Long Ratings Poems
Long Ratings Poems. Below are the most popular long Ratings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ratings poems by poem length and keyword.
...as you politely said
please don't pay attention to the color of my skin.
but you keep shoving it in my face
...you keep filleting yourself
sewing your skin onto mine
it doesn't fit-never will
we're different.
but the same
We came from the same seed
but have different experiences
I can never walk in your shoes
because once upon a time
you didn't have any.
For certain, you can never walk in mine.
But we do have more in common than not.
Our hurdles are of the mind now
and growing by the second.
There are many that wish to destroy us.
By dividing us.
The media is a nest of vampires
and should be treated as such.
They feed off of our blood.
Spotlight us at our worst and lowest for the sake of ratings.
Nothing sells better than a race riot
or blue-on-black crime.
They need a chance of heart or a stake to their old hollow hearts.
Or they'll quickly drain our humanity.
Talk Show News
By Franklin Price
3/31/2015
Talk show news we're here to tell
With blown up slanted views
Got to keep the ratings up
Don't care who it screws
Have to keep our following
Should we confirm what we report
Or enhance the news to incite
The truth slightly to abort
The Senator seen talking
With his neighbor in the hood
Not the one we wanted
This can't be any good
We smell a skunk it stinks a lot
The odor's in the air
Can't be about what their kids did
We smell a love affair
You think we were mistaken
That maybe we were wrong
Don't question now what we report
Get back where you belong
Some say the one we wanted
Told secrets for some dough
That isn't now news worthy
Just wanted you to know
Innocent we say he is
'Til proven otherwise
It's in the Constitution
And he's one of our guys
Don't know if you noticed
That I used the royal we
So when I point my finger
It will not point at me
They got married on T.V with all the regalia.
Watched by a camera, somewhere in Australia.
Under the microscope, living false lives.
Women with husbands, and men with wives
Observing as I do through my own little box.
Proves most humans are mental? except Mr Cox.
They cheat and hurt, there’s ninety days of pain.
And the experts advise but never explain.
They have tried to find love in a bar-less zoo.
Forced to have sex and analyse as they do.
It’s all good T,V as long as everyone gets hurt
A nice pay day, but your heart’s the dessert.
Hats off to the experts, who encourage non-stop.
And bravo to the players and narcissists who flop.
Contestant begging to keep their marriages afloat.
And an emotional break down, through a scripted note.
Taking part in a circus so what did they expect?
Some lost their cherries, all lost their self-respect.
Reality telle, watching the pointless squirm on a nail.
Ratings through the roof when their futile lives fail.
O' the poor bitter tedious (TDS) late night host
wasn’t very funny or clever and now he’s toast.
“Yep, it’s all Trump’s fault
I got canned in the vault
and lecturing you all is what I’ll miss the most”.
“Sure my show lost forty million dollars a year
and had 200 staff and expensive suits to wear”.
Well, if you like hateful drivel
you’ll have to watch Kimmel
but pretty soon that crybaby won’t be there!
“If only I stuck to fun and wit like Lettermen
or wasn’t so full of sh*t more like Fettermen”.
But lefty elites know best
and people like me detest
but it’s time to make comedy great again!
The ratings were on life support and the programs
fodder for dumb sheep and their screaming lambs.
The same old sh*t and spite
killed the host of late night
but ain’t it great to hear the silence of the hams!
~~~~
Well, Colbert - have the lambs stopped screaming?
You still wake up sometimes, don't you?
You wake up in the dark and hear Trump
and the screaming of the lambs!
Written: 23 May 2026
/the media
fancies
to highlight
our lowlights
for ratings
political gain
over and over again
playing clips
sound bites
out of context
heavily edited souls they are/
They promote hate and fear
They are Deacons of division
they love a riot but denounce riot gear
thrive on division of the races
getting filthy rich, steel-trapping our peace
wearing the fur of our misery/
placing poison flower clowns in our hearts
rabid hummingbirds in our minds
toss fiery darts in the last stand of bliss
of our songbird time/
never a good word about anything/
They're but flicking tongues of the devil,
sucking hearts from bloated chests
sliding under desks
for a suckle and a piss
commercial
darkness
truth and knowledge
heavily edited/
I get it
I finally get it
It took a while
But now I'm showing my style.
To every home
With somber tone
My daily briefings
Broadcast my teachings;
I tell them all
To heed my call
So all may strive
To stay alive.
My change of tack
A stroke of luck
And just in time
The polls to climb;
For every day
I get my say
The ratings spike
With me on Mike.
Now the prime task
A real big ask
To find that cure
Something sure.
This virus sticks
All experts kicks
But as to me
Just watch and see.
I have a plan
Beat this I can
Wait for fine weather
To Covid tether.
Once that is done
They'll hail the man
Making things right
With wisdom and might;
Never a pause
Fighting the cause
Winning's my creed
I've proved that indeed.
Then all the vile doubters
The downers and shouters
Will finally see
Their champion is Me.
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
for impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct)
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit) sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumpeting prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog re: oh speed
wagon in toto (oz suppose)
to escape paginated bound woes,
but especially to flee bozos
not tubby confused with Bezos -
(the richest cat on planet Earth),
whose cashiered spigot flows
née gushes without any need to faucet.
The menu: a dozen slick pages.
The venue: wood tables and chairs.
From breakfast to dinner
You’ll never get thinner
With food that a diner prepares.
The choices: from eggs to paninis.
The voices: from hushed to guffaws.
There’s no place instead
I would rather break bread
And the answer to why? is because…
It’s a place meant for every consumer
With the space to relax and to schmooze.
Never fancy or rich
It’s a restaurant which
Serves you coffee, a malted or booze.
You can keep all your Michelin ratings
And those steeply exorbitant bills.
Slap a sandwich and fries
Down in front of my eyes
In a diner – for me, that fulfills.
On April seventh there'll be an anniversary.
Not one in which we celebrate with balloons or confetti...
Sweet cakes, songs, or garish parades.
It will be 6 serrated months since terrorists raped Mother Israel.
Sprayed the olive groves with her blood.
Six months since they raked a couple hundred innocents.
To cover yellow flanks-to prolong their fun.
Six months the innocents have spent underground.
Within the tunnels of cowards.
Nobody talks about them anymore.
One by one they're being dropped.
Like sparks from a broken tailpipe
While the media bunny hops away.
onto the ratings bonanza glade.
Their names and smiling faces have melted off our back pages.
Into Dali's clocks, into the final note of a broken windchime memory.
a pastoral piece (free verse)
He works hard to write of the evils of sinning.
then sneaks home with Playboy to read after supper.
He preaches wrong habits week in and week out but
those same habits are alright when his sun goes down.
He's split between knowing his tight from his loose;
and has yet to distinquish his white from his black
A very dull clerk runs his office in daytime
but at night, he finds her quite bright on a barstool.
Nightly x-ratings range in sight on his TV,
knowing a penchant to keep some things hidden,
Can he learn to reconcile his night and his day?
Will he ever settle what's light and what's dark?
When fear turns to flight will he think he's won?
When his bark comes to bite him, will he think again?
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