Long Wheedle Poems
Long Wheedle Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheedle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheedle poems by poem length and keyword.
Donald trump = pathological psychopath
Fred Trump taught his sole son Donald
how to steal the leading way into more ass,
though no hint given, nor prediction forecast
in his growing up years, that would foretell,
thru base anaphylactic cronyism, egotistical
gall insidious kleptomania call, malodorous
Machiavellian offal obnoxious quintessential
skullduggery, unfair wicked yik yak zeal
to wield selfishness, a mean mogul with brass,
who would unstintingly live up to his surname,
and trump every law in the books of jurisprudence
and crass bend avast set of constitutional laws
to feed his ferocious fealty to the all mighty dollar
flaunting, fleecing, and flipping the welfare
of those (he deemed must serve him
his insatiable hunger) to connive, dictate,
and expedite his hell bent assiduity,
an empire fit for a King, who felt no aversion
to mollycoddle, peddle, and wheedle
any zealous contractual obligation
(immediately abrogated), and concoct fabrications
vis a vis, a visa versa MasterCard his
American Express shun re: the art of the raw
FitBit (if necessary browbeating, depriving,
forfeiting meting out legally obligated pay
whenever an inconvenient truth awoke
in his noggin reneging fiduciary promises
to the risk-taking, moon shining, toiling citizens
ala Indian giving per many an unfair deal
exuding crass with especial treatment
to withhold wages for his (held in check)
Polish laborers, who built his city on rock and rolling
stock – so a Starship emblazoned with
outsize ego of an exploiter with no pay
to his backbreaking Polish construction
motley crue nor even mucho grassy us
for erecting his empire now ranked in
billions of dollars unfairly pointing a finger
to berate, dictate and finagle foreigners
(illegal immigrants, he would now boot
out of this country) to carry out drudgery
with hungry stomachs growling at slave wages,
lamentably plodding since any other employer
might question their vlsa status, hence anger
boils within this generic human enraged
his wealth squeezed from every last drop
of said craftsman, now if still alive old and
broken men crushed by the mighty
self proclaimed dictator of the proletariat,
whose hollow being blind sides those
he stares down, yet beware all that glitters ain't gold!
This rhyme may seem strange but each word's truly equal
Now Beetle's tale's done no need for a sequel.
They'd chat by the teazel of matters so lethal
Of sequels and prequels and justice so penal.
In fields green and fetal past signs with a decal
He'd meet Sheetal the Beadle who spoke of things fecal.
With eyes prehensile he'd spot every weevil
And warn all the people of dangers so evil.
This Beetle was legal though far from regal
He'd wheedle and wheeze with his diesel-powered treacle.
He found a gold needle a prize for his easel
And painted a weasel avoiding the measles.
Again there once was a beetle so feeble and small
Who lived in a steeple with people so tall^-^
And painted a weasel avoiding the measles
He found a gold needle a prize for his easel.
This Dung Beetle was again legal though far from regal
He'd wheedle and wheeze with his diesel-powered treacle
And warn all the people of dangers so evil
With eyes prehensile he'd spot every weevil
Again, he'd meet Sheetal the Beadle who spoke of more things fecal
In more fields green and fetal past signs with even more decals
Of sequels and prequels and justice so penal
They'd chat by the teazel of matters so lethal
NOW Beetle's tale's ended again no need for……….a sequel
His adventures were splendid each moment so……….regal.
This rhyme may seem strange but each word's truly equal
A lesson in language both _^_ playful and………. legal
The Dung Beetle though small had a heart brave and true
Proving size doesn't matter in all that we do.
Beneath hardened and thickened wings,
Twinkling soft and cold mystical lights mesmerize.
Showing off Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings.
Dark nooks cutely they burglarize.
Swaying around their electronic duff,
Spreading friendly vibes, they light up the dark.
Elated with joy they flash out language of love.
Lost in their sight I dodge like a narc.
Smitten with their joyful acts of wheedle.
They are as precious as they contrive.
Yes, I am flattered by these cute little beetles.
For they spread smile though for just few days they survive.
Word Reference:
Narc: Police officer who specializes in laws dealing with illegal drugs
Duff: Buttocks
Reels: Swaying
Jigs: Lively dance with leaping movements
Poussettes: Swing in a semicircle with hands joined with one's partner in a country-dance.
Flings: A short period of enjoyment
Contrive: Create or bring about (an object or a situation) by deliberate use of skill and artifice
Smitten: Be strongly attracted to someone or something
Wheedle: Use flattery to persuade
I've often wondered who dealt with
fairy tale complaints. There seems to
be a lot of them among the fairy tale
acquaints.
Here are just a few suggestions I myself
if could, would make and maybe fairy Tale
land would be peaceful for heaven's sake.
Old Mother Hubbard had no bones in
her cupboard and her dog has no bone.
We could offer her Pease pudding and even
if it is nine days old, I am sure the dog would
be happy with the old crone.
Peter Peter Pumpkin eater, put his wife
in a shell, there he kept her very well.
There's no time to plead and pine nor
no time to wheedle, if she would kiss him
quick, he would be gone, and pop would go
that weasel.
Seesaw Margery Daw, Johnny got a new master
johnny only earned a penny a day because he
could work no faster. He should take lessons from
Peter Piper who could pick a peck of pickles and at
it became a master.
There was an old woman who lived in a house
exceedingly small, a man open his mouth and
swallowed woman, house and all. Maybe he should
of had some of the King's Blackbird pie and he could
have filled his tummy instead with a pie full of caw.
A stretched out string of human rights espoused
By the nations league some eight decades back,
A wide river of censure has aroused
From rational minds, who brains do not lack.
