Long Slobs Poems
Long Slobs Poems. Below are the most popular long Slobs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slobs poems by poem length and keyword.
Here’s today’s New York surprise
I witnessed with my own two eyes:
Reddi-Whip, the cans amounted
To nineteen (and yes, I counted!).
Lined up on a bench, as well
As underneath, and I could tell
They all were empty, for the caps
Were strewn around, by slobs, perhaps.
There was no whipped cream residue
And raindrops hadn’t sprinkled through,
So with these clues, I did conclude
That this was gobbled up as food.
Yet one more possibility
Did naturally occur to me –
A group of young adults or teens
Went crazy spraying all their jeans.
I’ll never know just what took place –
The detritus, though, I’ll embrace
As fodder for my daily poem
About the place that I call home.
There was once, a clever man called Tim
His abrasive, smelly wife was called Vim,
Her head too big for her boots,
Such a nasty person, who wished some no good,
Tim being so handsome, got all the looks,
Whilst she was looked upon with disdain
Again and again and again and again.
They bought a house in an upbeat snobby area,
Her idea, and next door lived a lady called Sahra.
A cultured person whose background, much like Tim’s
Tim and Sahra got on like a house on fire,
Whilst our know all rude wifey, Vim,
Found her own kind in Sahra’s slobby husband, Skim.
Conveniently they had no children, Tim and Vim,
So got divorced, and then Tim married Sahra,
And now they have a pigeon pair
A girl and a boy,
The boy so young, yet so debonair,
His name is Terra,
The little girl blonde and pretty like Sarah,
Terra’s looks Latino like, just like his dad Tim,
Granny s fav the little girl, whose name is Kim.
Well what happened with the slobs Vim and Skim,
Does anyone care, a true story I wished to share.
a fairy tale of Camden Town
Clancy’s Gym, the same old sounds
a minute’s rest then two more rounds
I’ll jack this in (like Bobby Prewitt)
but where’s the one who made me do it?
He hasn’t come, he’s never here
by now he’s on his second beer
presiding in the Dublin Castle
surrounded by his navvy vassals
they’re calling me “the Tralee Tiger”
I coulda been … where’s my Rod Steiger?
the jolting jab, fast on his feet,
the bantamweight that no-one’s beat…
my bucket? Something-Saint-John’s-Wood
and scum from gumshields, spit and blood
I’ve learnt a word I like – “effete”
You don’t hear that on Albert Street
He knows I never wanted this. He
said he’d cure me called me cissy
he calls me Rocky. What a sham
why can’t I be the thing I am?
I want to dance like Nureyev
which might explain the fury of
the shellacking that this lad’s getting
Look at those losers busy betting
Sad old slobs with Patterson poses
ten-buck suits and flattened noses
come to think, though, who’s the fool
they’re not up here on this stool
back room Clancy’s Masculine Sports
blood on the gloves, shamrock on the shorts
Watched a first-run movie
From the comfort of my couch,
An experience to which
So many folks could likely vouch.
You can’t beat the convenience
And the snacks my kitchen holds,
Plus the fact that I can pause things,
Even as the plot unfolds.
There’s no outerwear to deal with
And no bus or cab or train
And it doesn’t matter if, outside,
There’s cold or snow or rain.
Yet I kind of miss the theaters
Crammed with fellow movie buffs,
Though, at times, your seatmates seemed like
Slobs or boors or lowlife scruffs.
Yes, I know I can return to
Those few theaters that exist,
But when Netflix has a current film,
It’s too hard to resist.
Locked in the pages of a book
I find sanctuary, a quiet nook,
Where I often retreat and find
the kindest heart, the vilest mind.
Whenever I feel like getting away
From the rigors of life on any day,
I step through the portals of a book
into a fantasy world and take a look:
At the mythical realms of dragons
Fairies, nymphs, demons, gorgons,
At the dreams, adventures and magic
of life and death purpose and logic;
Folktales of love, miracles, covenants
Of knights, heroes and revenants,
Of saints, seers, demigods and mystics,
Priests, pundits, mullahs and clerics.
A vast chronicle of betrayal of trust
of reverence, innocence and lust,
Of deceit, debauchery and debacles
of witches, vampires and oracles.
Deeds of dictators, despots, czars
The chaotic world of wasteful wars,
swarming with malicious mobs,
fawners, snivelers and slimy slobs.
Be it poetry, mystery or tragedy
Racy romance, fantasy, comedy,
Oh, just give me but a book any
I will forgo a damsel’s company.
