Long Rubbish Poems
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Am I really the only one thinking outside the box,
When it comes to pension costs,
Regardless of whether people are able to work or not,
With some working til they drop.
Let me open my box and tell you how to stop the rot,
In my box is all the evidence that points to the life experience,
That those who are for a pension now due can bring to the table,
Along with the math's calculations that says how much they can give back,
If we ask their help,
To mentor the young and keep them out of jail,
To share a lifetime of knowledge that we may need if the internet breaks,
So, we don't end up back in the stone age.
To help on their good days or even good hours to reduce the rubbish pile,
That is costing us more every minute to manage,
Then there the hidden costs they can help us with,
When you start thinking out of the box,
Like, the longer we employ them when they are incapable,
Of doing their job there is a cost,
Or the fact that increasing their age of retirement,
We delay the intake of the young,
And if the age of retirement keeps going up,
The number of those unemployed for life goes up,
A cost that would burden us for generations to come.
Then there are the facts about the health problems,
With older people in workplaces,
Bladder issues,
Skin that is less resistant to knocks,
To name but two which will leave businesses no choice,
But to raise prices.
Another thought I came up with while thinking out of the box,
Is that to get the best out of the old work wise,
We should be looking at retirement as a gradual process,
With flexibility for gradually reducing a persons work hours,
And shifting them to light duties, including mentoring roles,
According to their individual health and abilities to do their job,
This should create opportunities for more young people to
Enter the workforce.
Then still thinking outside the box there is the mental wellbeing of
The aged which effects their physical health which impacts,
The overall rate of spending on health.
The more useful and less anxious people of any age feel,
Is a win in terms of real dollars saved.
If we can get more people thinking out of the box on this issue,
We will find it is not an issue at all,
Once the number crunchers see the new evidence,
That was sitting outside their box,
Who knows they might be tempted to think outside the box themselves.
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
"Placebo - Part 2"
There’s little sins and HUGE SINS
Little mistakes, possibly forgiveable.
HUGE MISTAKES, HUGE SINS?
That’s a different kind of metronome
marking time over a head, while
a recidivist waits for his deal with God.
You ask those little girls and boys
who are divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous ways -
if they think you deserve a deal with God,
while you look at photos of them being defiled,
or worse, you are in the filthy piece of Celluloid with them.
You ask those little girls and boys
who have been divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous of ways,
who have been killed and thrown
like bags of rubbish somewhere -
if they think you deserve a deal with God.
You ask the families of all that have been
inflicted and their lives unalterably changed -
whether they think you deserve a deal with God.
They say there is no God.
Well, perhaps there isn’t.
Why would a just God let that happen?
“Suffer the little children” etc
What if God is truly “I Am”? And that
“I Am” is in you.
And the you that is lying there
concerned for your own remorse,
your own deal with God -
not the deal and mercy
a child deserves to be given by God
(even at this moment, somewhere in the world,
a child all alone crying out for…);
well, you just
turn over in the cot in your crib and cry like a baby,
thinking you are all alone.
What if God that is the "I Am"
could kick out of your body
the other lesser god, the god
that is the "I Isn’t"?
Is it possible at this point, I wonder?
I guess it depends on what stage of diarrhoea,
you’ve contracted.
Because when you get down to the
nuts and bolts of it,
this Life we have,
is all about Contracts.
The officer on duty knocks
opens your door hatch, and announces,
“You’ve got a visitor”.
You swing off the top level of the bunk
you’re dying of boredom in,
trying not to kick the other “effer” in the head
and you are let out of your crib.
You’re off to make your deal with God.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
“MOTHER, is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children” William Makepeace Thackeray
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_bYLcTjnPA
You think you're Godzilla
but you're just a Gorilla,
that's what happens when you've got gonorrhea,
my skin colours vanilla
my skills are killa and real
you're run of the mill, a fail
can't you tell you didn't do well,
that Kartel manure smell
of Kountry music don't sell,
a wannabe that wants to be on X Factor
in a field riding a wrecked tractor,
tracks that no mind will capture,
you're no rapper, a can't act actor and no rhyme writer
with poor rhyming from your core
the fact is you naturally bore,
getting done by amateurs
that means s**t for sure and below my stature,
take a step back and see the big picture,
there's no record label coming for your signature,
you should turn around and head for the door
and not turn this battle rap into a war,
snore, pass out snore music,
20 years and there's still no use for it,
your rhymes are insignificant
your average skill's no different
stop thinking you're magnificent
and realise you're just a hunt.
