Long Working class Poems
Long Working class Poems. Below are the most popular long Working class by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Working class poems by poem length and keyword.
Me – Irish catlick working class:
mantillas, martyrs, Maynooth, Mass.
You – a literal Lutheran lass,
all pretzels, prenups, Mama Cass.
It never could have ever worked:
those ambiguities that lurked
were knees that, one day, would have jerked,
and we’d have wound up Douglas Sirked.
Your Nancy Clutter beats my Holden
(less Marlon Brando, more Karl Malden).
The pond we’re on was never golden –
winter white-out wiped out Walden.
I would have wearied of your sermons,
short Sheridans and shallow Shermans,
your Sophie Tuckers, Ethel Mermans,
poe-faced Pennsylvania Germans.
Ignore the stranger on the shore,
by Stan and Stella set no store.
Don’t give a damn what Della wore,
or Mary Tyler any more.
Reflection on My Glasses
In fairy tales, we learn about the rich and the poor
the wealthy suitor gets the princess's hand
The poor cobbler will always be mending shoes
In the "glass slipper," the poor girl fits the shoe
and marries the prince, while her sister gets a job
in the Guardian Newspaper getting paid for
griping about men
In Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf is working class
trying to get power among the haves becomes
a cropper and drowns in the well
Our instructions start at school when we are
adults find inequality perfectly normal
I have not written, anything today is my birthday, and that is depressing
I remember all my birthdays from age two until
15, but as a teenager, I scoffed at birthdays unless
it was a day for left-wingers and a socialist party's
day, later when I became a deluded communist
I remembered Joseph Stalin's day
My dog knew when it was her birthday and got
a juicy steak, alas, this noble animal didn't know
she was getting elderly as well
A nation rainbow
It rained and rained, fine rain but persistent
mountains dissolved, and rocks turned into sand
When the rain stopped, a smooth landscape
of peace and camel dung
Before the deluge, people who had sinned were
stoned to death since this was no longer
Possibly the sinner had to eat a kilo of carrots
until they turned orange and
were not invited to dinner
or supervised at the supermarket
The authorities thought this was a good idea and
made a color program,
to better classify
left-wingers
and radicals, making them eat cabbage till they
turned green and could not hide their socialism
tendency and forbidden to enter posh restaurants
The government liked this so much that they decided to
Classify all classes, beetroots for the royals
deep yellow for the middle class, and potato peel
for the working class and pink for artists
Alas, people fall in love across the color barrier
Their children looked like rainbows and were impossible to classify
Therefore, the government declared everyone's
equals, but instead build bigger prisons
Picket chitter chatter about posh pitter patter at Henley Regatta scoff for that matter at the natter which does flatter SW19 scene & don't give a jot about that lot at Ascot..the big ticket for the English toff summer is a visit to the home of cricket..
Old father time’s hold over his many wards
Mystery of the history hoards told marauds
Nooks & crannies mould books of records
Symphony scored sold on adored chords
Famed for the gold framed named boards
As teams and bold dreams cross swords
Peruse the queues that start before 8
Members remember the embers of fate
Quest for best seating you can’t be late
Bleating a fleeting greeting at Grace gate
Blazer with crest for their guest do wait
Dearly nearly yearly meeting with a mate
Linen suits competing cahoots see a spate
Die hard scorecard scribe should venerate
Suss a them & us tribe vibe does permeate
Josh subscribe to a golly gosh folly & fete
Farce awash with fuss cloche on nosh trait
VIP pass posh wally with off his trolley gait
Bollinger harbinger scoff do quaff a crate
Just ar*e twee look at me upper class date
Holler that working class squalor will irritate
Elite no blue collar street scholar reprobate
Bacon & eggs hues repeating Test portrait
Prices vastly soared stop ghastly hordes
Boxes chock a block with corporate frauds
No fan roared everyone…politely applauds
Panamas, trilbys or fedora do doff towards
Caveats for toff twa*s cravats Lords awards
Our fancy dress is outlawed caused discords
Sneer at beer from kegs cheer more Landlords
No dregs shaggy hair diadoras & baggy cords
Begs no diaspora from poorer smorgasbords
A ticket to the home of cricket though affords
The chance to roam and to reap rare rewards
Champers is poured toasting the scoreboards
Stored hampers explored boasting the accords
Hosting encores bar detours welcome to Lords
That pop you hear
is just another can of pinworms being opened
by the disgruntled, the entitled, the privileged.
Cackling about what they think they lack.
While ignoring the many things they do or could have.
They cluster together in a bait ball of perpetual misery
(of their own making).
Pointing stinky middle fingers at anybody that doesn't agree.
With their funhouse mirror philosophy...
In the (mean) time they grow fat off freebies.
Courtesy of (term limitless) pinkies in government.
Using the stinkies to divide the masses.
While taxing the crap out of the working class.
To perpetuate a two-class system made up of sheep herders and sheep.
With a big blue-collar hole in between....
and as long as the stinkies are miserable,
the pinkies have gotten what they want.
And will continue to fill our blue-collar noses
with the rose-colored snot of their bad intentions....
and that buzz that you'll soon be hearing
is the last of the sheep being sheared.
