Long Refunds Poems
Long Refunds Poems. Below are the most popular long Refunds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Refunds poems by poem length and keyword.
Joke was on him
A lie can perpetuate with a blinding speed
Growing on the heels of shameful greed
If enough people believe a con-man's spiel
And blindly proceed to invest in a dubious deal.
He began quite small with his Ponzi scheme
Stomping ruthlessly on gullible citizen's dream
Pretending that he was investing in stock market
Delivering promised returns regularly on target.
Becoming famous as word of high returns spread
Billions he attracted as testimonials mislead,
Paying current clients from new-client receipts
Manipulating his records to hide his deceits.
Although his company was frequently audited
No one could detect the fraud being committed.
Suspicions ran high for returns were unbelievable,
Authorities were fooled by a fraud inconceivable.
Ponzi scheme thrives on constant new cash flow
As new funds meet outflows that continue to grow,
But it collapses in a hurry if new money stops
For clients demand refunds as the company flops.
A market-crash caused new money to dry out
Bringing to a quick end his fraudulent clout
As he confessed to a multibillion fraud scheme
When finally he realized that the joke was on him.
Investors big and small were caught by surprise
Lives that were ruined continue to agonize.
Soon he was arrested for his long tenure of crime
And sentenced to prison for his remaining lifetime.
His son committed suicide overcome by veracity
As his wife deflects shame in solitude of tenacity.
While he sits in jail for a crime of this century
Grievous losses torment lives due to his treachery.
A fraud only propagates till its ultimate demise
For truth always conquers defeating all lies.
November 26, 2017
I started a joke
Sponsor: Maria Williams
First Place
Note: This Ponzi scheme was uncovered after the 2008 market crash. Though the fraudster never invested in the market, new money flow stopped because investors were spooked by the market decline and ensuing recession. He confessed when he couldn't make a multi-billion payment due in 2008. He was sentenced to 150 years in jail. One of his sons committed suicide, the other son died. His brother was also sentenced to jail--all worked for the firm.
come in, don’t be shy,
we got dreams on sale,
two for one prayers,
and a mop for hell.
we got blue candles,
red cups, fake gold,
lip gloss for grief,
when the mirror turns cold.
need birthday plates?
need balloons that lie?
need happy in foil
when rent due by five?
we got that too.
aisle three got pride,
aisle four got glue,
for the parts of your life
that keep breaking through.
we got bleach for blame,
Fabuloso for shame,
something sweet for the stink
of a man with no name.
don’t touch the flowers,
they shed when you cry.
don’t ask if they real.
real things tend to die.
but plastic stays bright,
and candles still burn.
you came here for cheap,
but look what you learned.
no refunds, baby.
check the sign.
shop till you drop,
we close at nine.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
Fool me time and time again – I am stupidly in love.
They say the sign of a crazy man
Is someone who does the same thing over and over again,
Expecting a different result each time.
I am a crazy man.
The first time you broke my heart,
I nearly ended my life.
When I finally resolved to live again
You came knocking on my door asking for forgiveness.
I welcomed you with open arms – falling hard once again.
The second time – I swore it would never happen again.
I lied.
Upon each return you swore you had learned your lesson –
I proved I had not learned mine.
You come back to me broke – I make you whole again.
You come back to me drunk – I sober you up again.
You come back to me abused – I nurse you to good health again.
You come back to me in need – I drop everything to comply.
You only love me when your life is at rock bottom.
Once I help you to your feet – you use them to walk out on me again;
And, I am left a broken man.
I would love to say, “Never again”, but I know I am too weak.
The spell you hold over me is one I cannot resist.
I have ended other, more healthy relationships,
To once again jump on the carousel of your jaded love,
Only to have the ride come to an end and the fair leave town once again
With this little boy holding a handful of unused ride tickets:
No refunds – No rain dates – No sense at all.
I pray that you do not come back again.
The pain of you not being with me is less intense than the pain of you leaving again.
Please, allow me to suffer the lesser evil.
The sign above the door reads:
"Clock Repairs. Cash only,
No refunds. No guarantees."
The watchmaker stands motionless
among pews of watching clocks.
I enter the back workroom.
It smells of brass, oil, dust,
and old pigeon droppings.
