Why is it such a big deal to be an avaricious & pernicious alligator and just steal from every creator use all our data and turn even the meek & mild into a wild hater...
"How do we stop the lavatorial plop plop of AI slop
Cull the new crop an arch oligarch march to the top
No behavioural fop to an algorithm making you strop
Don’t be a sop to a pack who hijack a stack on the hop
Pander to your dander by knowing how you do shop
When you gander…. propaganda & slander they drop
This laboratory of hateful oratory is what we all cop
Cohorts sport.. escorts all sorts.. come on chop chop
All about the economy give woke folks a lobotomy op
Forgotten besotten rotten dot com bubble did pop
Impropriety no jobs swap entirety of society will flop
Social media greedier needier seedier stronger gallop
So how do we stay dry of sh*t from on high this AI slop
To stop bottom feeder sly lie then no longer be the mop"
Always so lovely to have you back
Our favourite hack on all out attack
Not on your nelly HIGNFY telly crack (or old school smack)
Coz seedier media’s been so so slack
Greedier bottom feeder out of whack
Needier all we lack but dole out cack
Deplore how on the poor they snack
Hislop strop stops slop gets us on track
Everything broken & black he's our jack
Still got the knack got em on the rack
Leader of the pack with a stack of flak
Won’t change tack will get em the sack
Burn baby burn.. the return of the mack
Written: January 17, 2026, for contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: “Dusk remembers what the heart forgets.” By Poet
************
I never questioned tastefulness or sway.
The vine bent through the fading of the day—
Not like the softness of your lips on mine
As dusk stole luster from the vineyard way.
I revere the earth from which I refine,
I implored for goodness, engrossed in wine.
Beneath the dim shadows of the fall crop—
It seems just warmth, nothing further divine.
Each week, I grind myself down with a strop,
Start our path, bound for the grave or the top.
A long stretch, ending with tears in the eyes—
Faith doesn't demand a grand ripple to drop
You drift by day, resting below calm skies.
No inflated self, just a lost disguise—
Gone are the cheerful moods and youthful tales
No grief or angst, yet left to stain the dyes.
--------------------------------------------------
il bracconiere di vongole mascherato
-----------------------------------------------
seaguls swarking
--------------------------------------------------
poachin or poachin
one of these is done in the kuche;
the other one is a underminer
watch what these people do
ah shuck weight and measure
do that think you do
shuck; shuckin funtime shuckin
nuff shuckin for all of you
so happy thee an abundance
we get shuck longer wiff you
wash up when it's over
thats what we need to do
flowing poem him and ryhthmns
get this thing to work
stop acting like a buster
and strop acting like a jerk
Never will she stop
beetroot chops
My daughter's Tenth time
swinging across
Children behind waiting,
their arms crossed in a strop
I call out and say,
Being fair you are not
Then reaching quickly
she climbed to the top
Pointing her finger toward
the near ice cream shop
I nod in agreement
Both are smiling a lot
My daughter runs over
excited and hot
I took my son to the barbers today, and I sat there and I thought about how it compared to when I was small,
All of the equipment is battery driven, but way back when it was scissors that were usually blunt,
The seat for a child was a plank of wood, but now they have a comfortable seat to make them feel good.
They asked my son about his style, but a long time ago it was just short back and sides.
The tools they use today seems to be all throw away as I look around the shop,
but a long time ago they were sharpened on a long leather strop.
My son got to choose who cut his hair, he chose Rosa, but I had only one choice, old Bob Fenner and I am absolutely certain he charged less than a tenner!
The young say that granddads have ruined their lives
They’re getting themselves in a strop
But can they explain why, when they want jack boots
They go to a fancy dress shop
Tina learnt to knit her own sweater
Instructions followed to the letter
Many stitch she did drop
Gave too many a strop
When made looked like been through a shredder
Next she wanted to learn to crochet
Make flowers tied into a bouquet
Got her yarn in a twist
Knots and ties would not shift
But did look like a crochet toupee
Decided to learn how to hand sew
With pretty ribbon make a hairbow
Kept pricking her finger
Soreness pain did linger
Her fingers now size of her elbow
Not to give up, tried live art drawing
Felt that was her natural calling
Excited and nervous
Felt hot as a furnace
Of male model on all fours posing
No dangly bits was shown to be drawn
Disappointed felt little bit conned
She drew him very well
All her friends she did tell
As an artist was were she belonged.
