Long Muggers Poems
Long Muggers Poems. Below are the most popular long Muggers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Muggers poems by poem length and keyword.
Here's what happens if you Roll The Dice...
Your gonna lose and it will not end nice!!
Don't get s#!t confused, you'll pay the price!
But not with money or an electric divice.
If you mess with me you'll pay the ultimate price and your Ending will not be nice..!
I'm an oleschoolrebel turned modern day renegade,
Soon I'll have it made,
Laying in the cooler shade...
Drinking spiked ice cold lemonade,
And I will elimemate...
Any bustas-suckers not feeling me !
Any motha-suckers not hearing me..!
Now y'all motha-truckers be fearing me !
I dare you stupid-suckas to be dareing me !
None of you dirty-muggers be scaring me !
All you dump-trucks better be hearing me !
Or you garbage-trucks better steer clear of me!!
Or this I can guarantee...
No one gonna know where your body be!
Stupid dummy should-na bothered me,
Now I'm the only one know where his body be !
In a shallow grave resting quietly!
This is what the hell happens if you step to me,
You gonna get stepped on cause I'm a bigger G
You a little g, you better believe, you gonna see...
If you mess around with an oleschoolrebel like me,
No one gonna know where your body be!
I'll rip your throat out n throw it the hell out!
Figure it out, Figure it out,
Or I'll rip your stupid throat out n throw it out,
Mess around n find out,
Mess around n find out!!
So go ahead and roll the dice,
I guarantee your ending will not be nice!
I garentee your ending will not be nice!
So go ahead and roll the dice,
There rigged and your gonna lose,
That's Right...
There rigged and your gonna lose...
Your always gonna lose and it won't be nice!!
You'll pay the ultimate gruesome price,
The ultimate messy price...
The final bloody price...
And your death will not be nice...
Your death will not be nice...
Your death will not be nice...
So go ahead n roll the dice...
Roll the dice...
Roll the dice...!!
"Time is the thief you cannot banish."
Phyllis Mc Ginley, Writer, 1905 - 1978
if you cannot beat them join the crowd of armed unkind robbers
otherwise you end up with identity fraud at the hands of the thugs
instead rule and divide the hourglass one step at every moment
synchronize what must be said and done and count the rewards
an imposed time machine is a wicked illusion and criminal offence
pick your own pockets calm rapid paces and speed up your apathy
turning tides do not steal pebbles from beaches
the sun never asks where her rays have gone to
moons follow their path without wondering when
a waterfall keeps its composure even when falling
cancel direct debit to people who don’t care for you
standing orders are not written in hard grafted stone
debts can be cleared and overdrafts countervailed
the only mortgage you have is to live to your tempo
a bit of rhythm helps when the pendulum swings backwards and forth
rhymes a chime for when the final bell takes its toll as the coffin lies vacant
if you have not filled it with meaning before permanence rests in the grave
a time sheet spread out over nothingness infringes upon the tick tock of joy
imposters can try as hard as they want to steel your dial
will try to bend all the hands of fortune magic and fate but
destiny comes from the springs rewound at every dawn
vacant echoes will be enriched with challenging meter
when the ultimate curtain unveils to your own applause
as the poachers admit defeat and fall on swift swords
feel free to mock burglars and mischievous muggers
a dead man’s pockets are full of victory’s memories
10th November 2020
First of all, it’s a big responsibility,
especially in a city like Jacksonville, or Philadelphia, or wherever really.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you’re walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain’t no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is
unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?
Broken glass bottles.
On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.
Love doesn’t like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.
Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.
Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Somethimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know “Don’t you ever do that again!”
Sometimes love just wants to go out for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise. It will run you around the block
and leave you panting, breathless. Pull you in different directions
at once, or wind itself around and around you
until you’re all wound up and you cannot move.
But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.
Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.
Two scales must always be within an approximate range
for an accurate weight, and the close relationship
between the Humankind and God must withstand any change.
Solutions must be found before catastrophe approaches,
and if we were caught by surprise, we would regret the outcome;
less trees should be cut down to make room for buildings.
Thieves, murderers and rapists should be held in contempt
and thrown into dungeons...instead of giving them cosy cells,
the Law admits that's just to punish, but inhumane to torment.