I offer him my broken mantel clock.
He opens the back panel,
leaving the mechanism undisturbed.
He listens for something deeper.
"What did this old clock witness?"
The room holds its breath.
Every clock leans in a little closer.
Pendulums hesitate mid-swing.
Even the dust stops settling.
The opened clock reeks of smoke.
Its hands stuck on high noon.
He removes a speck of blood
from the cracked enamel face.
He gently strokes the hands.
He slides the minute hand aside.
He whispers through the keyhole—
Something inside creaks, then sighs.
He finds a key, left inside.
Pauses before winding the spring.
As the resistance slowly yields,
something inside begins unwinding.
The hands begin to move.
But there is no ticking.
Only the room, is counting down.
As the hands sneak backwards.
"Not broken!" he says.
"Only stuck in remembering—
the wrong moment — the one
you tried to forget."
He closes the clock case.
The catch clicks into place.
Yet, the clock feels lighter,
as if relieved of its burden.
All around, the other clocks stir—
one by one, faces gleaming.
Bearing witness to their skipped hours.
Guarding their unfinished conversations.
One remembers a wedding.
A pocket watch wears a funeral.
One never forgave Tuesday.
One expects a telegram.
Another misplaces every April.
All outlived their owners.
None agreed on what time to show.
All agreed on what they witnessed.
That is why they keep ticking,
Long after everyone leaves the shop.
The watchmaker returns my clock.
It is still slightly warm to the touch.
"Don't wind it again, just yet."
"Let it forget you — first."
This poem was written by the human poet Dave Crandall (unafraid to admit it).
"If AI can copy humans, it's only fair that humans copy AI" ~ the poet
My name is Captain Rupert Von Schnell,
and I'm not entirely well.
I'm feeling the moon's pull,
and I ate a caterpillar, whole.
My conscience is effectively nil.
My nurse manages me with a pole.
I'm a spring-loaded contraption and coil,
a pot that's ready to boil.
I'm long past over the hill,
in this sanatorium where I dwell.
Oops, I just ran out of time,
You must insert one more dime.
My name is Colonel Von Schell,
my brother was drowned in a well,
The moon currently lacks the will,
and after it rose up, it fell.
A caterpillar's more elevated than a mole,
and I follow my nurse with my pole,
She always gives me a big thrill,
in this sanitorium, patterned from Hell.
Oops, I'm temporarily out of order.
Can you please insert a quarter.
My name is General Von Schnell.
I'm a robot that's made very well.
In craters, the moon is quite full,
and a caterpillar is trumped by a troll.
I got loaded up to each gill,
and my nurse said she's on the pill,
but as I was chasing her tail,
my heart did suddenly fail,
and this bot you've heard all the while,
made up in the General's style,
is worth only five cents,
and refunds, won't dispense.
The Day After:
The most anticipated day of the year will soon come and quickly depart. But the season will remain very much alive as the fire slowly simmers.
The Day After:
Happy people will cherish, ride in, or wear their lovely gifts.
It’s a quiet and relaxing ‘kick back’ kind of day for many.
The DayAfter: Others will be back at the malls with returns looking for refunds.
But then there are those in ‘hot pursuit’ of after Christmas sales.
The Day After:
Millions will sleep in with a day off because Christmas came on a Sunday. A well-deserved break will be very much what the doctor orders.
The Day After:
For those who ate and drank more than moderation dictated, they will be no longer smiling and singing; but their heads will be aching and spinning.
The Day After:
In just a few days many will be ready to drink up and party into the new year. But may the spirit of Christmas reign and rule throughout the season.
The Day After:
I’m sorry. I do not mean to spoil the party. But unfortunately, there will be grief for some who lose a loved one in a tragic accident from a drunken driver.
The Day After:
Historical reality is now begging and pleading for sobriety, because
The Day After Christmas will not be a pretty one for many dear ones.
