Long Swagger Poems
Long Swagger Poems. Below are the most popular long Swagger by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swagger poems by poem length and keyword.
(Chorus)
You think you've got swagger but really you hobble,
you've got the jet lagger and you're drunk so you wobble,
don't start on me mate 'cus I will bring trouble,
to put it into slang words I'm Barney Rubble.
(Verse)
I will ruffle trouble
'cus I'm on another level
that bombs with the base
and stings with the treble,
I'll strut face to face with any ace rebel,
and put them in their place with their constant bull.
When I rhyme with my contortionist wrist
it expels a mist that sits around my fist,
I spell magic out on paper,
I'm playing with danger,
Mr. Wizardry the word selectionist,
squiggling fiction at speeds that feed friction
into rhymes that are non stop hot and cool,
so flames don't flame on the table top,
journey with me to witness the plot,
the earth shaker creator of perfected hip hop,
starting revolutions so that mumble is forgot,
dislodging the rust and rot it coughs that clots
and instating my Barney Rubble at the top.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
That last verse was just a small handful,
a sample of something that you cannot handle,
a scan like a bar code,
so lets open up the road and I'll unload these words,
I can't conceal this skill that rolls like wheels,
a Rolls Royce wearing heels,
in fancy halls doing dancing drills,
with golden walls
to an old skool beat treat.
I wont get signed up by any record label,
but I'm still rhyming better than mumble's able,
just admit you're tapping your feet to the beat
while my rhyme sits on top solid like concrete,
with the dancefloor crammed full,
they're pulling at all angles,
making the memories
that'll last 'til they're O A P's,
they think they've got swagger
and they're like Mick Jagger,
they're more like Sepp Blatter
but a little bit fatter.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
You can call me Trimendous and true,
you thought I'd flew crashed and was screwed,
but I took it back to what inspired my act,
an old skool hip hop sick rhyme attack,
I rhymed in flight with this write
and its smile's wild with sublime delight,
there are no poetic rare words
and I don't need swear words
in this dictionary spared verse
with airstream rhythm you can't burst,
I'm wearing this deserved set of words
that pilots and surges to my re-emergence,
a certainty that was never urgent
and not an encore from behind the curtains.
(Chorus x2)
He walked with a swagger,
was a delinquent lagger
and recidivist wagger
all his schoolboy days.
Joyridin on the Pare’ bus
he’d skylark and cuss
just like one of us
as was his way always.
He was undeniably cool
but did shirk at school
and play the fool
from bell to ringin bell.
Widely well liked as a peer
and but for the odd jeer
had nothin to fear
but many a tale to tell.
He oft sat ready in class
but mostly half ar-se
and exams seldom pass
much to his own bane.
Almost always in a scrape
lookin to mock or ape
or some dare or jape
and felt a swingin cane.
He climbed out on a limb
and broke into the gym
then let his friends in
loadin up the bar.
Squattin and pressin away
liftin in the weight bay
‘til fun and horseplay
went a step too far.
He did the flyin fox cling
and leg and arm fling
on the rope swing
with collidin force.
For dear life hands hangin,
blokes fallin and clangin
into each one bangin
on the Confidence Course.
He was a hurler of eggs
and ‘til someone begs
did charlie their legs
but it was all in fun.
A water bomb he’d let fly
when he’d from up high
ambush a passer-by
abscondin on the run.
He his loyal friends also
under the gym below
did hide and stow
lest they all be found.
Then one guy in the loop
would dive thru a hoop
and the rest swoop
should it fall down.
He at lunch hour stood
all innocent and good
but not as he should
policin the tuck shop.
As monitor it was his job
to calm the unruly mob
but never tell or dob
suckin on his lollipop.
He was a classroom pest
out of uniform dressed
on his own little quest
and always in strife.
But in his heart he knew
what he needed to do
and this he would rue
the rest of his life.
He was a master pranker,
some say a wanker
but he did hanker
for somethin more.
Girls thought him sweet
and did fall at his feet
goin crazy for Skeet
but his spell had no cure.
~~~~
Pic above: The old Windsor Park Hotel is
in the background. It is 1977
and we are just 16 years old.
below: With friends below the trees
of Rangitoto College.
