Long Snobbery Poems
Long Snobbery Poems. Below are the most popular long Snobbery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snobbery poems by poem length and keyword.
Listen up lowlife, I make greatness look trite,
Arrogance so far below me, I’m way out of sight,
The whole world’s something, stuck to my shoe,
Never wear mainstream, only designer brand new.
Could not care less, weather you live or die
Be sure your funeral cortège stops, as I pass by,
Don’t even look at me, gaze upon the ground,
Better not breathe same air, when I’m around.
Completely flawless, no mirror can reflect me,
Chosen by myself, to judge everyone that I see,
When speaking put polished marbles in my mouth,
Step outside our mansion, everything goes south.
Family’s so privileged, only private tutors we seek,
When at the opera, have our own personal suite,
Only best Moët Chandon, passes through my lips,
No matter how good the service, I never give tips.
Yes obnoxiously happy, confident I’ll never die,
So just go and wallow, but find your own pigsty,
I’m a total master class, in unbridled snobbery,
Made my billions, defrauding the IRS in robbery.
By
David Kavanagh
in the east, while a nation or caste grows up
with own creeds, cultures, lifestyle
at the same time in the west
another nation or caste
grows up with own thoughts
in this world
there are prevailed
many cultures, paths, beliefs, creeds
every day in this world
we face many thoughtful emotions,
realistic views, doctrines
consequently keep mounting many paths, beliefs, lifestyle
because of nation or caste
you don't be blind,
if you go through all principles
then you'll find same convergent
you're the behind follower purely
because of nation or caste
all of your egos or snobbery are futile
or worthless logical as a fairy tale
because of nation or caste
these all egos are beastly manners
such as dogs of one village
cannot endure dogs of another village
better and worse are false in measure up-
the east or the west, the north or the south
the nations, the caste, the religions, the creeds, the beliefs, white or black,
this betterment or worse
only can measure up by your present actions, compassionate ethics
your every moral labor certifies that you are the divine or hellish
just, know it clearly
the east or the west
the north or the south
wherever you go
you are merely human
blood and flesh made human
not more something than it
-Sunday, July 21, 2019 Chattogram
Oh! The weary winter's gone,
The nature's green as spring is on
All others are under magic spell,
But thou are still so dull and staunch?
When the old gold bonds have long been shed,
When others are forth new clothing yet
When the nature's under beauty's veil,
Yet unlively thou in such sweet sale?
All trees are laden with cordial buds,
The wind is blowing with its softest thud
Flowers are blooming in the grace of dawn,
Still, you gloomy are in the same gown.
Gradually sets in the summer
With its tranquil triumph
And the jovial haughty nature
Tempts to tender yet splendid fun!
The radiant greens compliment the lushes,
The shining joyous morning yellow
The timid snow in the highlands vanquish
But your wrath staunchly never does glow.
Do you detest the grace around you
Or do you shield your cordial mirth
Or do you refrain from expensive attire,
Perhaps you have the same set of cloths.
Then come the affluent showers
With its mute strolling wind
And the jolly laden branches
Lunatically dance with a brisk.
And in the night the rainy fog
Seeps in like thieves in mob
And leaves its mark- the hazy dew
But that's hardly in luck for you.
In no time the shower's savage
The rambling winds turn into gale
The snobbery of nature breaks like glass
The jeweled beauty is lost, alas!
Again, the weary winter's on
But not as back the life's there
Beauty's lost, all vein is gone
But thou are same still as you were!
The divorced trees have shed their jewelry,
The vail vegetation has lost its greenery,
But among the green-lost nature's hue
Remaining same you give good fortune's blues!
That's how one must know to compare
From among vail beauty to lasting fair
Is real beauty a day's attraction,
Or is it something more than competition?
In a world burning under the weight of its own infernality,
Empty words destroy suffering like a lost art.
Those who write only for applause and hollow idols birth dead phrases,
Devoid of pulse and blood, fragile facades of pure expression.
True writing is an exorcism, a confrontation with the depths of the soul,
Not a begging for validation, but a dance with inner shadows.