Yet you think you're good,
umm missing a nail or screw
let's face facts your music is poo,
can you not make a beat with flow?
Your music makes me sit in a seat depressed and low
through ignorance your skill's seen no grow,
so excuse my rant but your music is pants,
professional status, you've got no clucking chance.
You're so unlikely to upstage my quickly written
lickety split thermonuclear lit quick wit
with whatever you pick
to pull out your bag of tricks
because I'll make it unstick
quicker than thumbs can click through your music,
making videos in which you go on the phone,
cliche prone, stereotype replica
look at ya forever inferior,
making out you've golden interior,
but Postman Pat out delivers letters
and is better with more under the hat
you've empty space where your brain sat,
writing rubbish, getting fat,
one year in I'm getting published
you skank like a grandad with one wish
you long to be served a contract,
take note of the situation
you've been rhyming for a generation,
and you'll never be a sensation,
just a symbol of humiliation,
........ cus Rosko thinks he's the dogs bollocks,
while the rest of us just think he's bollocks.
That's all bossco, that's all I have to country cartel you.
Over and out, they call me Sue.
Gale force winds are expected; time to tie your knickers down
All heads bent, and everyone is pushing their way across town
Mouths are tightly shut, just in case their dentures out and fly
Ski goggles are on, just in case you get something in your eye
Skirts are all flying up with long hair that’s blowing out of place
Time you get into work your looking more than a total disgrace
Time is spent behind your desk rearranging all that went astray
Sat there hoping the wind has died by the end of the work day
Dinner; sat on the bench outside, eating someone else’s lunch
As the wind sends their pickle onion right into your own mush
The bloke sat next to you is eating your fly away in my face hair
Reinforcing that old saying, how nice it is for everyone to share
And, no worries about putting your left over rubbish into the bin
The darn bits just fly out again once you have so neatly put it in
Then it is all back to the office heads down and pushing through
As we clogged up the elevator without as much as a say, or a do
Then it is back behind the desk, rearranging all that went a stray
And hoping the wind has died down by the end of the work day
All signs are not looking good as the pigeons huddle on the ledge
Even worse when one drops off, because another in, does wedge
As 5 o’clock end of day arrives and no one is in a great rush to go
Stuck to their seats it’s almost as if the work force is on a go slow
One fresh air freak limbers up and starts heading for the exit door
Wow' one blast of hurricane winds and the guy was seen no more
The thought of settling down for the night was more than an idea
As we started to rearrange “We can do anything with bits of Ikea”
We gave the trouble of eating, to those brave delivery pizza boys
Though when we sent the orders in, the guys were a bit annoyed
It is not much fun delivering pizzas, on a light weight moped bike
One was lifted by the wind, once landed he was **** up in a dyke
The pizza boy arrived, and said that's it the wind has took my bike
We piled all the pizza boxes up, the pizza boy bedded for the night
Then the next day morning came, at last the wind had died down
Drama over we sent the pizza boy home with a tip of half a crown
Wombles In Space
(Split Into two parts because I suddenly got all Limericky )
Part One
The Wombles are not worldly wise
They look to the ground not the skies
They got on a train, which is hard to explain
Cos the train they got on was a plane
Eventually back on the ground
Uncle Bulgaria frowned
How could it be, that all he could see
Was a sign saying Cape Kennedy
The small telescope in his pocket
He took out and saw a space rocket
He said to his wombling clan,
I’ve spotted a big old tin can
It’s stood there as though we’re expected
Just waiting there to be collected
And while it’s a hell of a can
Am I not a wombling man?
Soon they had clambered aboard
A rumbling sound left them all floored
Orinoco was starting to drift off
And somehow he’d started a lift off
Bulgaria sported a frown
Lord knows how we’re gonna get down
But since were all stuck in this can
I’ve got an exiting new plan
They found a box full of space suits
and one full of magnetic boots
The mission: to gather space trash
To trade up or sell it for cash
Part Two
Then Houston said, we've got a gremlin
The crew ain’t the crew we’re rememberin
A furry ensemble
Each looks like a Womble
Perhaps snuck aboard by the Kremlin
Uncle Bulgaria’s explaining
Orinoco, asleep, ain’t complaining
There’s rubbish to get
They’ve not been beat yet
The cargo bay soon would be straining
The craft dragged a net round the Earth
Catching up junk for it’s worth
It then tried to swallow
Some bits of Apollo
The net didn’t have enough girth
Tobermory’s big invention
For over-sized space junk retention?