The Seconds
[Excerpts]
(c) 2019, Anita Lerek
Section 1/4
First Generation - Before the Holocaust
Lvov, Poland 1930s. Mother, you were a Jewish girl but you were not expected to enter history. You played outside time like a star burning for trillions of years. Hands of pleasure created fire, and tossed in rags of exotic oils and sunflowers to heighten the mingling of school yard bodies barely formed. You lived inside bushes filled with chocolates, ghosts of guardians, and boys measured by swagger and expensive shoes
Your lives were handcuffed by words, set in the grammar of racial separation. But there was no one else, just you and your friends, beauty marooned in floodlit trance
————————-
Section 3/4
The Survivors
............
You lie on the beaches. You lie in the fields. You are bits of debris, tufts of life stuck together, shadows thrusting and contracting in search of embodiment
So many lost, beyond mouthing. What history removes, language cannot restore. Rather it is a burial ground, an anti-galaxy of boarded up stars. How many forms are there of nothing?
Ancestors cry out to you from pine trees and flowers, from buds and branches. You hear nothing. You seek out strangers. By touching them, you try to rouse a sleeping god of your lost civilization, to reach the boys, the sunflowers, the shadows begging to return
Your limbs touch, boxes smacking against each other, filling, releasing. You barely move. You let him have his pleasure. Then without a word, you leave, and return, to release the one valve, day after day; all others seized by horror. You never exchange names
—————————
Section 4/4
The Second Generation
..........
I was of the same cloth but not the same cloth. I did not occupy the same land as you. I grieved our severed skin
I come closer now, hover at your borders. Mother, your elements are wearing down, motions slowing, your fragments crumbling
Stop, stop, stop the cycle
of trauma: its birth, hardening into splintered towers, falling apart and re-forming
Let me into love before you leave me, here in this final land
where love crystallizes
into the expansive images
that cradle me
in beds of rock,
the last images
that I send up
to mend babel’s darkness
for trillions of years
RAPPERS & LEGENDS IN THE UFC
In the Octagon, where fists collide,
All Eyez on we, the view is worldwide.
This battle's a wild mix of might & rhythm,
But when the ref calls time, it's all for a gold limb.4
Tupac enters first with ferocity and might,
Throwing rhyme-punches at anything in sight.
Shakur is a warrior with words that pierce,
In the cage, his passion is so fierce.8
Biggie Smallz steps in, swagger and style,
His lyrics hit hard, his punches fueled by guile.
A heavyweight with rhymes so smooth,
In the UFC, his flows would make crowds groove.¹²
Eminem jumps in, the lyrical genius unbound,
With lightning speed, his opponents confound.
The real Slim Shady proves he's the lyrical master,
His rapid-fire knocks out opponents faster.¹6
Here comes Kendrick Lamar, a UFC pro.
In the octagon, he brings the flyest flow.
A warrior poet, he weaves a lyrical spell,
Knocks-out his foes before the jingle of the bell.²°
50 Cent's in the ring, ice cold, bold & untamed,
Knocking out opponents, leaving them maimed.
When he brings the Gorilla Units, there's tremor
But when he's solo, he's sharp as a razor.²4
Snoop Dogg's turn, laid-back, swag & chill,
His flow hypnotizes, his punches kill.
Unleash him in the cage, watch him brag
With hit smash, he's always on track.²8
Lil' Wayne joins the fight, tattooed and bold,
His wordplay stings, his punches take hold.
Young Mulla won't back down from any rap mission,
His punches hit hard like a lyrical collision.³²
Wiz Khalifa enters, smooth like no other,
His punches light up foes, he's a stunner!
With his cold-chill swag & cool demeanor,
He brings the smoke & reigns like the guvnor.³6
And last but not least, Travis Scott takes a stand,
His melodic punches echo through the land.
Trap Music King with energy on full blast,
In the Octagon, his performance would last.4°
As the rappers clash in this UFC rap quest,
Their words like punches put their skills to the test.
Each with their own unique vibe and flair.
Envision the battles they would share.44
As the crowd roars, this sight appeared sublime,
Their applause jubilant, returning us from the dream,
For in this arena, these rappers reign supreme.47
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? December 2023.
FOUNTAIN : LIQUOR BOTTLE SHRINES...