In the Library contest by Isaiah Zerbst
If guns don’t kill people
Why are so many people dead
Another moms child
shot in the head
Blackboards white chalk
splattered in Red
A teacher killed
For something she said
Victim after victim
Demons need to be fed
On violence they’ve been bred
We shouldn’t need
Metal detectors at School
A place of innocence has become cruel
What happened to the Golden Rule
Have we all taken on
the role of a fool
A gun isn’t just a harmless tool
It’s a weapon of mass destruction
and the most potent hate fuel.
I am scared by the NRA narrative
The power and control amendment imperative
Off to Washington lobbyist slobs
More and more gun factory jobs
Guns don’t lead to the collaborative
Weapons should not be the normative.
We have got in the habit of not looking up above
No gun has ever led to acts of love.
So until politicians become brave
Our society is a slave
Problems grow over time
We shouldn’t be so naive
Profiteers shouldn’t determine what we believe
In the end there are to many lives to grieve.
Wonderful mints, delicious cookies, my roses simply dazzle your eyes on wedding sheet cakes,
Yes, I am a baker, a mighty mighty baker, and I get up early to delight customers I make.
Bright entertainment, exciting melodies, lyrics that please and delight,
I am a disc jockey that plays music for the nightclub crowd, sometimes all night.
Whistle, thistle, butterflies and buffoons, I am the one who sleeps like good slobs.
No work for me as my elderly parents are idiots and still have their jobs.
I think what chumps they are, as they get up early, and go to work,
Buying into a system that makes me poke fun and smirk.
No job for me,
No job today.
I am a forty-year-old with issues,
And I like to play.
12/21/15
Before and after yet another spring's gone
Any challenge and obstacle bring on
I'll look at it with a big yawn
Then go after it like King Kong
I like all of my drinks strong
And I think god
Will always be a subject of debate that goes back and forth like ping pong
If nothing's right, is everything wrong?
Is anyone else fond or do they find the sphinx odd?
I was underneath a big fog
While in a big bog
With a big dog
Many big frogs and big swans
By a big pond
Eventually caught a big lingcod
For the both of us, which helped me push towards becoming big and strong
Then did several big jobs
And got paid with some big wads
Ran into a person who tried to call me out with a big squad
But they got quickly put into place and were a big fraud
Weedeated and landscaped a yard with a big lawn
Later on had some big prawns
There were excessive talks of big bombs
And I had several big qualms
Because the people talking about doing it seemed like big snobs
That were some big slobs
By: Dalton Ogletree
Girls could not wear pants to school
When I was just a kid
And on our feet were shoes, not sneakers;
That’s just what we did.
We got dressed up on holidays
Or specialized events
Like Broadway shows or graduations;
There were no dissents.
Grown-ups also went to work
In dresses, suits and ties.
Decorum was the rule of thumb then,
Meant to civilize.
We’ve come a long way from those years.
Now there are no set rules
And most would claim they like this freedom;
Dress codes are for fools.
Yet there are times I look around
At people at their jobs
And what I see is the result;
So many look like slobs.
I wouldn’t want restrictions like
The ones we used to know,
But it bothers me that sloppiness
Is now the status quo.
Humans are we with bodies of structures complex.
Death comes to all of us though in varying effects.
Flesh. blood and bone are we, held together by
sinews. Also we have organs on which we rely.
Bipeds are we –meant to walk with postures straight.
We dance and ride and run, adapting to our favorite gait.
Intelligences are we, but few have the audacity
to use perhaps a fifth of our brain’s capacity.
Mortals are we, unlike One who had the power never to be dead.
Had He not been willing, He’d not have sacrificed Himself instead.
We are a mystery. To scientists we come from evolution.
Unfaithful souls refuse acceptance of any Godly solution.
Together all as one, we are called Humanity,
but racism and cruelty show much insanity.
We are parents, siblings, spouses, and the list goes on and on.
Our ancient kin are many. By the time we’re born, they all are gone.
We are workers; we are slobs; we are losers; we are winners.
If wise, we learn that love is all, even love for sinners.
We are members of societies with presidents and chiefs,
many who start wars over differing beliefs.
We are colors of our skin, called black, brown, and white.
And even red and yellow. Such titles don’t seem right.
We are categorized by classes though most the world is poor.
The middle class knows comfort; the rich live in grandeur.
We are sufferers of hardships, of trials, pain and grief.
Joy we also know in this earthly time so brief . . .
We are our brother’s keeper, and none deserve neglect.
All we really need are love, kindness and respect.