#trudeau - Hello Poetry

You’ve got 99 problems but your loyalty is one, you’ll never solve them now the World Cup is done. Achieved by your colours that aren’t so true, by a Nation that once treasured you. Gretzky I believe your reign is through. You used to shoot and inevitably you’d score, imagine the disappointment of each Gord. Keep the red and white but add the blue, betray a Nation that once treasured you. Gretzky; no longer number one not even two. Keep your guns and keep your hate, Canada’s not your fifty-first state. We’ve always been a Country, one that’s great. Went to a room and ignored the sign, now we’ve changed the labels and removed your wine. Disappointed in what you would do, to a National that once treasured you. The sadness and anger only grew. An apology that will come too late, Canada will never be your fifty-first state. Not up for discussion or debate. A concept you should understand, you can’t put a “for sale” sign on our land. The death of a legend came from the hands of a bad man and a bad plan. No longer the greatest of all time after you’ve committed the greatest of crimes. We won’t take the tariffs or the bait, Canada will never be your fifty first state. We’ll cement the actions and the date. So stay in exile as is it your fate, Canada won’t be your fifty first state, cause it’s the one, the one that’s great.

0

Mar 13, 2025

Mar 13, 2025 at 6:29 PM UTC

emmackenzie

Duel of the Greats

You’ve got 99 problems but your loyalty is one, you’ll never solve them now the World Cup is done. Achieved by your colours that aren’t so true, by a Nation that once treasured you. Gretzky I believe your reign is through. You used to shoot and inevitably you’d score, imagine the disappointment of each Gord. Keep the red and white but add the blue, betray a Nation that once treasured you. Gretzky; no longer number one not even two. Keep your guns and keep your hate, Canada’s not your fifty-first state. We’ve always been a Country, one that’s great. Went to a room and ignored the sign, now we’ve changed the labels and removed your wine. Disappointed in what you would do, to a National that once treasured you. The sadness and anger only grew. An apology that will come too late, Canada will never be your fifty-first state. Not up for discussion or debate. A concept you should understand, you can’t put a “for sale” sign on our land. The death of a legend came from the hands of a bad man and a bad plan. No longer the greatest of all time after you’ve committed the greatest of crimes. We won’t take the tariffs or the bait, Canada will never be your fifty first state. We’ll cement the actions and the date. So stay in exile as is it your fate, Canada won’t be your fifty first state, cause it’s the one, the one that’s great.

33

There lies the raccoon, so still, so grim, On the median strip where the light grows dim. Cars swerve around it, their tires hum fast, It’s sprawled on the asphalt, its life in the past. No twitch, no stir, for its heart’s gone dead, A lifeless form where the pavement’s spread. Flat as a mat, squashed neat on the street, His paws outstretched like a child in defeat. No breath, just death in the sun's cruel light, A bandit of night felled by day's cruel might. It crossed the road in a reckless dash, Not for the first time, ignoring the clash. No glance to the left, nor right did it peek, Lost in its thoughts, so weary, so bleak. “How tough,” it mused, “to be a raccoon, Scrounging for scraps ‘neath the sun and the moon.” Then out of the blue, with a screech and a blast, A Honda Jazz roared, and its fate was cast. It struck the poor creature and sped ‘round the bend, Leaving the raccoon to meet its sad end, Leaving him smashed and bashed so flat, His little face left where it sat. The car’s cruel wheel smashed it flat to the ground, Crushed its sweet face, not making a sound. Its nose, once so twitchy, now broken, forlorn, It lies like a log where the asphalt’s been worn. Only a breeze, so soft and so slight, Stirs its fine whiskers in the fading light. It never foresaw such a sorrowful lot, No hint of the grief that its death would allot. Since dawn’s early glow, it had schemed and planned, To crawl from its hollow with a goal so grand. To the town it would scamper, through brambles and thorns, To fetch juicy sausages for its little ones. At home, its young kits, with their bellies all tight, Clutched tiny paws in their hunger’s sad plight. For days they had whimpered, so feeble and sweet, “Daddy, dear Daddy, we’re dying to eat! Daddy , dear Daddy, the cupboard's bare! When's dinner? It's not fair!" It snapped in reply, with a huff and a frown, “Who tossed out a banana when no one was around? That fruit was ripe, not a speck of decay!” Its wife growled low in a grumbling way, “Get to work, you loaf, don’t laze in the shade! Our kids need fresh veggies and meats ready-made!” But no, that’s too harsh—she loved him, it’s true, Her heart was as warm as the morning’s soft dew. Whatever she scavenged from forest and glade, She cooked with such care, and his plate was well-laid. This morn she embraced him, so tender, so kind, Kissed his soft cheek with her worries behind. She licked his damp nose and whispered with care, “I know you’re worn out; life feels unfair. This parenting grind—it gets me down too. This parenting is rough, times are tough, But love's enough, my scruffy fluff. Stay home, my love, take a break, just do you. No cell, no computer, just rest for a spell, Things will work out, and all will be well.” The raccoon clutched its head with a wail and a moan, “My family loves me, and I’ve been so prone To act like a fool, ungrateful, unwise! Let me hug you all tight ‘neath these morning skies! For you, my clan, I'll be the man!” Then off through the woods, with a bound and a leap, He raced to the town where the streets climb steep, To hunt for some food, for his heart was set right, To feed his dear kits and bring joy by tonight. But what happened next, oh, the tale turns grim, For fate had a plan that was cruel and dim. Crossing the road with no glance left or right, He was struck by a car in the harsh morning light. Now dead on the median, his body lies still, A victim of haste and a moment’s ill will. The cops soon arrived on their mopeds’ loud drone, Cordoned the street, left no car to roam. Yellow tape fluttered, their hands swift and sure, Three paramedics rushed in to explore. They prodded the raccoon, its fur cold and slack, One raised a finger, his voice sharp as a tack: “Raccoon’s dead on the scene!” he proclaimed to the air, As onlookers gaped in a sorrowful stare. Then Justin Trudeau swooped down from the sky, On a parachute bold, with a tear in his eye. He gazed at the raccoon and cried, “What a shame! Whose wheel could have dealt such a terrible maim? Oh, horror, oh, grief!” he wailed to the crowd, His voice ringing clear, both anguished and loud. To the news crews he turned, with a vow firm and grand, “His memory will live through the heart of our land! To his family bereft, with no breadwinner near, Ten million dollars I pledge—let’s be clear!” But Andrew Scheer roared up, his bike’s engine shrill, “Trudeau, you’re mad!” he barked with a thrill. “Ten million for a raccoon? That’s a crime! He’s a trash-raiding rogue, not worth a dime! Ten mil? Absurd! That's quite a sum For vermin who eat garbage **** Ten million’s a wound to our budget’s core, I say nine’s enough—or six, maybe four. No, five’s the limit! No, scratch that, none! No cash for this trash when all’s said and done. Raccoons overrun us, they breed without end, They’re bandits, they’re thieves, not a soul’s faithful friend. They crowd out the critters we ought to hold dear, The more that get squashed, the more RHINOS cheer!” The raccoon’s poor soul, floating high o’er the fray, Could bear it no more and had something to say: “What gibberish nonsense you’re shouting below! I’m no Ontario crook—let the truth freely flow. I’m Ratun Lavoir, from Quebec’s proud land, Write that in your papers, make the world understand. I died by mistake, but no drama’s required, Live kindly, love deeply, let peace be inspired. Cherish your children, hold your spouse ever near, Walk with your God, let no quarrels appear. And when crossing the road, oh, please take due care, Look left, look right, lest death catch you unaware, Moral more bright than a stop-sign so red: Mind where you tread or you'll wind up dead! I messed up and died, but I’m not one to rue, I was a good dad, and my heart was true. My wife, my sweet spark, held me close to her core, Though death split us briefly, it can’t break love’s lore. For love's never gone when it's true from the start, It burns past the grave, soul to soul, spark to spark. So wave to my babes, send them kisses so grand, Spin tales of their dad with a sausage in hand. I'll watch from the stars, where the trash cans gleam gold, And paradise tastes like the junk food of old!"