Money is the source of all greed
Something we all cherish and need
Everything we own
Most of us suffer and groan
Money is the source of anxiety
Something that divides every society
From the rich to the poor
Have the basic or grandeur
Money is the source of most stress
Something each month that causes distress
From the poor to the working class
Scrape by or in debt perhaps
Money is the source of moderate happiness
Something that can also cause nastiness
Can make you believe you are better
Reality is your lonely and wetter
Money is the source of all evil
Something the church says to stop you meeting the devil
But they ask for it from you
Drain yourself without question or review
Money is the source of madness
Something that causes arguments and rashness
It causes unrest between two
And can undo the glue between you
The Guardian, a failed paper?
The middle-class ladies, in the sunny pages of the Guardian a newspaper that used to be on the mild left
but when scolded quickly moved to the middle of the road where the paper where knocked over by the dramatic tide of feminism and became self-conscious
existing in fear of being called anti-feminist which reminded me of the days some years ago when the paper was called anti-Semitic after a critical article
of Israel's behavior in the occupied Palestine.
The ladies' concerns were if one should forgo the afternoon cool glass of white wine or stick to the pesky regulation of 21 units a week.
The serious illness of alcoholism was safely overlooked
as it has little to do with the readers.
In the same newspaper, an article about working-class poverty, can anyone wrap their head around the fact that
many workers are so badly paid their children go hungry?
They are there in our midst, the poor, the hungry the desolate, and totally forgotten, we ignore them to our peril, and they will arise, getting up from the floor ready
to turf us out of existence.
As for the Guardian, it can turf out the woke people who hire new writers and be irreverent again
The Trojan of our heroic struggle
The heroic struggle against chains
Which beckons with pains
That tends to make us insane
For we are already stained
As they offer us disdain
Nowhere but in the scorchy rain
From the cradle lipping with light . . . of wisdom
Grew to be part of the struggle against the kingdom
Clenching fisticuff against the host hoarding our freedom
For the student movement’s struggle against the fiefdom
Reigned like others that thinketh not of the days of doomdom
Whilst the 80’s have those that have seldom
Bothers not about their selfishly accrued freedom
And bear brunt and boredom:
The late Chris Abasi
The late Rotimi Ewebiyi(RE)
Lanre Arogundade,Emman Ezeazu
Olu Oguibe, Labaran Maku
Ogaga Ifowodo, Bamidele Aturu . . .
Who scrawl their sobriquet in the Ingrained
Annals of the Nigerian student struggle
Those whose names sends
Cold and shiver to the Military junta
Chima, a born Trojan
Had no laurels and medals to display
Except for broken ribs and
Bruised lips with a bloodied head
For a cause he believed in
Ubani, a masculine Amazon
It just occurred to me that your demise has left
A big lacuna in the revolutionary kingdom in Nigeria
You remain the unassuming link amidst
The ultra-leftist, the progressives
The right activists, the social critics
The liberals and other change seekers
All along, you raised the slogan of
System change and Regime change
Craving for a working class mass based
Political party to take over
So that we can move over
Whenever we see the sign of cross over
In order not to spill over
In our quest to possess our possession
You remain a Trojan in the gully
Having kept your head above murk
In the human right trenches
You have scribbled your name boldly in
Gold on the sand of history
The road claims another Trojan
Unable to lose us out of your life
We gain from the blood and pains
A living testament to earn us new hearts
And firm us on the more
Forever in the struggle till we wet out
The blood of our tormentors and oppressors.
Alayande Stephen Tolulope
September 27th 2005
4.45pm
Form:
So house proud
Yet nowt inside
This Terrace house
But family
Mum outside
Dressed up in her pinny
Gabby Anny
Gossiping over washing line
With nosy nextdoor neighbor
Proudly polishing
The front door step
Sweeping nothing up
Using vinegar and newspaper
To shine the windows pristine clean
Just before Dad comes home
After he has been the pub
Expecting his Tea placed on the table
While kids are out gleefully a playing
From dawn until sunset
So as not get under mother's foot
And expect a clip around the ear
And come Saturday
Whence I and "R"-Kid meet up
For a bevy before the game
We act as paperboy deliverers
So Dad can pick
And give us his betting slip
To wager on the G,Gee's
Then 4 or 5 pint's well oiled later
We stumble through the turnstile
To win draw or loose
Always leaving vocally hoarse
To once again quench our thirst
In the pub with the shortest que
Until however many pints later
We begin the long hard journey home
Hailing any taxi willing to pick us up
In our weaving drunken state
Mixed kebab and soggy chips in hand
Condiments smudged all across our face
This a day back in the life
Of the past working class
At work and play
On any given day
Street or city
Predominantly
Up Industrial North
Where as the saying goes
By Eck it's Grimm up there
Why on earth would anyone
Wish or want to live there
in the 1st place
Unless you are surrounded by
the sense of community of
these people
And the witty sardonic caustic
black sense of humor unlike
anything other in the world
That elevates the poor to the
healthiest of all
As love and laughter is without
a shadow of a doubt the
best medicine in the world
And even better than that it
costs little or nothing at all
The Tariffs
here we go again, in a strong country where most workers are not unionized, but the rich are and the working class has to pay for the wealthy’s expenses, this time in the form of tariffs those who have the business of production can reduce the local market’s cost, but they will not instead, they will jack up their prices because we live in a free society where the lower order has little influence to demand better pay
There will be demonstrations against hard times, the strikers will be vilified as enemies of freedom, thrown into jail on fake charges, and called renegades, and the press will tell us they are betrayers of the American way
Yes, we have seen this before in other countries in another time, but the outcome is always more poverty, when the people are subdued and real freedom fighters are shot on the streets or, on the tabernacle of progress, peace bitter peace will ensue until the state collapses into a civil war