The words “all men are born free” across lands
And are “equal in dignity and rights”,
Inscribed in shining scripts in books so grand,
Have across time suffered a frightful plight.
Diverse flags flutter at shrines of men’s rights
But more to please and to wheedle the eyes:
Freedoms won long ago through sweat and fight
Seem to have shrivelled in the silent sky.
When wardens of peace are fenced in a ring,
When deprived children with hollow eyes cry,
When pangs of hunger sting and sirens sing,
Pursuit of peace turns to hard whispered lies.
The media recounts diurnal bleeds,
Cruel bombs that wreck and victims that fall,
Borders that are crossed and desperate needs
That on households in sheltered tents befall.
In forums peace is preached with perfumed plea,
Treaties signed amidst blare and blooming grace,
Then weapons of death are traded with spree
As seeds of hatred sprout in time and space.
Perhaps goals of peace and rights were too high,
Perhaps human heart is not ever pure,
As a crystal clear lake eyeing the sky,
To conquer hate, affection to ensure.
Loads of failures that loom, shadows that creep,
Sow the seeds for sane, sensible worry,
Yet despite stark setbacks, time isn`t to sleep,
But pursue peace and build a world that`s free.
Time is to speak the truth, to lend a hand,
To see the worth shining in every soul,
To build a benign bridge across the land
And strive to pursue peace to make us whole.
Have to get some bread and milk,
always needing more,
Then to seek my dealer
needle him to give a score.
Kids are always wailing,
never any peace.
Like a wailing wall
they never seem to cease!
Damp is smelling so much worse,
should withdraw the rent..
But where else could i go,
since that bastard went.
Can never pay a bill
the Post is full of dread.
They"re going to slice me off!
I never have the bread.
All we wear is cotton
what the hell is silk!
There is only so much Benefits
that i can really milk..
I have to meet my Dealer,
see what i can wheedle.
I need so ****ing much...
Bread milk and a needle.
Kindled my soul at the time of my birth.
It feeds my craving for the boundless,
superior joys of desiring to be soulless.
Owing to the breadth-widening death.
Like it drew the moth to the fire spot,
Your heart will no longer be the same.
The zeal blazed deep within my frame.
Being your goal is all I desire in my heart.
Similar to how a fire burns logs of wood.
It turned each log into a heap of dust.
If life across you falls apart, hold trust.
Adding soul light to fire as a lover should.
She swayed to the rhythm of her drum.
Drumming swings penetrated the darkness.
Fireflies lit the way with a sharp blackness.
I'm baffled; what drives you to clean scum?
Sharp fangs tear your soul aside eating fire.
Embrace those who support your view in dark.
I quietly beg for red flowers and a sheer stark.
You are aware that I grant you light and choir.
Your eyes shine brightly in the sunlight.
Your presence brightens my every day.
Your inner fire inspired me in every way.
Not even a single tear escapes my sight.
Cast light on the radiant hunger of life,
increase with each brilliant dawn beam
and soothe during the night's quiet gleam.
Where every day creates various strife.
Your best mate is your spunky soul fire.
Seeing love in your eyes quenches the carrier.
I pray that your soul sets fire to every barrier.
It aims to foster a mindset over your pyre.
My skin is on fire from the pain of a needle.
as if a comet is hurling toward the sun.
The soul's shells burn, fall, and hold a ton.
I understood how life and death wheedle.
Will we all perish in the raging fire?
Restore our spirits and release us.
Water was enabled to stoke the glory.
Without wings, you are stuck in a dire.
Hopes were burned by fire-spawned smoke.
It faded from vibrant light, fearful of wrath.
Should it be uprooted if it strikes a scathe?
Will wiping the slate or leaving it to invoke?
Written: December 10, 2022
What do you do when a poem’s not funny?
What do you do when it hits a raw nerve?
What do you do when it’s not warm and sunny?
What do you do when life’s thrown it a curve?
What, when the feelings are less than enraptured?
What, when the poet wails life’s been unfair?
What, when it bleeds from a heart that is fractured?
What, when the voice is in depths of despair?
Hidden behind, there are pained people hurting;
Hidden behind, things are not all quite right.
Hidden behind, deeper issues they’re skirting;
Hidden behind, they cathartically write.
What’s the appropriate word to encourage?
Give the despondent the “nice job” spondee?
When we were young and we had a miscarriage,
Everyone left us adrift in pain's sea.
Community is just a collection of people
Connected enough to express words of care.
Intention here: never to urge, press, or wheedle.
Just to reach out, signal I know you’re there.
A quilt is a poem that’s been crafted
With stitches that cleverly mime
The words that a poet has drafted
In manner and rhythm and rhyme.
For in piecing a pattern together,
Every section, once stark and alone,
Must be seamlessly tailored to tether
It to others when carefully sewn
Just like adjectives, verbs and conjunctions
Plus the other unnamed parts of speech
Let the writer arrange, so their functions
Form the meanings that readers can reach.
When the final thread’s snipped from the needle
And the pencil has made its last mark,
Neither quilter nor poet need wheedle
For responses their efforts should spark.
“Give me the phone Effie.
I have to make a call.”
She handed it over to me
and walked into the hall.
The inspector had no clues.
He asked for my two cents,
asked me to give him my views.
I didn’t; the call was intense.
The dame had come in
asking for my advice
two days ago and then
was arrested by Vice.
I had seen the smallish
puncture, blood pooling,
and I wanted to abolish
the coroner’s ruling.
The wound was there,
but he missed the needle
lying next to the chair.
He tried to wheedle.
If I couldn’t get the cops
to do their job, I’d need
to pull out all stops
to find a hard lead.
For Gershon...with smiles
Inspired by, but not entered in, Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest