Long Shat Poems
Long Shat Poems. Below are the most popular long Shat by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shat poems by poem length and keyword.
Get a plaque...
Jack...
Or take it all back!
This verbal attack is crap and that...
Is quite whacky cut me some slack,
While stacking the racked up bratty,
Dilapidated orations for some duration,
As a slap happy mapped tap-dancing clad grad fad,
Becomes shat wrapped in cat hats tatted with phat ratty slatted fads,
Madly jabbed as rattling a bad tad of an agitated yet stated NOT hated but mauled tall tale,
On sale for a scaled yet derailed mailer daemon,
Sailing into the screwy new brew boosted roost of a hoot for a few,
Because that is what one should do,
Breaking records and all of that.
Matter of fact from the view I knew to accrue where I just sat,
Rattling a battle of dabbed scabs for words slurred as some cure to be endured for allure,
Still, NOT quite on tour for sure as the viewing of such recorded award-winning boars,
Should bring about themselves a new kind of uproar meant for door opening,
To be coped with or hoped for galore at the sound of the nouns engraved in a savory way,
With your name on it with the sonnet that might say,
Way to slay,
Hooray,
If I so myself would say,
Before I get any more gray in the weird beard from whence these scurried, nerdy words came,
Still, it is quite insane a named thing like the vein game you vainly tamed,
Would arraign such a cranial brain drain of fame all the same as far as what I be saying stained.
What is it about American divorcees
and the British Royal Family?
Sadly it never ends well.
The Duke and Duchess of woke!
Harry, what were you thinking?
Harry, what have you become?
Harry, Why? Why? Why?
Harry, she’s no Princess Di.
After Michelle and Hillary and Nancy
your precious commoner bride
is the most insufferable bit-ch.
Harry, you are a spoiled brat!
Harry, you are an entitled prat!
Harry, on the Queen you shat!
Harry, Why? Why? Why?
Harry, she’s no Princess Di.
And now we have the big interview
with that infuriating Oprah
so poor Meghan Debacle can tell
us all how mistreated she is,
and how victimised she is
by her haters and her tormentors.
Girl, what a narcissist you are.
Girl, what a diva and what a liar.
Spare us all your fake tears!
Spare us all your fake fears!
Spare us your racist tales!
Spare us your lectures and rails!
God save the Queen from you
and that ginger whinger too!
O Harry, Why her? Why?
O Harry, Why? She’s no Princess Di.
Written: March 2021
Wrote this 18 months ago
but after recent pod casts
I just couldn’t help myself.
Yo, do you want to know why I rap better than you
My Man, let me tell you somethings that are true
All you do is sing about whatever or when
But I do my singing from the tip of my pen
Yo, and you talk like you're all that
All you sing are words like **** and shat
You really only talk the song, and most words you botch
Probably because you forget when you grab your own crotch
Yo, you sing of gangs or a dude with a gun
My man, I sing of stars the moon and the sun
You dress in clothes like half-assed pants
I dress in clothes that'll make you dance
Yo, you flash around all your jewels of gold
My man, they're probably all fake, so I've been told
I sing with class, spark and style
And I can walk with the best "8-Mile"
Yo, so isn't it time we put all this rap crap to rest
My man, just admit it, I rap the best
I don’t like the rules,
So I just won’t follow them,
They make writing all dry and stiff,
Tasteless Weither it be bitter or sweet,
“Flaws”,
“Mistakes”,
“Sloppy and disorganized”,
That’s how humans are just like,
Just like my poetry and writing style,
Humming my toon as I walk and dance,
You start to notice when you read my work,
Its the Varry toon of someone living and experience,
Once you read this I hope you see,
I pray you hear shat I hear,
The stars of dreamers shining bright,
The cries of the appressed by oppressor',
My style,
My technique,
My varry existence,
MY SHINING SOUL,
It can be mocked and talked down to,
It can be broken down by oppressors,
But even so I’ll write till my last word,
I’ll write till the name Dragonstar means something,
Until my style less style becomes a statement.
Until my toon is Hurd and Agknolaged.
-Kitsuko Dragonstar
,
O' Forgive me Lord; for I have so sinned
I put my rubbish; in my neighbours' bin
It wasn’t like there wasn’t, enough room
But did she have to hit me with a broom
With the neighbours gathered for a laugh
In fact; in the end there was quite a cast
After that whack I was amazed I survived
It was not long; before the police arrived
As police took statements, in their scores
Delving through the rubbish; is this yours
Holding high a plastic bag, knotted neatly
Yes, I am afraid it is, I replied; so sweetly
With evidence bagged, I then taken away
Charged; up in court that making my day
I was named and shamed with a £100 fine
Where community service, I was assigned
Alas, I'm picking rubbish, up off the street
And never again my sins will I ever repeat
So after that, I was clever, knew the score
With no one looking, shat outside her door
I heard her screams and smiled in content
Lessons learned, revenge was heaven sent
O Yeah, revenge was heaven sent . . .
