Rather Than Twiddle Your Thumbs, Write A Poem...

poetsbumcheeks

Well-Known Forumite
Aspiration's of a Nation



One man,

Lives not just to please him self,

Unless all he wants is solitude,

Does any man want to be alone?



We forever grow,

Up and outwards,

Looking deeper inside,

With ageing comes change.



A nation, our countries,

Have evolved,

They reach out,

To them selves, to their neighbours,

Displaying heritage,

Like a badge of honour,

Our reasons,

To journey to the unknown,

No longer so often?

To claim land,

Or Blood.



With aim high,

A nation touches the stars,

Celebrates its history,

Olympians or cuisine,

Pride becomes the virtue,

Of a manifested dream.



To talk as friends,

With closed absolution?

Yes! Share what we have,

But remember,

Many others share it too,

We could partake in that!

Absolution, is a blinded fool.



But our human,

All too human,

Gift of freedom,

Where condemnation divides,

And forgiveness heals,

This is the path,

Of life's big wheel,

Back and forth,

Round and round,

The nation like the man,

Can be felled to the ground.



Yet this infinite yearning for unity?

What of that?

This on-going battle,

With our own condition,

Who will lead us there?

To Babylon, Shangri-la, Heaven or Utopia,

Who is inhuman enough?

To not take our own failings,

Our ways of life,

Or beliefs,

As a personal threat,

To their own existence.
 

DaveDon'tRave

Well-Known Forumite
Chavs or Emo? (It's Cool For Kids)

I can’t decide if I want to be a Chav,
Or perhaps an Emo,
Or if I like Talking Heads,
Produced without that Brian Eno,

Chavs are nihilistic,
But so, so conformist,
Emo lays claim to individuality,
Though I’m not sure I’m for it.

Both seem to be detested,
Giving Emo’s reason to cry,
The posture and the make-up,
But the Chav’s they get an alibi.

What happened to the Mod’s?
Punks or even ravers?
In the morning after Pills,
Leave alone the cheesy quavers.

Though I suppose the pain they would cause,
As they tore inside your mouth,
Would be good for an Emo,
To scream their heart all out.

I could have been a hippy,
Or a teddy-boy,
But instead it’s Chav or Emo,
I could do with more choice.

It’s almost like a Grebo,
Has been superseded by Emo,
Scruffy hair replaced by hair-dye,
And the cost of Toni & Guy.

I could huddle in the street,
With Emo’s I’d surely meet,
We would stand together,
And hide from wind and sleet.

As I would with Chav’s,
The young and un-emancipated,
And dabble in cheap speed,
And become emaciated.

If I was on one side,
I’d surely hate the other,
One is concerned with faux pain,
The other is society’s shame.

Do they really live the life,
Emotionally hard-core,
All the little boys and girls,
Counting fashion scores?

To be a Chav or an Emo,
Remains to be seen,
Or perhaps I don’t give a toss,
Since I left my teens.
 

poetsbumcheeks

Well-Known Forumite
The Daily Mail

Reads like an opinion poll,
Of nothing in particular,
But a general consensus,
Confirmed by a columnist,
To maintain the status-quo,
For the more affluent,
Or nouveau-riche,
To reaffirm their beliefs,
That all drugs are bad,
Religions mad,
Blacks are to blame,
For most criminal waves,
And that cannabis leads,
Without a doubt,
To the hardest of drugs,
All users are in,
The same sinister club,
Perpetuating any sensationalist myth,
Like Christmas banning,
The simple fanning,
Of a tiny and inconsequential fire,
Until the news is just another liar,
And truth is a commodity,
Of the most subjective,
And ignorant oddity.

The voice on the street,
And in the shops,
All the gossip that’s prevalent,
Informs the electorate,
Based rarely on reflection,
Its conjecture and speculation,
Pervading the whole,
Of the tabloid generation.
But the Daily Mail,
That’s the one,
With the sting in its tale,
Deriding the left,
Demonising change,
Purporting to represent,
The pillars of salt,
Manufacturing enemies,
‘It’s all their fault’.
 

db

#chaplife
i can't take credit for this.. it was composed by a member of another forum i read:

tCp_sUICIDe said:
This is a song about bacon
and Not about emo cliches
It's not about your girl being taken
nor your friends calling you gay

Bacon is so delicious
It tastes like happy indeed
It's not like your fat ex-girlfriend
Who's stricken with emo disease

Bacon doesn't cry in the closet
Nor does it slit at its wrists
Bacon doesn't part its hair;
In my tummy it deliciously sits

Bacon doesn't mind being called faggot
Because bacon knows it's the shit
It plays well with others on my plate
And has no face which I'd want to hit

The chorus is where I scream "Bacon!"
"Bacon, oh Bacon, oh yeah!"
Every song needs a couple of "yeah"s
So, Bacon, Oh Bacon, oh yeah!

