#mooch - Hello Poetry

If you ride the wind, Or at least motor yourself, On a schooner out to ten pound island, You may have the luxury of meeting Mooch. He is the seagull who likes Cheetos. Life for Mooch is simple, All he has to do is sit on the arm of Owen, The boy who pulls the sails Or Captain Harold, The man who built the boat, And eat enough Cheetos to stuff his throat. He never tells any of his friends, For fear of missing out on Cheetos. Oh, to be a seagull. Oh, to mooch off of others And still be loved.

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Mar 22, 2019

Mar 22, 2019 at 11:54 AM UTC

Kieranmaeve

Mooch the Seagull

If you ride the wind, Or at least motor yourself, On a schooner out to ten pound island, You may have the luxury of meeting Mooch. He is the seagull who likes Cheetos. Life for Mooch is simple, All he has to do is sit on the arm of Owen, The boy who pulls the sails Or Captain Harold, The man who built the boat, And eat enough Cheetos to stuff his throat. He never tells any of his friends, For fear of missing out on Cheetos. Oh, to be a seagull. Oh, to mooch off of others And still be loved.

16

Buddy Buzzkill Waits ‘til nobody’s home Jimmies a window, sneaks in And is free to roam. He smokes all the dope Drinks all the alcohol Eats all the food Until none is left at all. Then he sleeps in your bed And sneaks back out again He comes back; hears you moan How somebody broke in And robbed him when he was not home. Buddy Buzzkill He’s a special king of louse. He pretends to like you Then, sleeps with your spouse. He’ll hit you up for money Then he’ll borrow your car. And you lend it to him That’s the kind of sap you are. What is it about this guy That makes it hard to say no? Why does it not occur to folks To look at him and say, “Blow!” Buddy Buzzkill He’s a master at telling tales Of people he has laid And the times he was in jail For some ludicrous reason That is always the fault of others. He tell you how much you mean And that you are like brothers And then one morning you rise And your stereo is gone And so is Buddy Buzzkill It’s time for him to move on.

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Jun 6, 2015

Jun 6, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

BUDDY BUZZKILL

Buddy Buzzkill Waits ‘til nobody’s home Jimmies a window, sneaks in And is free to roam. He smokes all the dope Drinks all the alcohol Eats all the food Until none is left at all. Then he sleeps in your bed And sneaks back out again He comes back; hears you moan How somebody broke in And robbed him when he was not home. Buddy Buzzkill He’s a special king of louse. He pretends to like you Then, sleeps with your spouse. He’ll hit you up for money Then he’ll borrow your car. And you lend it to him That’s the kind of sap you are. What is it about this guy That makes it hard to say no? Why does it not occur to folks To look at him and say, “Blow!” Buddy Buzzkill He’s a master at telling tales Of people he has laid And the times he was in jail For some ludicrous reason That is always the fault of others. He tell you how much you mean And that you are like brothers And then one morning you rise And your stereo is gone And so is Buddy Buzzkill It’s time for him to move on.

37

The fakers are takers, giving to no one, living a lie, destroying one's soul, merely to accomplish their goal. Take what they can, like a parasite, stealing your goods, then taking flight. But like a mosquito, their life is not long, ******* blood gets old, until they **** the wrong arm. Slap.

0

Aug 10, 2014

Aug 10, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC

mst

Slap

The fakers are takers, giving to no one, living a lie, destroying one's soul, merely to accomplish their goal. Take what they can, like a parasite, stealing your goods, then taking flight. But like a mosquito, their life is not long, ******* blood gets old, until they **** the wrong arm. Slap.

14