Array ( [sid] => 183678 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => The Hate-Mangled Manner [time] => 2016-10-22 20:25:32 [hometext] => to the tune of the ‘Star Spangled Banner’… don’t worry, HRC will get her serve on ‘America the Beautiful’… [bodytext] => /
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/
and the blustery air,
took hold of his hair,
and it fell to the side
where his pink scalp just fried.
while he tightened his squint,
and brushed off the lint
from suits cut to hide,
a body on the slide
with delicate hands,
at odds with his glands.

oh, say are you ready to reap what you sow?
honour your contracts, and pay-what-you-owe.

and the puckered baby-lips
under cosmetically tight eyes,
framed over-white teeth
quite crooked beneath.
and his skin shone like bronze,
with thumbs up like the Fonz
as he muttered and skulked,
rambled and hulked
through scandal and debate,
festering hate.
but the tie, pink and long,
as a substitute schlong
didn’t come with the balls
to command the town halls.

oh say are you forgetting some of your meds?
if it’s pills or politics, you just-prefer-reds.

and his finger, held high
willing some lift, as if some old wood
would make us vote good (so good, you won’t believe it).
and the girls he would stalk,
just ‘locker room talk’
with his tongue down their throats,
courting their votes.
yet he claimed it all lies
from the Hillary camp,
said: ‘if ugly or fat
I wouldn’t hit that!’

oh say will you grab the big button this time?
if it’s missiles or muff, it still-is-a-crime.


[comments] => 1 [counter] => 121 [topic] => 41 [informant] => spike [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => political ) Your Poetry Dot Com - The Hate-Mangled Manner


The Hate-Mangled Manner
Date: Saturday, 22nd October 2016 @ 08:25:32 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: spike
/
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/
and the blustery air,
took hold of his hair,
and it fell to the side
where his pink scalp just fried.
while he tightened his squint,
and brushed off the lint
from suits cut to hide,
a body on the slide
with delicate hands,
at odds with his glands.

oh, say are you ready to reap what you sow?
honour your contracts, and pay-what-you-owe.

and the puckered baby-lips
under cosmetically tight eyes,
framed over-white teeth
quite crooked beneath.
and his skin shone like bronze,
with thumbs up like the Fonz
as he muttered and skulked,
rambled and hulked
through scandal and debate,
festering hate.
but the tie, pink and long,
as a substitute schlong
didn’t come with the balls
to command the town halls.

oh say are you forgetting some of your meds?
if it’s pills or politics, you just-prefer-reds.

and his finger, held high
willing some lift, as if some old wood
would make us vote good (so good, you won’t believe it).
and the girls he would stalk,
just ‘locker room talk’
with his tongue down their throats,
courting their votes.
yet he claimed it all lies
from the Hillary camp,
said: ‘if ugly or fat
I wouldn’t hit that!’

oh say will you grab the big button this time?
if it’s missiles or muff, it still-is-a-crime.




This poem is Copyright © spike


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