When the writer is carried away by fame and fortune,
They become just another floating object on the river of futile illusions.
It is a lie to write for money and fame,
A lie to seek the praises of literary snobbery.
Authentic writing is born from necessity, from a burning urgency,
Not a spectacle for crowds, but an escape from oneself.
Many writers, like gladiators, spill their blood,
To satisfy the modern Caesar, the hungry crowd.
Circumstances and misfortunes are insignificant to the writer,
They write through hunger, despair, and the slow erosion of hope.
The true creator does not wait for ideal conditions,
Does not seek refuge in comfort, does not complain about obstacles.
Excuses are the refuge of those who lack the inner fire,
Souls afraid of the weight of their own words.
For the one truly called to write, there is no choice,
Only necessity, for writing becomes an act of survival.
I may be hungry, homeless, wet, and in debt,
But if I write, that is enough, enough to give shape to silence.
To write means to cast meaning onto the arid page of existence,
To give form and style to the unspoken, an act as essential as breathing.
It is not enough to drown the world in moth-eaten words,
The world is already drowning in them, in clichés and empty talk.
If you must write, let it be because you must,
Because you have something original to say, something vital from within yearns for light.
You do not write because you want to say something; you write because you have something to say,
A final confession, a revelation cast into the eternal void.
From any and all who can see
as I see,
From most definitely me; my
furthest, darkest recesses
buried deep.
To they who worship at the
high places of the Valley;
To the bright cultists from the
third tribe, second family of 'P'.
I write this to you from all we
who are forsaken sons.
You probably don't recall us, for
as you see you shun.
Stare down long noses that,
unbeknownst to you, run.
Snottishness and snobbery to
which you are blind, as Saul to
the sun.
I grieve you, our loss, as you
are engrossed in your web.
I weep over you because your
child, Intellect, to you is dead.
Come down from your high
places; be united once again.
Leave your 'god' and surely by
your child you will be forgiven.
Cut down the poles, break the
altars of Fourteen.
Leave the idols and temples;
escape the obscene.
Flee, fly, from its clutches steal
away.
Perceive cold truth, see how
the worship made you stray.
Raise your head, unstrain your
eyes; come now, reconnect.
As the chains fall off remember
the world and reflect.
Realize who you are, and could
be, and then conform.
Not to me, or any ideology, but
to the better you transform.
Dear Reader, if my scribble you
comprehend, please one thing
understand.
To all who use the tools of the
Valley, this is not a reprimand.
I only beseech they who
worship to retake command.
To rise up in their life and no
longer take their 'god's'
demand.
The gifts of Fourteen truly they
are great.
But do not offer yourself over
to Fourteen, prostrate.
Leave the high places of the
Valley, I adamantly pray.
Find yourself out of the web
and finally in sun's rays.
From any and all who can see
as I see.
From my pen, directed by the
longing within me.
To those lost in the temples
and high places of the Valley.
The forsaken ones, and the
dear Child, miss you fiercely.
When I was in grade school
I was, already,
on my leftbrain dominant path
toward acting the intellectual snob.
This, in large part
my best offense,
my trump card, sadly,
against marginalizing prejudice
of our community's non-farmer economic
and political Elite;
The few kids
whose parents went to college
and/or inherited some above-the-norm property
business, preferably not agribusiness,
professional service assets
even the most straight white male
would appreciate
like doctors
and nursing wives,
two income households
with academic bright credentials.
By the time I reached high school
being on, or at least within sight of,
the top of my class,
and president of as much political property as possible,
or at least vice-president,
became my trump card
for getting out of rural SWM oppression,
depression,
suppression,
Where I was not safe,
back in the 1960s rural midwest,
and I could never possibly matter,
become one of the local community's Elite,
a pillar of church and state
while overcoming the guilt and shame
of being the gay son
of a below median income family farmer.
Intellectual snobbery
was my leftbrain overwhelming defense
against rightbrain amygdala loneliness,
extreme social-sexual isolation,
drowning in cortisol-baptized self-stigmatization.
