker's blessings, once a sacred stream,
Are drowned in dreams of dollars, it would seem.
The paper's promise, potent and profound,
Turns trust to turmoil, ties tightly bound.
Until we witness his formidable fall like Naira,
Losing links to legacy, his life woes go higher.
The man, now marred by material might,
Forgets the Baker's bread, the source of light.
The paper's poison permeates his soul,
As greed's grim grips and begins to take its toll.
"I have seen the paper turn a Man against his Maker.
He started getting bread & now he don't respect the baker."
Pride puffs him up like a pompous parade,
Obscuring origins once known, pride promotes his trade.
Forgotten are the fingers, that fashioned his fare,
The Baker's benevolence, no longer beyond compare.
Like a tale of taste and distaste, a truth we find,
That wealth can warp the heart and mind.
So let us not let lucre lead us astray,
But honour the hands that pave our way.
For in the Baker's bread, there's a bond we share,
It's called the gift of grace, beyond compare.
???VICK MANUEL POETRY???
FORM: Alliteration/Rhymes
Copyright ©? 1st May, 2025.
Due to his callous disregard, he divided her intent
Wanting to be loved was rapidly replaced
With needing to be nurtured
Windscreen scorch, midday duco seared her palms
A lost Christmas scarab lurid green beetle
Gripped Flora's taut forearm
Future she craved wavered toward steely necessity
Untitled as lucre of lake illusion luminous
Looming in her frontal lobe
Angel held urns runneth over, soma sportula pour
Treacle tips intoxicating as cherry kirsch
Accommodation on aileron
Conveyed from kookaburra sarcasm to city suzerain
Mirror tower monuments collide in clouds
Encourage worldwide rivalry
Flora's inclination for comfort drives acute delirium
Arid Arab cobalt coast melts cultures mosaic
Gamey gourmet, cutlery gleam
Her new wrist cuffed, convict of antique timepiece
Lost Duat archived exchange rate temporal
Khepra hands kissed henceforth
12th March 2023
Written for Contest: 'K' Word Challenge
Sponsor: Constance La France
Well, so they tell us-
the political gladiators and
heavy weights. That in permanent
servitude we must remain.
They create a void in our stomachs,
which they momentarily fill with
what they carted away from us.
Just for their self will and whims
for another leap year's tenure to
be entrenched.
They widen the capacity for evil
of the canines they have intentionally
starved.
For a bone's morsel, the canines
viciously their draconian orders
execute.
Just for their masters' sit-tight
bid to be guaranteed.
Restrained with the servile chains
of their desperate overlords, they bark
ravenously at the oppressed,
who have come to liberate themselves
at polling units.
Each time the unworthy is by the
ballot box overthrown, the ravenous
canines at the hands of feeble
patriots gnaw.
A pound of flesh they take
from the down-trodden kingmakers,
to usurp the power they have
in good governance vested.
The umpire with filthy lucre gratified,
raises the hand of the fraudulently
triumphant political Brahmin,
who for another leap year's tenure
subjugates his dalits with utter
deprivation; ASUU strikes, poor infrastructure,
incessant power cuts, poor health delivery,
persistent insecurity, unemployment
and the cancerous bad governance.
With fat cheeks and stiff neck
that is well sunken into a robust torso,
he regularly raises the sides of an
African attire of elitist renown,
set once more to amass more spoils
of political office for a privileged
family dynasty.
the Gotham man
He is so wealthy, perhaps the richest man
In the world, he enjoyed his lucre and sired
A dozen of male and female children
He has reached middle age, and his youth has
Gone the body, no longer as elastic as before
He has realized, as many men before him
that
Life has a time limit
Great wealth is also power speaks; we listen when
A rich man voices his opinion he has thrown
himself into body politics, perhaps confusing
Opinions as truth
The problem is he has yet to learn the language
Of diplomacy and is on his way to acquiring
Powerful enemies on his journey to solve
The world’s myriad problems
I believe he is a good person at heart
has to learn business and politics collide
His to be wary of hangers-on who follow him
On his road, but will leave him quickly should
disaster strike
His colossal wealth is a burden, a certain
Tiredness on his face, we can call depression.
A slight irritation in his voice; why can we not
Understand him better?