12202016 PS Contest, The Day After Christmas, Anthony Clausen.
The real purpose of the visa tourism
Is the humiliation of the guests
Its “us and them” post tribal atavism
The applicants are treated like suspects
The so called survey list interrogates
Some questions that can't be rationalized
To play a reason to pass through the border gates
Despite prejudice that you are crimnalized
The papers you submit might look suspicious
They may refuse you with “I am not satisfied”
Refunds are not provided, you’re fictitious
And anyway, a fool that tried to lie
It turns to be a huge list of rejections
It gives an argument to blow the world away
But I won’t press that button, waiting for objections
If more objections they would like to say.
Follow Me
The Pitch
Live in my circle of simplicity,
Where loyalty plays no tricks.
A world that runs in parallel,
Without prejudice, or politics.
No longer capable of crime,
Dishonesty, just doesn’t exist.
Disciples are tolerant and caring,
A new life on Earth, no twist.
We have no need of Police Force,
Magistrates, Solicitor’s or Judge.
Follow the code in my good book,
No greed, no malice, no grudge.
Everyone will live to Ninety-Nine,
Then happily fall over the edge.
This is a promise I keep for you,
For Piety, this is my pledge.
Perfect people, in a perfect world,
That’s how it was meant to be.
So, sign your consent, now today,
Then worship and follow me.
Follow me
Clinching the deal
One Thousand pounds, is all I ask,
A life-time’s dedication, is my offer.
Here is a T-Shirt, just £12.99,
Bearing legend, I submit and proffer.
Yes, you can opt out at any time,
For a small administration charge.
No refunds due, read the small print,
As profits are small, overheads large.
Devotion doesn’t come cheap,
I have associates, with fat expenses.
Thank you for joining the team,
Let’s start, by weakening defences.
Sign up to my premium deal,
Just an extra ten pounds per week.
You will receive my free podcast,
Every time I sermon and speak.
Don’t listen to cynics and doubters,
Your fees, really do help good causes.
Only we alone, have been chosen,
Read section 6b of my clauses.
Go out there my friend and recruit,
Deliver my word with precision.
The more you put in, you’ll get out,
With a healthy, bonus or commission.
The 80's Became The Present Again
On the coast of Oahu
here, I was on a beach bus,
circling a sweet picture
in my mind,
white sands, blue seas, palms,
rolling all along
in a candy store.
It was a beautiful beach setting,
a beautiful scenic bus ride ...
how can it get any better?
Three college aged girls
wearing the tiniest bikinis
get on.
Satin and those tan lines
stretching my imagination.
Nirvana.
The candy store sales
hit the roof.
The beach bus crooned.
Seated next to me
was an old man,
a few years older than me,
who suddenly became
young again.
His eyes were as conspicuous
as can be,
eyeing the sweets,
especially the brunette
with the black bottom,
who
at first was naive
of giving old dogs a bone.
The old man kept looking like
a kid in a candy store.
He had that open mouth look.
His eyes sparkled.
I did, too.
I was close behind.
My eyes taking sideward
glances through the cracks
of my fingers
seeing the 80's again.
By now the girls are on to us.
No doubt feeling old mens eyes
taking liberties,
poking fantasies,
our eyes and heart palpations
creeping along their skin.
In a fleeting moment
the balloon fizzled.
Gees.
The joke is on us.
Black bottom and her two friends
cover themselves with towels.
There's a hush.
Are those hooves I hear?
Are patrons running back
to the candy store
seeking refunds,
led by the two old men.
They did.
Did the bus lose it's croon?
It did.
There was dryness in my throat
and a fire hydrant wanting to gush loose
in my dreams.
And out of humanity
we look over at the girls,
once again,
collectively,
maybe with repentance
in our eyes this time.
They shrugged,
they smiled,
adding backpacks on top
of their towels.
No.
Yes.
I look out the window.
The 80's became the present again.
connie pachecho
8/21/17
At Camden Yards in Baltimore,
The Orioles will play,
The White Sox from Chicago
Their opponents for today.
But players will not hear the cheers
Of all their rooting fans.
For ticket holders, refunds wait,
A crimp put in their plans.
‘Cause Baltimore’s in riot mode
And so the call was made
To ban the fans but for the teams,
Their game won’t be delayed.
They’ll bat and run and steal and slide
To silent empty seats,
With no one there to cheer or boo
Or care which team defeats.
This situation’s a surprise
And many just don’t buy it,
But emptiness is better than
A predetermined riot.