18.12.20
Seems we walked away the morning
Hil and I hiking toward Comer's Stand
Stopping awhile to swing on a grapevine
Identifying the wooded birds singing
We ate our lunch in early afternoon-
A peanut butter and jelly concoction
With raisins from Grandma's cupboard
And stocks of celery purloined, I think,
From the crisper of Mama's Frigidaire
All tied together in a hobo's feed sack
High adventure the trek to Comer's stand.
Worth the fate awaiting our return
For no corn was hoed, no garden weeded
Even though Papa had said, "Today, my boy! "
There would be neither excuse nor reason
Why I should not feel the crack of the strop
But the pain did not erase the grand
Time we had …hiking to Comer's Stand.
Monday
Quick! Arm the army
Lucifer has gone barmy
Where’s the witch when we need her?
Having a strop, the silly mare
Stoke the anger of battle
This is more than tittle tattle
Rumours be damned
Satan’s got this thing planned
She primed up her flying disc
A big win came with equal risk
With luck her enemy would be drunk
His power, nob and ego may have shrunk
Like the niceness he once had
Before he went all black and bad
Getting the boot from God upon high
So much became nigh!
It was up to the witch now
To turn the Devil into a cow!
With cunning and luck
She’ll hit him like a damn truck
And end this thing
Like a failed bloody fling
But that was impossible
Like a flying pig was possible
Juniper’s Daughter: Fookin' Weech
Nick Armbrister
You can’t admit wrong
And always blame me
Act as though strong
when clearly weak
Rage and shout
childishly
Create the scenes
disrupt the peace
Paranoid
think you’re headstrong
Easily annoyed
turn red and strop
No one can tell you you’re the problem
You’re emotional hell that doesn’t stop
Fido
I took Fido out for a walk
I knew that the neighbours would talk
His ears stood up proud
His breathing was loud
And his teeth were like big lumps of chalk
I bought Fido only last week
From a bloke I met down by the creek
Although he's quite massive
He’s ever so passive
And even with cats he’s quite meek
I tied him up outside a shop
He got in a bit of a strop
He pulled on his rope
The shop couldn’t cope
And collapsed on an off duty cop
I walked Fido down past the school
Why are kids always so cruel
One dunderhead chided
‘That thing should be rided’
You can’t educate a damned fool
We called on the mother in law
He piddled all over her floor
She mopped up her Lino
Said, ‘There’s one thing I know,
A dairy cow couldn’t pee more.’
I left feeling guilty of course
Saying Fido was full of remorse
‘Fido!’ She said,
‘You’ve been misled,’
And, ‘That’s a strange name for a horse.’
Without values life may whop
And you cannot even yawp
As the destiny may strop
A valueless person nonstop.
If your values from life lop
It is zilch and make you fop –
Fop – a man with concern atop
For dress than character prop.
Without values we may drop;
Cannot stand or walk; sit or hop.
So respect values that clearly mop
All bad, illicit or forbidden crop.
Sanmati, my messenger, is no more a milksop.
Ardent though is she never will yawp.
Nagging sometimes though in some shop.
Merrily walks in crowd alone till atop.
Amends her needs; tackles one with strop-
Till he agrees with her, else does lop.
In always high spirits, ready to swop
Joy or sorrow equally treats like gumdrop.
Angry if treats us like a bellhop
In our home or out, but never plop
Nor cry in public to show us flop.
Book is the only stop
Where all halt from top
For knowledge or whop
Of all sort and thoughts slop.
Though it clear drains prop
For teacher or for carhop.
They are vaguely clear lop
Whenever read makes plop
Of cognition to take you atop.
This is for money a great swop.
These are sooth in great strop
For those who keep them at doorstop.
What a pleasure they are as sop.
I loved to have ignorance to mop.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.