A sticky harpoon
A scrapyard on the moon
So that’s taken care of his pension
His plan for retirement luxurious
Was blocked cos the Clangers were furious!
So what could he do
Except grab some glue
A womble space walk is quite curious
He glued all the rubbish together
Which seemed really simple but clever
He made a new planet
Of metal, not granite
Which really was quite an endeavour
On Earth there was mass womble mania
Those wombles, it seems, had got brainier
The latest new game
Was to think up a name
For the planet we now call Womblania
The first time that I was serious
“I would be a good boy now”
My mom said “Non-sense! You never can
Go out and get yourself a sun-tan”
I left that idea for ever
My mom still repents for being so clever!!
And then I was genuine when I said
“From tomorrow I will start studying”
My esteemed teacher said “Non-sense!
Oh you, I know you are joking”
I gave up studying all together
My teacher still wonders why I took her so seriously rather!!
I was adamant when I followed my aim
“I just want to become that”
My father got in between “Non-sense!
For you its better never than late”
So I gave up doing anything at all
He is still sorry for being the reason of my fall!!
I was darn sure when I said
“That’s the horse that will win the race”
My wealthy uncle quipped “Non-sense!
Such waste decisions, tragedy you will face”
Unfortunately that horse went for the kill
And, I of course, was thrown out of his will!!
I was confident when I said
“It’s you whom I would love to marry, cool”
But my sweetheart said “Non-sense!
I just wanted you to pay the bill, you fool”
Sadly enough, her husband died in a year
She still repents – I would have lived longer without fear!!
I knew it when I declared
“It’s going to be a daughter”
But my mother-in-law shouted “Non-sense!
It’s a son who will bring laughter”
But when Angela was born to see
She came with a foot-ball “She would have enjoyed being a male like me!!”
On Angela’s marriage I said
“It’s definitely not a good match”
Angela scolded me “Non-sense dad!
He is a pass-out from a Harvard batch”
He spent all his life in his office
My dear girl wondered if life can get that rubbish!!
On the day the doctors declared me sick
“I will no longer live, Kristy, that’s fate”
All my friends gasped “Non-sense!
For God’s sake, don’t tell that”
The day I died, slow and brave
No one followed my wife to the grave!!
Fantastically as I climbed the slopes of heaven
“Oh! What a busy life was it!!”
God cheerfully said “Non-sense!
You were a moron without wit”
But when I started doing things in heaven
Even He admitted “If this is how you work in mirth,
Thank God!! (oops) you did nothing on earth!!”
When Poetry Soup becomes infested with partisan rubbish,
It will be difficult for liberal, creative poets, like me to flourish
Who seek a safe place away from the maddening ignorance
Of those people who continually despise political difference
For those who are angry and want to say the nastiest things
Do you have any idea what hurt your insatiable blather brings?
For some who don’t consider me a red-blooded American patriot,
I fought for the U.S. of A. in uniform when you were still just a tot!
I would rather die on the altar of honor than continually be castigated
By followers of a “wannabe” dictator who every day prevaricated
And sought to drag our country down into the muck and mire
Continues, to this day, stoking his sycophants’ hatred with fire.
Selecting a political putdown of President Joseph Biden for Poem of the Day
Was surely inappropriate if Poetry Soup administrators wish to say
The site maintains neutrality when it comes to political discourse
It encouraged poets, in their remarks, to choose up sides, of course
Anger and vitriol hurled toward us who are of more left-leaning mind
Will likely now become commonplace for those who are not so inclined.
Frankly, I despise clicking on a poem I think will be worth reading
Only to find, instead, an anti-American tirade of invective leading
To put-downs against our president, the vice-president, and first lady
Half-truths and conspiracy theories that, for the most part, are shady
If you are unhappy with the free and fair election that turned out your man
Then, every chance you get, go vote and change the system, if you can!
Our country is not, I think we’d all agree, a perfect democracy
We have lots of problems and crises – that's plain to see, but,
We now have a leader who cares about doing what is right
A man, who in short-order, is ready, committed, and willing to fight.