Nightly streets have been taken over by muggers, drug dealers
and prostitutes, now called escorts, haven't changed their lewd attitude;
even madams of the brothels open doors for the well-dressed sirs.
Society has gone mad, and it has condoned both sexes of equal desires;
never was Sodom and Gomorrah as iniquitous and lustful as this one;
God forbid...I entered this city and be found guilty of their perversions!
While on the outskirts, in run-down homes poverty duplicates its horrible woes,
politicians' corrupt hands are not seen...pocketing money that Congress approved;
and the suffering of the poor is plagued by famines that turn into deadly diseases.
Crooked judges are manipulated by criminal defense lawyers who have handfuls of cash;
justice can never be served when criminals are given their parole, and the innocent,
humble men are detained and put behind bars, because of their limited wealth.
Proud hearts see neither simplicity nor beauty in anything that evolves into splendid light;
self-praise, greed, bluntness and invulnerability are the rules they live and swear by;
humbleness is unacceptable and insignificant...it's a virtue which diminishes their pride.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Dying starving kids in the streets of Calcutta.
Lepers, faceless and worthless pieces of flesh,
kicked and tossed in the nearest cesspool.
Low caste Hindus hated and harried from the Ganges.
Women raped in the streets of South Africa.
Their bloody torn panties---flags of rapist victory.
Tribal warfare, shooting each other for no reason.
Mutilation and torture in their hot sweaty cells.
Faces slashed by muggers’ knives on London tube.
Reckless thugs on Brixton side killing to get some change.
Beggars punched black and blue, left to rot in East End's slums.
While politicians sing tunes of law and order at Westminster.
Old freezing tramp seeks shelter in warm sty.
Jailed for break and enter, slowly dying.
Who cares, the law must be seen to do justice,
Our judges say as they hold a minute of silence for dead soldiers!
Let's bash these Jews and brown-black bastards in their chants of racial hatred,
Echoing in European and American streets, kill em to preserve their purity.
Their whiteness and Aryan image mustn't be poisoned by these animals.
Then the killing and slicing begin in the dark corners of the metropolis.
Fighting in Israel, the Middle East and Afghanistan is man's thrill,
as a flood of blood soaks the war-torn lands and they smile
at wasted lives to hail a religion and a useless cause.
Wars created by man for fun and games but we're the pawns!
Oh God when will the angry ravage and savage evil of man stop?
When will our children be able to run in golden fruit scented fields?
Drink cow’s pure milk and crunch crusty bread reaped from the land of wheat.
When will human suffering end and life of love and peace with God prevail?
Pied Piper in the village square – a man
With a wooden flute and a golden plan –
Whatever are you doing here?
Did the elders panic, call you in
To purge the town of salt and sin?
Are you here to blow the bugler’s call
Enlist us for a noble cause
Or show us more of days to come?
Perhaps, at last, to save us all
From what we’re always running from?
Have you come to lead us all away
Or lead us all astray
(At least a few, if not us all)?
Have you a list of names to call
Or have you been instructed
To simply play your tune
And accept all comers unobstructed?
How will you declare success, Pied Piper man?
Based purely on arithmetic?
By the countless heads you lead away
The burglar, banker, drummer
The muggers and the toughs?
Or will one lonely soul be just enough?
-----
I have heard the magic of your song
A siren call that strikes the soul –
Have felt the urge to heed, although
My conscience cries out “No!”
It’s simply that I wonder – no, acknowledge!