Intoxicated and driven,
Staggering to a higher purpose where they buy their souls
Meeting with their Maker as they peak and overflow
Seeing all these empty faces file in and out in dance to the tune
No need to protect the treasure if it stifles their zenith
In and out of bodies they seem to leave
No flow from the fountain from which they drink
Stagnant, waiting to satisfy their insatiable thirst
With unimaginable haste gulping from the core as if a first encounter with an
oasis
Dripping down the contours of the mouth from the aggression
‘Drop off the gratitude before leaving the shrine’
The unholy water whispers after it quenches
Dressed in robes of fine cotton another traveler enters
With such poise and dominance that leaves the ground shaken
Unwrapping the cloth from the perfect curves
Ready to take a sip and maybe indulge
Let loose and even contain some in the silver chalice
Slowly ...steady does it
Starting off with a lick then a slurp out of impulse
As if tasting the finest wine making sure not to miss a drop
For the water it is a forever ago once forgotten
The delicacy
Hand upon lips to wipe away the resistant drops
The evidence of true of the luxury that should have never been
The water forgets
Until he leaves a fine too hefty even for indulgence
Eyes blood shot and teary from the wind
With the force of a hurricane marching towards emancipation
There is a need to irrigate the death
Ripples can be seen in the water while the typhoon swallows
It is an impact so strong that everything else is rendered inert
There is a spilling and maybe even a leaking
A time out should be called for the forces that are to repair
It is not a damage alien
Maybe add some yeast and watch it ferment
Sprinkle perfume and delude the nostrils of the parched
A measure necessary for the uplifting of all spirits
Nickels and dimes left in the fountain as the swagger out with satisfaction
Maybe tomorrow will be a good day to experience the bliss
Yet again and then maybe again and again
An ephemeral source that should be exploited
Expiration is imminent and thirst is persistent
Until they stumble upon another gift of the rain
They will drink
Till drink is no more...
It was no cosmic coincidence that a persnickety intergalactic wise guy named Hub
with an arrogant swagger morphed into the center of a crowded fast-moving Harlem jazz club
on February 11th, 1933 at dusk, preplanned by an angelic being named Lub.
One jitterbugging dancer named Minx looked up for a second, when he arrived at the club.
But it did not make sense that someone could materialize out of nothing, right?
Minx looked away, but then briefly back, into intelligent eyes that were blue, smart, and bright.
He was a scamp, she knew it immediately, she felt she knew him, at the second sight.
A warning gong went off in his head. A spitfire, he tried to stay away with all of his might.
They danced in close proximity, trying to ignore each other, this earthling and man from space.
Her auburn hair was curly and lush, and seemed to say hello from every corner of this place.
Knowing he was in trouble, feeling she was a big taboo, he attempted to show his poker face.
Glowing emerald eyes held him captive, as he tried to think, and clear his fast-beating heart pace.
You have a mission, his head argued, but his heart was not willing to follow the two-hour-ago plan.
He is a dandy warned a voice inside Minx’s head. Try to act casual, so he will be willing to land.
She opened her eyes wide, smiled at her dancing partner, gave him a laugh, and prettily petted his hand.
She was in Hub’s arms for the next set, and all the ones after that too, and they barely noticed the band.
Hub’s voice was a growl, gnarly, all dangerous, one of those better-stay-away-from-me males.
He was dapper, and dashing, a remedy and soothing balm to every one of Minx’s ales.
Minx was the most glorious being Hub had ever seen, including all earthlings and Stratosphales.
They ended their evening of passion like nomads, sitting on one of those giant hay bales.
Hub was sucked back to his planet by an insistent space ship captain in the spring of 1934.
The lovers met nightly in their dreams and in the day time they remembered each other forevermore.
Minx gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, her last memento from Hub, on Tuesday October 24.
A token of my appreciation Mom, Lub said, as he blew a kiss, from his bird-side seat on heaven’s floor.
Tribute to Maradona
TO SKY HIGH
Small structure in five feet five frame
flashed in fabulous fame.
Little Argentinian Golden Boy
Bullish, buoyant, graceful with eyes angelic,
Rustic, over confident, playing magic.
Appeared an exceptional footballer
Nonparallel on strut and swagger
with tangled disarranged hair.
Careful yet without care.
mesmerizing spectators.
Promising skill on challenge of arrogance.
Strong sturdy solid sense of balance
pivoted on self-belief.
His real relief
to sky ball high playing on loops of eyes
with magic of swift feet showing miracle.
Public was marveled on blink less glance.
Excitement, emotions to enhance, not perchance.
Sometimes tagged by adverse label
as Sport’s misguided rebel
or misdirected: Full of flaws,
violating norms and laws.
Fair-fine or foul play,
Right or wrong! Useless to say.
Legitimate or illicit! No way.
Maradona, World Celebrity
charmed populace with same intensity.
Extremely impatient cocky,
Yet He was the STOCKY
NUMBER TEN
reaching heaven.
