#bandits - Hello Poetry

Il Pleut Et on tire Ce n’est pas un jeu On se retire Tout le monde a peur Les bébés et les enfants pleurent Hommes et femmes s’écœurent Où tout le monde meurt Dans les rues infestées d’idiots et de bandits Ils sont nos ennemis Ils ne sont pas nos amis Ils tirent comme des fous Les balles tombent comme des grains de pluie Les gangsters ne sont pas doux Ils sont des terroristes Ils sont des mauvais touristes Ils sont des robots criminels Ils n’ont ni cœur, ni âme et ni esprit Ils sont des damnés éternels En destination des enfers Leurs organes sont en fer Ils ne sont pas des humains Leurs mains sont imbibées de sang Ils sont des malandrins Ils sont des scélérats de Satan. Il pleut Et on tire On se retire Au milieu De tout ce qui est mauvais Le monde n’est pas en paix C’est toute la terre en guerre Au fond du cimetière On ne fabrique pas d’armes Chez nous On n’a que des larmes Chez nous On pleure Chez nous On fabrique trop d’armes ailleurs Trop de gens meurent Tout le monde a peur Il y a trop de misère et de malheur. Copyright © Novembre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs livres de poésie.

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Nov 30, 2024

Nov 30, 2024 at 2:12 AM UTC

60Etncelles60

Trop De Peur Et De Malheur

Il Pleut Et on tire Ce n’est pas un jeu On se retire Tout le monde a peur Les bébés et les enfants pleurent Hommes et femmes s’écœurent Où tout le monde meurt Dans les rues infestées d’idiots et de bandits Ils sont nos ennemis Ils ne sont pas nos amis Ils tirent comme des fous Les balles tombent comme des grains de pluie Les gangsters ne sont pas doux Ils sont des terroristes Ils sont des mauvais touristes Ils sont des robots criminels Ils n’ont ni cœur, ni âme et ni esprit Ils sont des damnés éternels En destination des enfers Leurs organes sont en fer Ils ne sont pas des humains Leurs mains sont imbibées de sang Ils sont des malandrins Ils sont des scélérats de Satan. Il pleut Et on tire On se retire Au milieu De tout ce qui est mauvais Le monde n’est pas en paix C’est toute la terre en guerre Au fond du cimetière On ne fabrique pas d’armes Chez nous On n’a que des larmes Chez nous On pleure Chez nous On fabrique trop d’armes ailleurs Trop de gens meurent Tout le monde a peur Il y a trop de misère et de malheur. Copyright © Novembre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs livres de poésie.

45

It is raining And they are shooting This is not a game This is a shame Everyone is afraid Babies and children are crying Men and women are very mad Where everyone is dying The streets are infested with idiots and bandits They are our enemies They are not our friends They shoot like crazy ants Bullets fall like raindrops and rice Gangsters are not nice They are terrorists They are bad tourists They Are robot-criminals They have no hearts, no minds and no souls They are eternally ****** Bound for Hell, the infernal dam Their organs are made of steel and iron They are not human Their hands are soaked with blood They are scoundrels covered with mud They are the spawns of Satan. It's Raining And they are killing What a **** shame Amidst all the madness This is outright sickness The universe is not at peace The entire world is at war, in distress Deep in the dungeon of the cemetery We don't make deadly weapons Here We only have tears, rhymes and songs At home We cry everywhere At home They make too many weapons elsewhere Too many people are dying in this madness Everyone is afraid at home There is too much misery and unhappiness. Copyright © November 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.

0

Nov 30, 2024

Nov 30, 2024 at 2:07 AM UTC

60Etncelles60

Too Much Fear And Misfortune

It is raining And they are shooting This is not a game This is a shame Everyone is afraid Babies and children are crying Men and women are very mad Where everyone is dying The streets are infested with idiots and bandits They are our enemies They are not our friends They shoot like crazy ants Bullets fall like raindrops and rice Gangsters are not nice They are terrorists They are bad tourists They Are robot-criminals They have no hearts, no minds and no souls They are eternally ****** Bound for Hell, the infernal dam Their organs are made of steel and iron They are not human Their hands are soaked with blood They are scoundrels covered with mud They are the spawns of Satan. It's Raining And they are killing What a **** shame Amidst all the madness This is outright sickness The universe is not at peace The entire world is at war, in distress Deep in the dungeon of the cemetery We don't make deadly weapons Here We only have tears, rhymes and songs At home We cry everywhere At home They make too many weapons elsewhere Too many people are dying in this madness Everyone is afraid at home There is too much misery and unhappiness. Copyright © November 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.

45

We aren't quite done. We still have to do this one. Aw, look at those eyes. They just saw their demise. Don't be terrified my child. We are just releasing you into the wild.

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Mar 28, 2018

Mar 28, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC

JKLLZ

Sadistic Bandits

We aren't quite done. We still have to do this one. Aw, look at those eyes. They just saw their demise. Don't be terrified my child. We are just releasing you into the wild.