Bacon makes sizzly sounds
when in the frying pan
It hates My Chemical Romance
Because all of their fans are fags

Proudly hold your bacon up high
And let's sing it unheralded praise.
Unlike Dashboard Confessional
Whose bandmates like to cry on stage

Next time you eat some bacon
Make sure you tell it it's grand.
It's not a creepy emo fucktard
Who weeps cus he's always sad.

The chorus is where I scream "Bacon!"
"Bacon, oh Bacon, oh yeah!"
Every song needs a couple of "yeah"s
So, Bacon, Oh Bacon, oh yeah!
wonderful :pig:
 

poetsbumcheeks

Well-Known Forumite
The Doctors. (the law is an ass)


The ill were in pain,
Dying, shunned and shamed,
incontinent, near maimed,
unable to dress,
still the law said it knew what was best.

The loved ones,
suffered trying to help,
powerless but strong,
weak and distressed,
still the law said it knew what was best.

There was strength,
in their numbers,
a discovery was made,
a natural remedy,
to put all prescriptions in shade.

Together they worked
a loved one and invalid,
no choice but to hide,
the operation commenced,
policies made to sit on the fence.

Lives were changed,
there was pain and gain,
chococlate made medicine,
cops turned a blind eye,
whistled a tune as they walked on by.

The ill were eased,
could move freely on their knees,
but the neighbourhood started its social freeze,
even though the doctors motives were sound,
the doctors were driven further underground.

But grow, the operation did,
receiving more orders,
than they were able to give,
and letters poured in to marvel and share,
the healing powers of the plant as they rose from their chairs.

Yet soon the media radar grew,
the operation was now no longer new,
noses stuck in and stuck up and stuck out,
the voices grew from a whisper,
and built up to a shout.

So the doctors they found,
them selves in court,
the healers the helpers, the ill had sought,
to help them with pain and to get some rest,
but still the law said it knew what was best.

The end was to come,
with the job left undone,
the ill must suffer,
and can no longer ask,
we take it as it comes, but the law is an ass.
 

TENSHON

4000th post? Whatever, I'm nonchalant..
Grans Demise

What's the worst thing that could happen to you whilst waiting for a bus?
How about your leg exploding and covering you in pus?
Granted, it's quite unlikely but it happened to my gran,
Although she's a special case, she was formerly a man.
Dont let this incident deter you if you're on your way today
To have your bits and bobs fiddled with and turned the other way
I'm assured by those who know about these things it's quite unlikely
That your limbs will go bang and leave a mess that's most unsightly.
See, the trouble with my gran (or gramps, depending on your view)
Was a general view of life considered sane by just a few.
So when he or she decided fun could be had by changing gender
She did the op at home instead of acting like a bender.
Now gramps (as he was formerly) had no surgical expertise
And the tools he used were better employed for chopping trees
But still he thought a successful home op would make him famous
Maybe thats why he f**ked up and sewed his leg to his anus.
 

TENSHON

4000th post? Whatever, I'm nonchalant..
Mwwaan, wa na m'wa rude bwoys dween dis poetie ting?
all dees bumbolcots dat dun dit tis can drink me man juice.
 

TENSHON

4000th post? Whatever, I'm nonchalant..
NEW YEAR'S EVE
D.H. Lawrence

There are only two things now,
The great black night scooped out
And this fire-glow.

This fire-glow, the core,
And we the two ripe pips
That are held in store.

Listen, the darkness rings
As it circulates round our fire.
Take off your things.

Your shoulders, your bruised throat!
Your breasts, your nakedness!
This fiery coat!

As the darkness flickers and dips,
As the firelight falls and leaps
From your feet to your lips!
 

poetsbumcheeks

Well-Known Forumite
Where Have All The Bohemians Gone?

