There was once, a clever man called Tim
His abrasive, smelly wife was called Vim,
Her head too big for her boots,
Such a nasty person, who wished some no good,
Tim being so handsome, got all the looks,
Whilst she was looked upon with disdain
Again and again and again and again.
They bought a house in an upbeat snobby area,
Her idea, and next door lived a lady called Sahra.
A cultured person whose background, much like Tim’s
Tim and Sahra got on like a house on fire,
Whilst our know all rude wifey, Vim,
Found her own kind in Sahra’s slobby husband, Skim.
Conveniently they had no children, Tim and Vim,
So got divorced, and then Tim married Sahra,
And now they have a pigeon pair
A girl and a boy,
The boy so young, yet so debonair,
His name is Terra,
The little girl blonde and pretty like Sarah,
Terra’s looks Latino like, just like his dad Tim,
Granny s fav the little girl, whose name is Kim.
Well what happened with the slobs Vim and Skim,
Does anyone care, a true story I wished to share.
Watched a first-run movie
From the comfort of my couch,
An experience to which
So many folks could likely vouch.
You can’t beat the convenience
And the snacks my kitchen holds,
Plus the fact that I can pause things,
Even as the plot unfolds.
There’s no outerwear to deal with
And no bus or cab or train
And it doesn’t matter if, outside,
There’s cold or snow or rain.
Yet I kind of miss the theaters
Crammed with fellow movie buffs,
Though, at times, your seatmates seemed like
Slobs or boors or lowlife scruffs.
Yes, I know I can return to
Those few theaters that exist,
But when Netflix has a current film,
It’s too hard to resist.
Girls could not wear pants to school
When I was just a kid
And on our feet were shoes, not sneakers;
That’s just what we did.
We got dressed up on holidays
Or specialized events
Like Broadway shows or graduations;
There were no dissents.
Grown-ups also went to work
In dresses, suits and ties.
Decorum was the rule of thumb then,
Meant to civilize.
We’ve come a long way from those years.
Now there are no set rules
And most would claim they like this freedom;
Dress codes are for fools.
Yet there are times I look around
At people at their jobs
And what I see is the result;
So many look like slobs.
I wouldn’t want restrictions like
The ones we used to know,
But it bothers me that sloppiness
Is now the status quo.
a fairy tale of Camden Town
Clancy’s Gym, the same old sounds
a minute’s rest then two more rounds
I’ll jack this in (like Bobby Prewitt)
but where’s the one who made me do it?
He hasn’t come, he’s never here
by now he’s on his second beer
presiding in the Dublin Castle
surrounded by his navvy vassals
they’re calling me “the Tralee Tiger”
I coulda been … where’s my Rod Steiger?
the jolting jab, fast on his feet,
the bantamweight that no-one’s beat…
my bucket? Something-Saint-John’s-Wood
and scum from gumshields, spit and blood
I’ve learnt a word I like – “effete”
You don’t hear that on Albert Street
He knows I never wanted this. He
said he’d cure me called me cissy
he calls me Rocky. What a sham
why can’t I be the thing I am?
I want to dance like Nureyev
which might explain the fury of
the shellacking that this lad’s getting
Look at those losers busy betting
Sad old slobs with Patterson poses
ten-buck suits and flattened noses
come to think, though, who’s the fool
they’re not up here on this stool
back room Clancy’s Masculine Sports
blood on the gloves, shamrock on the shorts
Here’s today’s New York surprise
I witnessed with my own two eyes:
Reddi-Whip, the cans amounted
To nineteen (and yes, I counted!).
Lined up on a bench, as well
As underneath, and I could tell
They all were empty, for the caps
Were strewn around, by slobs, perhaps.
There was no whipped cream residue
And raindrops hadn’t sprinkled through,
So with these clues, I did conclude
That this was gobbled up as food.
Yet one more possibility
Did naturally occur to me –
A group of young adults or teens
Went crazy spraying all their jeans.
I’ll never know just what took place –
The detritus, though, I’ll embrace
As fodder for my daily poem
About the place that I call home.
As long as they're slobs
We have jobs
Some people travel;
Some people don’t.
Many take risks;
Many others just won’t.
Some rise at dawn,
Many others at noon.
Some put things off;
Others do things too soon.
Some folks are slobs,
Many others are neat.
Some like things salty;
Others like sweet.
Some prefer coffee
While others drink tea.
No one’s exactly
Like you or like me.
Some folks will read this;
Most never will.
Each of us has
Our own bucket to fill.
Some days it gets to me
Requests for prayer, currency
One can try quiet neutrality
But stories are hard, dependency
Here: crystal, Meth, Tik, or glass-y
U pray today, they call U "kuk" next day
It's the drug, makes voice big, manly
Others lost money, all, personality
Others want me to save their jobs
It's hard to bring them to Kerk, "slobs"
Believe they need shoes, good clothes
So I meet them anywhere, on the roads
I pick up heartbreaks, needs, dreams
Pushed my wife once, awoke for screams
NOTE: this poem was frozen on my cell for a long time. I kept sliding down the page for the POST button. I got lucky, but lost 3 poems between last night & today. My LORD knows what needs to be shared, so I'm trying to remain positive and in shalom. Shalom of Jesus the CHRIST!