That it’s better off to lead, than to be led
(And therein lies the struggle, the conundrum
Which so many men have failed to plumb)
Oh, Pied Piper, piper man, you are charismatic
And your song, sweet and clear
Was once upon a time magnetic
But those who have once been led astray
Are twice averse to being played
And the sound of the pipe is mournful more
Than ever it was when heard before
For there’s nary a tune that you could play
That would leave us less forsaken
Than the staggering loss of our yesterdays
That your wicked charms have taken
Hidden beneath the underground secrets
in the corridors of concealed
the clandestine cloisters where muggers share
deadly tales told in whispers
Darkness cloying soaked with disdain
the minions diatribe upon popular media assertion
spells how the empire demonstrably remains
and the boarder lands have shrunken
Slow to gain the robotic nation
each injection the merest of pin pricks
every death to mark the procession
to the steady state of the population maturates and sickens
Who knows now where to place their foot
where beginning ends, where the line is drawn
where conscience can govern
where truth stands a principle, it’s redemption for us all
Who knows now what or who defends
the garden porch of the worlds boarder lands
and the fear of all provably remains
who knows who the enemy is
And hidden beneath the culpable secrets
deep in the vaults and tunnels of blackness
a criminal computer whispers
telling tales of villains and their collateral excess
Pay no heed it is but a rumor
a stories telling by black blooded thieves
a nothing of nothings whirlpool of stupor
a covetous distraction in need lives
Who knows now where they stand
who feels now the unseen hand
the pecking of the invisible vulture
all crammed together in the boarder land
Who knows who the enemy is
as fear and death cut their genocide straits
huddled in the safety of TV lights
gnawing on the boarder land between left and right
Clouds drift slowly like soft tissues across the lonely cold face of the crying moon,
absorbing its golden tears and leaving the night painted in ebon darkness.
Darker still on Halloween, the ethereal shadows seem to solidify and come to life
taking labored breaths, pulsing and writhing, in the changing lamp light's starkness.
He is the shadow, ancient as the contorted limbs on the twisted leafless trees that cast
grotesque shadow puppet silhouettes against the canvas of the sky. Need palpitating,
he remains melted in the corner of the cemetery behind the church's old bell tower.
How long he has been here he can not remember, sitting and waiting, always waiting.
He hungers for emotion and savors each delectable morsel, anger and hate has a delicious taste,
so creamy like freshly churned butter, but lust is his desire, his deepest craving
and what he waits for this night, as he licks from his gnarled hands the sticky remnants
of blood and doomed soul of his latest victim as he lay in the filth of the street raving.
Remaining hidden in his favorite haunt, the alley by the graveyard where few people pass,
only the most deviant come, muggers, murderers and ladies of the night, the ultimate chocolates.
The dulcet sound of epicene heels echo on the pavement near him, the beautiful vamp
her prey in tow, unaware she's on tonight's menu, moves into the shadows... as he waits.
10/05/15
My old Gran, met an ice cream man
Who welcomed her into the clan
Of superhero ice cream men
Who fend off villains now and then
He gave her top crime fighting tips
And lots of special chocolate chips
They’ll pump your muscles, fix your hips
If two or three should pass your lips
We’ve also got a gadget man
Looking at your ice cream van
He’ll supercharge the things he can
And then we’ll call you Turbo Gran
*
One week later, first time out
Turbo went out on the scout
When two muggers robbed a man
Turbo Gran pulled up the van
She grabbed some chocolate chips to eat
These would make her hard to beat
She hurled some ice cream down the street
And underneath the mugger’s feet
Their every step did slip and slide
They reached a barn and hid inside
The barn was stacked up high with logs
But P.C. Hoggs had brought the dogs
‘Hey, Turbo Gran, you gotta laugh,
those muggers left an ice cream path.’
The dogs sniffed where ice cream was slicked
And pretty soon those thieves were licked
So now they call her Turbo Gran
It’s written on her ice cream van
With ‘Speedy’ written on each door
Just listen to it’s engine roar
So watch her go, my crazy gran
My grandma with a souped up van
To call her ‘Turbo’, please feel free
But she’s still ‘Ice Cream Gran’ to me
Don’t worry.
The head of British Gas
will take a pay cut.
Your favourite watering hole
will never shut.
There may be acid rain
because the ozone layer is kaput,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
Elvis Presley will announce
that he is well and truly dead.
You will be given a wage
to stay in bed.
There may be squatters
in your garden shed,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
There’ll be a non-stop funfair
in your local park.
Granny muggers will prowl
the streets in the dark.
There may be need
to build a fall-out Ark,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don't Worry
Leicester City will achieve
the Cup and League double.
Politicians will resign
when in trouble.
You may have to live
in a pollution-free bubble,
But someday,
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
Lady Gaga will become
the Antichrist (or Pope).
Cliff Richard will crack
and start smoking dope.
You may have to listen
to another Tim Vine Joke,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
Footballers will not dispute
the yellow card.
Salman Rusdie will not need
an armed guard.
The next London airport
may be New Scotland Yard,
But someday
it’ll be OK.