Pretty summer days are really hot,
am I being cooked like crabs in a pot.
Fireworks made me pee my pants,
all wet but I will still dance.
Looks like I hit the big summer jackpot.
PM MELONI
TRUMP A PHONEY BALONEY
HE LIED ABOUT ME
There was once was a lady called Ullah
took a trip across to Dimbullah
Why she went there
here's the story she'd share
Hey I'm not gonna fool ya
took part in a dance called a hula
And Peder would follow
he'd tweak his big toe
He didn't take part in this wonderful dance
hung on to his chair by the seat of his pants
Wherever was Ullah, Pedder would go
his admiration is always on show
This beautiful couple the friendship we cherish
Makes no difference if they're speaking their danish
We value their knowledge from the plants that they grow
observation of nature from the seeds that they sow
This information we make sure it wont vanish
Here's a secret I now will reveal they make no claim to be spanish
When Peders at craft he always just sits
clickety clack from needles, it's a hat that he knits
Dying fine wool Peder remains silent, uses the wool a holey sock he must darn
And Ullah ? Total contrast!! She's really quite noisy when spinning some form of a yarn
They often have fabrics, by hand they have dyed with colour galore
from all of the markets they've finally retired they'll sadly be seen there no more
Today is out of order.
I just want to flee,
everything is biting me like a big yellow bee.
The day started off with mold on my brie,
then I lost my only house key.
Under the bed looking for my shoe on one knee,
my pants went wet with pee.
Please just set me free,
this is my one and only plea.
Stan is a big burly man
He was stuck on the can
Man’s best friend also a jerk
Petty pup fluffy prankster
With jaws dog stole his pants
wearing my go-to-pants today
cozy elastic waist
I could sleep in these
matter of fact, I have
TRUMP LIES FOR THIS YEAR
SO MANY CAME TO MY EAR
END WAR ONE DAY DEAR
Once, when I got bored,
I spied the Golden Horde,
or, was it just some ants
crawling up my pants?
pink pajama pants
large and floppy but comfy
my favorite thing
Big Boy Pants On
I don’t want to hear it.
You're in denial.
You're on your own.
Put your big boy pants on.
No complaining.
No whining.
These are the choices you make.
Don’t ask me for money.
You lowered the bar.
You can only go up from here.
No more excuses.
Don’t pretend.
I’m not a crutch.
Good luck.
I can’t wipe your ass forever.
Lazy generation by far.
I announce a decree,
overactive bladder, pee frequently.
I must haste to and fro,
because I just really have to go.
Gangway, vacate the loo,
or I'm going to splash all over you!
I wear industrial size diapers that
are pricey,
I'm a human waterfall, how dicey.
Aging isn't easy,
I know this poem is cheesy,
but I still can do a little dance,
as I've nicknamed myself, "Pissy-Pants!"
Ever wonder why we giggle
How does it actually start
What makes it uncontrollable
Perhaps it's a silly old fart
Giggles are quite intangible
You can't buy 'em at the store
Worth buckets full of greenbacks
Some gold and so much more
You're in a state of euphoria
You try to stay calm but can't
It's a tonic for whatever ails you
When ants get in your pants
Ever wonder why we giggle
How exactly does it start
They say it's very good for the soul
And does wonders for your heart
‘smarty-pants’
too big for his britches
kept his audience
in virtual stitches
on the road from rags to riches
ran into some unforeseen glitches
courtesy of parents' old-fashioned switches
'smarty-pants’ derriere throbs and twitches
How like Eliot it is in tone.
Even the landscape has the grime
of London in each line. I must have been
no more than nineteen when I wrote
the poem caught in the spell of his hypnotic
rhythm and rhymes.
The bright, clean air of my home
was seen through the filter
of a foreign fog, his soulful exhaustion
washed a gray tide across my youth.
He stood as a monument in whose shadow
nothing could grow.
Prufrock haunted the back alleys
of my mind, a rebel almost in the guise
of a comic. He was hardly me
in a world of pub rock and cold beers
on lazy, sun drenched Aussie afternoons -
no rolled up trousers but instead,
reefers, flared pants and mini skirts
and a future balanced on the whim
of a conscription ballot
hanging over my head.
The red pills are out again
all hot and bothered on menopause
Angry Birds
spewing angry words
we need a poo poet to respond
to these silly turds
Now Kamala I am sure has lied
a time or two
she's a politician, who cares red or blue
now Trump
who can not read or write
as lied to you thousands of times
I just lied
Is billions
I lied again
Is trillions
Angry Birds hate
like bats in a cave
their world is all upside down
no one told them
they are the clowns
There views are formed
by a little tube in front of them
they have no empathy
nor humanity
They are couch terrorists
frauds for sure
excited by burning flesh
soon behind them
The lion will roar
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