There's no room,
for us here.
Love, truth, the beauty
of a tear.

As we grow,
and put the world,
back together.
The children question,
and unravel it,
and make us feel so clever.

And our hearts still beat,
but we don't hear them speak,
anymore than we listen to our own thoughts,
when the children talk.
 

poetsbumcheeks

Well-Known Forumite
Pueblo Clowns

To make you laugh,
and stop your tears,
the sacred clowns destroy your fears.

To cleanse your heart,
and renew your soul,
the sacred clowns they praise the old.

The crippled are not weak,
they are not hindered,
but unique,
the mad are but geniuses,
misunderstood by the mob,
the mob are but fools,
who envy the snobs.

To make you laugh,
and stop your tears,
the sacred clowns destroy your fears.

They know the truth,
and hear the call,
the sacred clowns laugh at us all.

The poor are they strong?
embraced in the bosom,
of a family that learned to laugh,
while emersed in the struggle,
don't become the victim though,
and cause all the trouble.

The ill and the diseased,
they're the chosen ones,
who walk quick to inner peace,
the inheritors of the earth,
will always be the meek,
so don't feel sympathy or show pity,
and treat them like they're weak.

So laugh and point,
at the sacred clowns,
the joker laughs at you,
for everything you thought you knew,
was never really true.

The filthy rich,
they know pleasure,
but pleasure is no real measure,
of stoic affection
that pay's attention,
to the little things that make us smile,
all the inconsequential moments,
that make it feel worthwhile.

Yet if wealth was bound with wisdom,
surely they could help,
and help they surely would,
if they knew how it felt.

The beautiful they are too often,
vain and superficial,
for beauty precludes luxury,
and luxury never helps,
it only breeds complacency,
and faith in pointless wealth,
but beauty is something good,
to appreciate and love,
beauty points to something,
or someone above.

The proud they become so blind,
and the sensitive they're weak,
unable to speak the truth,
the truth in their mind,
those who speak the "truth",
the pious who become arrogant,
the arrogant grow foolish,
the foolish always blow it,
the fool is still a fool,
but he's the one who knows it.

The badge you wear,
they style of your hair,
is just a shadow falling,
behind the light that you shine out,
covered by tarpaulin,
you fool no-one,
least of all the clown,
but if you laugh,
he'll laugh with you,
what goes around,
comes around.

There are no sacred cows,
so what will come after,
who are the sacred clowns?
who blessed us with laughter.
 

TENSHON

4000th post? Whatever, I'm nonchalant..
Nuffin nuffin nuffin
Rhymes with muffin
But nuffin nuffin nuffin
Rhymes with 'orange'
Could it be
That a cup of tea
Is not as good with an orange
As a muffin?
 

UltraSBM

Not the official 2520th poster!
a poem that describes the reason why everyone in this world works...the only day that makes it bearable...


"pay day"
 

poetsbumcheeks

Well-Known Forumite
The Civil Service

Civil as in bored to the point of politeness,
There's not one single thing that's righteous,
In this democratic administration,
Of shifting paperwork,
With little autonomy and much collective frustration.

The threat of strike looms large,
But the unpaid day incurred,
Won't be worth the argy bargy,
Which may well achieve nothing more,
Than a conversation in the car park,
and a bacon and egg butty before,
A journey home in the dark.

These servants of civility,
Jaded and cynical guardians,
Of the governments nobility,
Know nothing more than,
The truth of schemes and campaigns,
And fines doled out,
In the magistrates court,
They pontificate over desks,
About the explotitative mess
That there are things that we all,
Ought and have the right to know,
About the cost-cutting plans,
That make the standards so low.

This occasional stand and fire of defiance,
Too often if not always is extinguished,
Out of reliance on the wage,
And the endless turning of the page,
Overwhelmed by endless,
Listless paper,
File to file,
Office to office,
Role to role,
Not much changes but the numbers unemployed,
And apathetic on the dole,
The Civil Service in name,
Brings it workers to shame,
Who feel in part responsible,
For the terrible state,
Of the trail of hard done by citizens,
They leave in their wake.
 