Quyeer times emit blazing signs..And some ex-boy friends?
Is this karma divine? mi5 say its Putin..' a prime topic for
Them...And its taken a fortnight with henceforth..No why
Where or whens..From them.' Yet it seems rather sloppy to
Be (a Russian affair?) And arson too primitive.' I think thats
Quite fair.? Just an ass-umption.' To try to open the door.'
Of secrecy thats been holding karmas secret deposits oh
Dear..I guessed such was er?? Coming..Hmm?? I wrote a
Poem before.!! Now its been shat-tered all over the world
And whats more.' Theres an outcome to happen.' Once the
Lube is applied.' As it was maybe in the beginning.?? Or
Will this turn upon lies? Maybe death? Well of the
Truth.' Will be the out-come? Lets await the putrid offerings
Of ( some media bums.?)
In the beginning there was me
and in the end, there will still be me.
I'm not using 'me' in a personal sense
you understand,
my 'me' is singular, and there was nothing before it
or after it.
Come right in, I have warmed the bed for you.
Here is a chair I made out of straw
from a donkey's stable,
yes, it does smell of donkey shat, and it always will.
This is the kitchen it is a fine place
to eat standing up.
Yes, the bed has no bugs. Sleep.
Now that we understand this matter of 'me'
allow me to kiss your eyes
for they have seen much, and it has been,
on the whole, only me that you saw.
There's no need to apologize for being so distant,
your life has been my own messy living space.
We shared the same place and time,
and the bumps and bruises were me myself
bumping and bruising.
Let's fight-kill- have as much sex
as we can before we recognize
that we are doing it for me.
You have kept the fire going, sat with me
as we turned into one flame. Poetry saved us
it gave us this voice that drives folks crazy
trying to figure out
what the hell we are saying.
Feel free to talk on - talk your head off,
it's my wagging tongue that chatters
in your mouth
anyway.
I miss so many things: the old pear tree, which once lived by the walk and the bees inside. The bees almost never stung, but made the most delightful buzz. The smell of the pear blossoms and the fruit as it rotted on the ground. I even miss the colonies of ants, which swarmed. You see, I chopped it down. Well, the bees stung my ex-husband, or, he was scared of the bees, or some such thing. The bees like the cat, knew more about the true core of the man than I did. Once the cat shat on his side of the bed, and pulled the sheet over it. Even then, I didn’t really hear nature’s call. I miss the rose bushes, which I tore out because of the June bugs. “Mustn’t have untidy, ugly, things around me,” fool that I was, and continue to be. I have almost eradicated the wild violets. Soon, even I will be gone. “Who will remember all that sweetness? Oh, the pear crisp with crumbled cinnamon crust on a Fall day, all gone.”
a mown lawn
stretches to the horizon –
a hedge clipper whir
The Rose Queen was a lesser villain than I. She was imaginary and I am real, or so I believe. “If you’d lived with Alice would you have played croquet with a flamingo club?”
First Published in Contemporary haibun January 2014
Pat's
polecat
ate Jack's Brats**
got way too fat
So when that cat shat
on Papa's brand-new hat
he was punished tit-for-tat
Now forced to dine solely on rat
Pat's polecat said grace for meals, then spat
November 07, 2019
Rhyming Nonet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charles Messina
___________________________________________
**Jack's Gourmet Kosher Sausage Company's Cured Bratwurst is available in supermarkets in large metropolitan areas. A three-ounce serving/one bratwurst sausage contains 190 calories, of which 130 are fat calories, 470 mg of Sodium and 55 mg of cholesterol (JacksGourmet.com)
Winging away in lush green wood
Amidst young blossoms, tends to brood
The six-footed drone bee
And flees from Champak tree.
Why, beauteous not is she?
Bemused by blooms not he?
God alone knows everyone's good.
___________________________
Translation | 29.10.2025 | beautiful, God, green, flowers, wood
Note: A drone bee enjoys the blossoms of all flowers except that of Champak tree (Magnolia Champaca). The poet wonders why, but can’t figure out the reason, and says: God only knows. His wish, His mood. See, however, the next verse. Below is the transliteration of the Sanskrit verse:
Bhraman vana ante nava-mañjarishu
Na shat-padah gandha-falim ijighrat |
Saa kim na ramyaa sah cha kim na rantaa
Baleeyasi kevalam ishvara iccha || Indravajra meter ||