Beyond football ground crossing cheekiness
Maradona proved his splendid sunniness.
Amazing talented player touching excellence.
Left too early the high heroic spirit.
An athletic genius touching summit.
12/01/20
First Place
'Obituary Maradona' Contest by Mohan Chutani
Poetry in Motion
Contest by Matt Caliri
"I've been takin' on a new direction, but I have to say, I've been
thinkin' about my own protection, it scares me to feel this way."
From Tina Turner's song
What's Love Got To Do With It
Tina Turner, the singer, the legend, died on May 24, 2023
at her lakeshore home Chateau Algonquin, in Switzerland
on the Zurich Lake, it was her home for three decades
fans lay flowers, lit candles and left messages of love
at the cast-iron gates overcome with grief, she was 83
Tina's humble beginnings, her voice, and her strength
would make her beloved the world over and an inspiration
she had a swagger, a sexuality, an unstoppable energy
wild crazy hair, dancing legs and hips, and gravely voice
born, Anna Mae Bullock on November 26, 1939
a young girl who sang in the church choir and
then, as a teen went to nightclubs with her sister
watching Ike Turner she said would put her in a trance
one night she was given a microphone and sang
and sang all night with Ike and that was the beginning
Ike loved her voice and made her his lead singer
with his band the Kings of Rhythm and girl group, Ikettes
there were tours, albums, hit records, it all seemed wonderful
but behind the scene things were not good for Tina
Ike was violent, abusive, with an unpredictable temper
he hit Tina, raped her, belittled her, instilled fear and
never gave her any of the money that she earned
this went on until one night after a brutal fight
Tina ran with 36 cents in her pocket to a Ramada Hotel
she divorced Ike and began her amazing solo career
there would hit albums, number 1 hits, world tours,
Grammy's, movie roles, induction into the Hall of Fame
so much success it is hard to put it all in this poem
she lost two sons to death, fought various illnesses
for years, but did marry the love of her life, Irwin Bach
she had happiness, she had sorrow and she had strength
and that is how I will remember this incredible woman
a woman who fought to come back from hell and who
would inspire the world with her amazing talent,
rest in peace, Tina Turner
quick with the pen you have a great deal communication
through words twisted on the vine such as the pale horse to be rode on
Their are simpler things in life such as the honey on the vine
a touch of a flying dash of patience to caress your timeless whisper
life give me the jitters enclosed in my want to be hand among men
the pile of terrific helpings of love sought after its flying dew
an impulse of letting go to congress care free
love is the melody to search from within
enclosed to simpler things the timeless brief cavity
lose touch in thee spread about so care free
awake to better days with a timeless parade
life is what you make it others seem to fake it
building blocks of trees resin among men
ample building plans we lay the score
busy as sought after ever more
building in sunshine muse for gas
we created the craft of building block the times you sought
standing idle near the pier all to draw so ever near
to building up my grocery bill
A time for a brevity pill...
watch the reigning imperial way
off of no display we leave a tray
stirring the pot of bygone moments
there is a castle in my mind
bold advances nothing wrong
sharpen the image of falling emblems
as if caged fury spot the center
we lay our head upon a bed of roses
cluster in the shade of purpose
we arrive directly strict like candy
a gun at hand may be quite dandy
gather through the nuts and bolts of indecision
come close to the age borrowed energy to behold
listen to the Willow tree warm to the smile
caress the Swan in which we can respond
following in the picture main frame residing fine
a clever walk through the valley the impulse grows
exploding dungeons to take you where you need to go
I'm next to doll face make no mistake the century warrior
from an impulse don to discover under the covers
leading strong to its start
as if Tapioca pudding surely melts in your mouth
an average Joe of the South
a brigade bandished onto its pleasant to light
gather never to give up on the fight
a section of a covering bent on forgiveness
in light of a dull leap in perpetual grace
in hallow leaves we are fortunate to behold
the way we swagger onto here below
moments to go a simple ego
To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.
You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.
My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!
I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?
Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!
O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!
One Sunday while sitting behind a young lady in church, Robert Burns noticed a louse roaming through the bows and ribbons of her bonnet. The poem "To a Louse" resulted from his observations. The poor woman had no idea that she would be the subject of one of Burns' best poems about how we see ourselves, compared to how other people see us at our worst moments. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, louse, church, bonnet, lace, lady, insect, insects, animal, clothes, clothing, hair, body, society, funny, Scotland, Scots, dialect, translation