TENSHON

4000th post? Whatever, I'm nonchalant..
The Mediocre Abilities of Teenage Wannabees

She's called Sharon and she reads The Stage
Answers adverts for singing girls on the pages
You can join a new all original 5 piece band
In fact like all the other groups in the land

The advertisers try to make it sound fresh
So they can get their short-skirted flesh
And shag a plenty with slags young bags
Then dump them when their bits begin to sag

Sharons' not sagging so she digs out a CV
The lie document for all aspiring wannabees
Packs up her cheap demo that she cut for 10 quid
Of Britney Spears covers that she unfortunately did

In goes a stage photo all gloss and cheese
Big fake grins and no double chins please
In a top so low cut it makes a ribbon look wide
And in a bra so tight she almost fainted and died

Greg was also reading the ad in The Stage
The same request for singers on the same page
An all new 5 piece to rival Steps and Five
Held in an audition room bound to be a dive

Greg was boy band, Greg was all earrings
A wonky blond dyed moppet all young thing
Worked in Top Shop to afford his singing demo
Scribbled down love lyrics on Post It Memos

Sharon and Greg went to the arena
Of baiting producers and waiting Garys and Tinas
On one minute and off with a 'Next!'
Their squawking shrill tones left them vexed

The audition was in a back street old pub
That was smelly and damp and filled with grubs
Not just the management spotting star potential
And willingness to sleep with them was essential

Sharon was nearly late for her 2.00 call
Because of a tourist who misdirected her to a church hall
She would ask a tourist, that's just her luck
And after a 10 hour delayed journey life sure sucked

Greg nearly got run over in the mad dash
His clean shirt got splattered in mud splash
Nearly lost his return ticket to Wolverhampton
When he stopped at a caf for a coffee and scone.

Greg burst in as the management called 'Greg!'
But he was relieved when it was another Greg
And dashed to the toilet to clean up his shirt
Wiped off the mud and stray bits of dirt

Sharon went on next in her 1 inch skirt
The management man in check shirt was dirt
And no scrubbing him in the toilet would clean
This letchy mans' leerings were quite obscene

His name was Gerry and he had a pacemaker
A crap baseball cap and a face like a Quaker
All red and jolly but a very unholy man
For the next 5 minutes he was a Sharon fan

He salivered and drooled as she squeaked
And watched her blouse and the twin peaks
Scratched his balls through combat pants
With Sharon he thought he'd have a chance

Her voice was that irritating modern whine
So in a teeny band she'd do just fine
All fake come hither looks and promise of f**ks
But in secret they skit at their fans'looks

On their turgid plop a long brain damaging toss
Sugar saccharine flavoured all a like dross
No better than New Kids who should be on a block
Or Bros dross candyfloss ripped trouser Goss

Nowadays it's Five who can't count any further along
Billie the Kid and Westlife half life cover songs
Steps the Schweppes fizzy dizzy troupe group
One wishes dearly they would all develop croup

Sharons mind was just on her songs
Not on pre baked boy bands the ready meal in thongs
She squealed and strutted through pop
Britney baby Hit Me One More Time slop

'Wonderful, marvellous give her the job'
Said sleazy check shirt whose pants throb
Sharon whooped and screamed in delight
But she wouldn't be so happy later tonight...


Greg could sing he had a reasonable sound
But sleaze man was jealous of muscle bound
So he told him he was chronic and to piss off
'You shouldn't even sing in the bath', he coughed

The other management agreed in fear
That if they accepted Greg he'd slice their rears
So Greg slunk back depressed to Wolverhampton
On his found ticket and cried and wished he'd not gone

Sharon though was full of girly cheer
And was sent to meet the other pop five here
There's David and Shelley and Paul and Tori
All bouncy happy people with no life story

They all giggled and welcomed young Sharon
And warned her of the sleazy pop baron
Who would expect sex tonight in his mansion
And sexy exploits for the sleazy man of passion

Sharon squirmed in disgust at this idea
She was hoping that he merely just leered
But he was after a little more than looking
This manager went through the band farking!

He rotated the band on a daily routine
David one night and Paul and Tori the teen
Now it was Sharon's turn to romp and play
Or it would be bye bye dear if no hey hey hey!

Sharon wouldn't couldn't entertain sleaze
She imagined that he would likely wheeze
And grunt with all the lan of a boar
In the mating season how he'd roar

So Sharon had a cunning plan
To ward off the sleazy chunk of ham
She substituted herself for a blow up doll
In his bedroom he knew no different, how droll!

So she could sing in his stupid group
But she would never have to grope.
 
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