I have travelled the world over, north and south, east and west
Freedom to flourish in America is head and shoulders above the rest!
Written: April 4, 2021 (edited)
Awarded Poem of the Day on Poetry Soup
April 5, 2021
#38 on Best New Poems on Poetry Soup
April 6, 2021
In many ways your being sways,
Ask for better days, seeing what surrounds us as the matrix haze,
Fill ya temples layers with divinely shinning sun rays,
Be gone, go away ignorance that can't comprehend what I’m saying,
Boom it hit cha, is there room for futuristic bangs, bringing in scripture?
Visions scripted and travel here from the future,
Are you sure you're ready?
The word, bringing word up story rhyme’s showing us,
Alluring poetry hella dope,
Broke and awoken,
Interstellar knowledge meets you,
Intrigued,
This leads my being,
Instead of weak minded rubbish,
Change your situation if you need to,
Wishing? Me? No way!
I’m like the healthy rain water I drink every day,
With third eye eyesight and vision,
I see the bleeding,
You have heard it before but saw nothing,
Rushing waves of uncontrollable internal chatter,
Splatters your brain, lapses and collapses
Shattering what? I don't know!
But having flow putting on a show of poetry,
Sweet sounds like whistling birds is my thing,
Ringing bells I hear,
Alarms feel like swear words yelling in ya ear,
Aware of awareness can be obtained,
I chose to seek what's contained outside the box,
Lost if you enter untrained,
As I say, poets playing with words bringing new concepts in different ways,
Sustainable status as strong as a bus but can crash,
Stash wise wisdom before ya brain becomes mash,
Words may lash out at you becoming beliefs,
But they are concepts! Not personal!
These are written for me and all,
But fools will always ignore the ballers,
Worst is the acceptance of never coming 1st,
I strive to be the best I can be through scripts heard,
I hit the notes and sounds leave my throat,
Levels of quantum learning continuing to be a challenge,
Lesson learnt, I believe I'm the best because I know I am,
I need to examine my ego and let go?
Nah!!!
I'm heading down a road, Is it my path? I don't know,
But I’m still sowing seeds,
Growing into ancient necessities for growth with rhythm rhyming melody,
Check out my history,
A mystery with mass poetic weaponry,
Repping what I invest in,
I live for this!
Quincy Mac
Date Written: 26.8.2016
"FAKE" assertions unstoppably
bandied with beef,
(sans doughty deeds done dirt cheap)
courtesy of commander in chief
trumpeted as a way to backout,
embarrassment analogous to the thief
of Baghdad, when culpable faux pas
woe philly pops thought balloon of mine
reckons with transparent "good grief"
within mind of yours truly,
who finds himself dumbstruck
aghast, and shaking noggin with disbelief
how people can be so gullible
who would just as lief
eat a pin cushion to deliver strep throat relief.
First amendment teeter totters on brink
of dissolution mainly by the rat fink,
whose defamation against journalists
risking life and limb, yet not shrink
king enlightening liberal minded, who think
similar to myself, imposter
hood drums utter rubbish
while feeling teed off puttering
along Mar a Lago,
or another owned golf link
resorting to silence protesters
whisked off to the klink.
Distortions, (nee outright
blatant lies) saturate
social media platforms,
which followers didst rate
as their numero uno slate
supposedly reliable sources
harkening back to papa retaliate
Tory Bush prez administration,
regarding patrilineal shogunate
where Iraq summarily
targeted for crashing Kuwait
violating, jeopardizing, and
compromising vital oil, literate
folks suspected, that critical
lubricant mandatory to resonate
greasing western civilization
particularly self anointed great
super power USA, hence
alarmists didst exaggerate,
whose military intelligence
industrial leaders got irate
contracting complex projecting
global economy would vacillate
and, perhaps take Kamikaze nosedive
hence procrastination could not wait
demanding based on sketchy accusation
Saddam Hussein, and his ilk ultimate
harbored weapons of mass destruction
despite lack of distilled proof,
would severely truncate
nary a trace sniffed out,
nonetheless damn the torpedoes blitzed
in an effort to triangulate
miscreant running amuck
eventually met demise
with Bush Junior delivering
permanently placating tete a tete,
no matter dispensing top notch
fighting soldiers, whose strong
lifeless bloodied bodies remain prostate.