If guns don’t kill people
Why are so many people dead
Another moms child
shot in the head
Blackboards white chalk
splattered in Red
A teacher killed
For something she said
Victim after victim
Demons need to be fed
On violence they’ve been bred
We shouldn’t need
Metal detectors at School
A place of innocence has become cruel
What happened to the Golden Rule
Have we all taken on
the role of a fool
A gun isn’t just a harmless tool
It’s a weapon of mass destruction
and the most potent hate fuel.
I am scared by the NRA narrative
The power and control amendment imperative
Off to Washington lobbyist slobs
More and more gun factory jobs
Guns don’t lead to the collaborative
Weapons should not be the normative.
We have got in the habit of not looking up above
No gun has ever led to acts of love.
So until politicians become brave
Our society is a slave
Problems grow over time
We shouldn’t be so naive
Profiteers shouldn’t determine what we believe
In the end there are to many lives to grieve.
Put your hair up,
Away from your face.
Let's see those pretty eyes,
Smile with grace.
Cover your shoulders,
Shorts past your hands.
Closed toe shoes,
And no more playing in the sand.
It's not tight enough,
Your waist must be small.
Large chest, big butt
Wear your heels to be tall.
Men don't like tattoos,
Swearing is a disgrace.
Only pierce your ears,
Acting like a lady is a must in this place.
I've heard it all
How I'm not good enough for you
You can do it all
Acting like slobs
Judging like royalty
Picking and choosing what you want.
You wonder why we feel trapped
Oppressed and ignored
Then you act like you care
And we feel we've actually got something to work toward!
But it's just a lie
To put a temporary smile on our face
Why do you do it?
It's not something you can just erase.
Deal with our problems!
Because apparently we can't do it on our own.
We "need a man
To handle that zone"
I speak for all women
Who feel this distress
Who's voices
Don't make it past the crest
We'll do it together
Stay strong, just hold on
Do what you want with your body
Don't let them tell you it's a con.
Wonderful mints, delicious cookies, my roses simply dazzle your eyes on wedding sheet cakes,
Yes, I am a baker, a mighty mighty baker, and I get up early to delight customers I make.
Bright entertainment, exciting melodies, lyrics that please and delight,
I am a disc jockey that plays music for the nightclub crowd, sometimes all night.
Whistle, thistle, butterflies and buffoons, I am the one who sleeps like good slobs.
No work for me as my elderly parents are idiots and still have their jobs.
I think what chumps they are, as they get up early, and go to work,
Buying into a system that makes me poke fun and smirk.
No job for me,
No job today.
I am a forty-year-old with issues,
And I like to play.
The cockroaches come out at night.
They come out of the sewers and run about on the sidewalks above like little machines with antennas.
Many humans hate them. Especially human women.
Some humans eat them.
They are colored the brown of stagnant streams.
One gets the feeling they are very patiently waiting their turn.
Cockroaches come out at night.
Sometimes they crawl over my bare feet as I look for food in the dark kitchen.
My neighbors are such slobs.
They deserve to die,
or at least come over and get the roaches.
We can always talk over beer.
Cockroaches come out in the dark and discuss the future together with their antennas.
They are disgusted with the humans that have taken over their homes.
They are content, though.
Hiding in holes,
covered in ****,
they plan our demise,
and await the last laugh.
12/21/15
Before and after yet another spring's gone
Any challenge and obstacle bring on
I'll look at it with a big yawn
Then go after it like King Kong
I like all of my drinks strong
And I think god
Will always be a subject of debate that goes back and forth like ping pong
If nothing's right, is everything wrong?
Is anyone else fond or do they find the sphinx odd?
I was underneath a big fog
While in a big bog
With a big dog
Many big frogs and big swans
By a big pond
Eventually caught a big lingcod
For the both of us, which helped me push towards becoming big and strong
Then did several big jobs
And got paid with some big wads
Ran into a person who tried to call me out with a big squad
But they got quickly put into place and were a big fraud
Weedeated and landscaped a yard with a big lawn
Later on had some big prawns
There were excessive talks of big bombs
And I had several big qualms
Because the people talking about doing it seemed like big snobs
That were some big slobs
By: Dalton Ogletree
I reached level forty-one no probs,
And won the game, but had sobs,
So that that just failing was fobs,
If I determined not to join the slobs.
So the next time I reached it, had bobs,
Because it felt wrong to veer from your hobs,
But I failed the level at the last post, robs,
Since I couldn’t merge victory with my everyday disability, lobs,
So the third game after that first success, probs,
I let myself win again so my brother had gobs.
Check points
If you want to check a nation
How much slobs are they
Do not go to their malls or supermarkets
Go straight to a public toilet of a town
If you want to see the race of women
How sophisticated are they
Do not go to their drawing room or at dining table
Go straight to the kitchen and see the sink
Do you want to check a race,
And see how intelligent are they?
Do not take into account their concrete buildings
Take account the poems they have written .
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