Leftbrain dominant academic skills
were my best offense
for succeeding out in urban
urbane
multicultural
cosmopolitan
singing and dancing
democratically compassionate
win/win feeling and acting society.
The only healthy society
that mattered;
where I could possibly matter,
and become transparent
and vulnerable
and connected
and safe.
That defensive snobbery
still, in 2020 hindsight,
lives in my deepest closet,
longing for warmer
more inclusive acceptance,
invitation,
compassion
For right brain radical interdependence
with those of us,
regardless of income
and lack thereof,
regardless of self empowerment
and lack thereof,
capable of engaging
and energizing this tragic comedy
of small staged love lives,
Rural and urbane
Healthy and wealthy
Ego and eco-therapeutic
Left and right brained
Smart and warmly co-passionate
Proud and humble
Divinely humane
playing more win/win trump cards
through most cooperative co-investment.
Prone to bloviation pure and simple
rides on figurative high horse,
which doubles up as my Plymouth Duster
analogous to General George Armstrong Custer
(blowing his i.e. mine little big horn)
anonymous readers I unwittingly fluster
poetic patina an artificial, superficial,
yet beneficial ego boosting luster
one mister re: man can muster.
I (no surprise) become
self absorbed with my own palaver drum
ming across the screen written from
me, (an average happy go lucky)
goose stepping honk
king Crimson and clover Caucasian man hum
bull despite being imagine
an infinite string of superlative adjectives jum
bull ling together to accentuate Lum
burr jack ambitions comfortably numb
when modest male
just another brick in the wall
scores of decades during plum
years of mein kampf
watching favorite television programs
in boyhood living rum
while bobbing like a sponge
(donned in square pants)
sprawled on my washboard tum.
No inflated cheekiness for logophile
renown throughout the webbed wide world
for his pro licks
regarding poetic shenanigans ad nauseum.
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
misinterpreted as snobbery
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,
I can't breathe
Though I don't wear a tight mask
I can't breathe
Though I am not the patient of asthma
I can't breathe
Though I don't live in an unhygienic gas farm
I can't breathe
Though I am not in the full of terrible CFC layer
I can't breathe
Though I am not confined in the bottom of the dark grave
I can't breathe
Yes, I can't breathe
Because in this world
Human still bringing up the racism in the safety womb of the heart
Human tolerates still discrimination by the religions
Human loves the inhumane aristocracy, the snobbery in the deaths of poor
Yes, I can't breathe
Here, on this earth, still human prefers to the colors of the body skin
Human is still not taught by the conscience of universal humanity
15.07.2020 Chattogram
That damn weekly times (circa 1900),
Afternoonified with Gigglemugs
sending me off my chump
Editors Half-rats, Not up to dick,
the meater.
Genderfied, I am
A woman of incredible script,
stylograph committed,
deemed a whooperup,
yet her prose is
umble-cum-stumble.
The longing expressed
through the lovers eye
poked-up the meater,
who Batty fanged my dyke
with his footle
His "Enthuzimuzzy"
was unwarranted
and the mutton shunters were called
Collie shangles erupted
yet concede he did
overcome with blue devils
He purchased my script
published it last page
like a Skilamalink
I cared and did not
for published I was
weekly times circa 1900
I bested the ragger
Rough translation - deceived
that damn weekly times editors
all snobbery and fake smiles
sent me crazy
The editors drunk, and unwell
he's a coward
I am a woman
a writer, a poet
committed to my craft
deemed inferior
yet my writings are
thoroughly understood
The topic in question
a female lovers romance
embarrassed the coward
who thoroughly thrashed my lover
with his nonsense
Ohh the insulting "enthusiasm"
was not necessary
the police I did call
heated arguments won the battle
and he apologised - albeit begrudgingly
His saddened state,
as he was forced
to take my manuscript
and publish it in the back
like some dirty secret.
Last page was bothersome
yet published I was
in the weekly times no doubt,
as I defeated that trouble making editor
(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.