6

Soft music plays from an old jukebox, it's dusted and worn. Quiet chattering echoes around the dimly light room, my friends and I talk at the bar. The candy parlor, a local store everyone is told to visit, though I'm not sure why. Is it for the sweets? Or the handsome eye candy? A boy smiles at me and hands me some taffy saying, "It's on the house young lady." He winks and I blink, trying to conceal my blushing cheeks. My girlfriends squeal in jealousy, that the cute parlor boy keeps looking at me. I sip my drink, ignoring them as they all murmur and squeak. Cars zoom past, all in a rush to get home. I gaze out the window, watching the pink sky swirled with cherry and gold. My seat creaks under my weight, as deep chuckling is heard from behind. A tall dark mysterious man stares deeply at me, brandishing a root beer float confidently in his strong rough palm. He's accompanied in a booth of equally disturbing men, I avert my eyes, not wanting to pry. A few more sips and I'm at the bottom of my drink, the soda fizzles on my glazed lips. "Care for a refill?" A loud voice booms next to my ear, I shutter. All my girlfriends grow dead silent. The parlor boy narrows his ocean blue eyes. My voice shrinks into the back of my throat. The man looks at the parlor boy, "One orange soda." He asks, smiling a sickening grin. The jukebox was all I could hear, singing a sad tune. Then, there's a loud roaring blare of an angry car engine, as the front door is kicked in. Bystanders scream and duck, a group of bandits enter, the chime of the bell smacks into the wall crackling. "There's that cheating ******* One of them slurs, gun shots ring like a horrible lullaby. Each person falls like domino's, my girlfriends crying as bullets pierce their skin. Blood splatters the baby blue walls, the parlor boy coughs, crimson red pouring from his pretty mouth. The taste of iron burns on my tongue, soon it begins to be all I can feel. I don't cry, I don't scream, or beg for mercy. I fall, hard against the cold blood soaked tile floor. The jukebox rhythm is drowned out, as my vision begins to blur. Now people will visit, to feel the restless spirits that will linger here forever. Blood in the parlor, can never be washed away, it stains the walls, never to be replaced.

0

Jan 25, 2018

Jan 25, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC

CloudsArcade

Blood In The Parlor

Soft music plays from an old jukebox, it's dusted and worn. Quiet chattering echoes around the dimly light room, my friends and I talk at the bar. The candy parlor, a local store everyone is told to visit, though I'm not sure why. Is it for the sweets? Or the handsome eye candy? A boy smiles at me and hands me some taffy saying, "It's on the house young lady." He winks and I blink, trying to conceal my blushing cheeks. My girlfriends squeal in jealousy, that the cute parlor boy keeps looking at me. I sip my drink, ignoring them as they all murmur and squeak. Cars zoom past, all in a rush to get home. I gaze out the window, watching the pink sky swirled with cherry and gold. My seat creaks under my weight, as deep chuckling is heard from behind. A tall dark mysterious man stares deeply at me, brandishing a root beer float confidently in his strong rough palm. He's accompanied in a booth of equally disturbing men, I avert my eyes, not wanting to pry. A few more sips and I'm at the bottom of my drink, the soda fizzles on my glazed lips. "Care for a refill?" A loud voice booms next to my ear, I shutter. All my girlfriends grow dead silent. The parlor boy narrows his ocean blue eyes. My voice shrinks into the back of my throat. The man looks at the parlor boy, "One orange soda." He asks, smiling a sickening grin. The jukebox was all I could hear, singing a sad tune. Then, there's a loud roaring blare of an angry car engine, as the front door is kicked in. Bystanders scream and duck, a group of bandits enter, the chime of the bell smacks into the wall crackling. "There's that cheating ******* One of them slurs, gun shots ring like a horrible lullaby. Each person falls like domino's, my girlfriends crying as bullets pierce their skin. Blood splatters the baby blue walls, the parlor boy coughs, crimson red pouring from his pretty mouth. The taste of iron burns on my tongue, soon it begins to be all I can feel. I don't cry, I don't scream, or beg for mercy. I fall, hard against the cold blood soaked tile floor. The jukebox rhythm is drowned out, as my vision begins to blur. Now people will visit, to feel the restless spirits that will linger here forever. Blood in the parlor, can never be washed away, it stains the walls, never to be replaced.

31

In the land of silk goods traded hands- cotton, ivory, wool, gold, and silver - down one stretch of land a down side to this trade that led to much disarray was the bandits and disease that also traveled this way

0

Nov 5, 2015

Nov 5, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC

Hopelesscause

silk road

In the land of silk goods traded hands- cotton, ivory, wool, gold, and silver - down one stretch of land a down side to this trade that led to much disarray was the bandits and disease that also traveled this way

8

Love and all its bandits steal lives and souls and hearts. No discrimination-- Won't tell good or bad apart. With an arrow at their fingertips, a bow that's poised to draw; Love and all its bandits steal and give to all.

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Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC

cheyenne37

Thieves

Love and all its bandits steal lives and souls and hearts. No discrimination-- Won't tell good or bad apart. With an arrow at their fingertips, a bow that's poised to draw; Love and all its bandits steal and give to all.

12