Oh there's nothing more pure
Than political manure
From the odd mishap
To the downright crap
It's the truth that they try to obscure.
Maternal grandpa owned a car where boot lid came back and folded down
From underneath our shearing shed he'd bag up lots of sheep manure
Tied to tray on back of car , travel four hundred kilometres back to town
Would pile the poo on his suburban garden
where he grew beetroot lettuce and some corn
to water and weed this vegie patch
he would rise at break of dawn
So thank you grandpa for this mentorship
since those days, I've loaded ute, with many different kinds of poo
There's horses, goats, ducks, donkey, cow, hens and sheep
I'm not much into waste , with compost dunny, to soil, mine adds much richness too
I have many different types of fruit and lots of greens to make a meal
with world events a lack of food, maybe not too long, it could all get real
"Running through a mile of wasted compiled vile
I find myself conflicted sitting in a position
groaning I'm foul planting a seed of tan and brown
the snake comes out of me and it flees deposited manure
Gastly every movement is not pure, sometime it's deterred
so now I gravitate as I clasp my cheeks
out from the plummets from the tests intestinal ...
verbiage I'm not on my knees
Yet, yes I bow down bowel comes out of me
What I just planted was healthy indeed
it was a groupings of so many seeds
running in through my garden
or would you pardon
Me as I sit posture above a toilet
and now I let Go of the grouping for you see is my bowels moving
My waste has been displaced
into a porcelain throne filled with water clear
as I touch the handle it's spirals down
Maneuvered Manure
the tunnel to eventually become one with the sewer"
in the manure,
grows the flower
ever-sweet is the shower
of rancid skunk juice
that ferments mist the tower
a rodents pile dung
4/1/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
i printed off
all of my poems
i distributed them
at the traffic lights
no one opened their car windows
except one poem i stuffed in a dog's face
a child laughed at me from his back seat
i laughed back
i stuffed the poems in drains
in supermarket trollies
i donated them at the
charity shop
i hammered this poem
into a lamppost
it blew away into the ether
i went home to pass a kidney stone
all the eggs in this box are double yoked
signifying nothing
the butterfly said
to the fly why you fly smell
eat dung/manure
the fly told him this
butterfly because the foods
aroma essence
yum-same as nectar
provides me like your flower
pleasures substance sweet
sweet nectar from the
flower butterfly sucks up
transplants spits transfers
cleansing fly lands on
the fly lite on manure
stinky dung yum-yum
7/19/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
A mutt may show up with a rat
Do some terrible things to your hat
But he’s happy for sure
Just to roll in manure
And so grateful that he’s not a cat
So a world could be small yet too big,
This lady is ripped; she cries all day!
He to be master, now boss ever stay.
Oh this soil, half a decade always a whole dig.
"Master please be a leader" with tears she shouts in pain.
Most are like a bonobo,
and few like a honey badger, but slow.
All these friendly villains take off the veil.
For the ambiance of time tortured and nurtured by men's sensual urges.
Affiliated with a passed-down notion to propel greed.
Indomitable hypocrites,
It's been decades without any gesture to bewail the masses.
There is some dog doo on my shoe
Gritty, grassy, smelly too.
You call it feces.
I call it pooh.
It is a lovely midnight blue.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poems_by_poet.aspx?ID=33466
Trump Remained Manure for Sure
Trump surely remained manure for sure;
He was more than we could ever endure;
Could hardly wait,
For him to ventilate,
Would stay in closet completely obscure.
Jim Horn
Do you wanna know the way to hell,
just follow the smell
Do you wanna know the path to hell,
just follow the droppings on the road to perdition
It will lead you well ...
Yep, follow the manure trail
Chuck your wagon down that crowded path
Should you feel the need to get more unclean,
take a brown liquid bath
There's plenty of droppings to coat your casket
Should your hunger to do evil persist,
do wicked things you can't resist
There's plenty of droppings to put in your lunch basket
Do you wanna know how to get to hell,
just follow the smell
Follow the brown brick road
of the manure trail
Give the wicked wizard of the deep,
your soul to keep
So all of you evil peeps,
if you hear the sound of those hell bells
Calling you to chuck your wagon
down the road to perdition
Smell the breath of the dragon
Move along doggy at your own volition,
and just follow the smell
Doggone it, keep your nose to the ground
of the manure trail
The Manure
The Manure
Two o`clock in the morning
A special moment when not asleep nor awake
I floated on a cloud of dreams
The moon was enormous, and it will be
Shared by all mankind
One can say it was global
An Eagle came put its talon in my stomach
And hacked at my eyes blinding me
I rolled over and fell, and fell landed
On a top of a mound of horse manure
I found a tank of mares’ piss for export to China
It is good for flagging potency
Bathed in it
Which restored my sight and is also good for the skin
It was getting chilly
Wrapped in horse blanket, I walked home
Followed by neighing stallions
Must Be Much Manure
Is there an impediment to being well-known idiot?
And if illiterate are you really, actually innocent?
Did discover insanity from my family is a dissident;
Remove all of this and end result is being intelligent.
So if we all were to become very vigilant
And then to Poetry Soup many poems have sent
Maybe into literate world might make a dent
And be a perfect poet who ran for President.
To be a profound, perfect poet just can't wait
To see how good I could be as a candidate
Would be best if start out now and not late
God made me good candidate who is great.
Makes no difference at all what party I am in
Where I am now or in past ever have been
Poetry Soup poem of the day will soon win
Monopolize and do it over and over again.
Poetry Soup Poet for President did you prefer?
Or to your distinct self would thought occur?
Now everyone all of my poems can endure
Making me President must be much manure.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
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