0

May 10, 2025

May 10, 2025 at 4:26 AM UTC

davinalion

The Raccoon’s Last Ride

There lies the raccoon, so still, so grim, On the median strip where the light grows dim. Cars swerve around it, their tires hum fast, It’s sprawled on the asphalt, its life in the past. No twitch, no stir, for its heart’s gone dead, A lifeless form where the pavement’s spread. Flat as a mat, squashed neat on the street, His paws outstretched like a child in defeat. No breath, just death in the sun's cruel light, A bandit of night felled by day's cruel might. It crossed the road in a reckless dash, Not for the first time, ignoring the clash. No glance to the left, nor right did it peek, Lost in its thoughts, so weary, so bleak. “How tough,” it mused, “to be a raccoon, Scrounging for scraps ‘neath the sun and the moon.” Then out of the blue, with a screech and a blast, A Honda Jazz roared, and its fate was cast. It struck the poor creature and sped ‘round the bend, Leaving the raccoon to meet its sad end, Leaving him smashed and bashed so flat, His little face left where it sat. The car’s cruel wheel smashed it flat to the ground, Crushed its sweet face, not making a sound. Its nose, once so twitchy, now broken, forlorn, It lies like a log where the asphalt’s been worn. Only a breeze, so soft and so slight, Stirs its fine whiskers in the fading light. It never foresaw such a sorrowful lot, No hint of the grief that its death would allot. Since dawn’s early glow, it had schemed and planned, To crawl from its hollow with a goal so grand. To the town it would scamper, through brambles and thorns, To fetch juicy sausages for its little ones. At home, its young kits, with their bellies all tight, Clutched tiny paws in their hunger’s sad plight. For days they had whimpered, so feeble and sweet, “Daddy, dear Daddy, we’re dying to eat! Daddy , dear Daddy, the cupboard's bare! When's dinner? It's not fair!" It snapped in reply, with a huff and a frown, “Who tossed out a banana when no one was around? That fruit was ripe, not a speck of decay!” Its wife growled low in a grumbling way, “Get to work, you loaf, don’t laze in the shade! Our kids need fresh veggies and meats ready-made!” But no, that’s too harsh—she loved him, it’s true, Her heart was as warm as the morning’s soft dew. Whatever she scavenged from forest and glade, She cooked with such care, and his plate was well-laid. This morn she embraced him, so tender, so kind, Kissed his soft cheek with her worries behind. She licked his damp nose and whispered with care, “I know you’re worn out; life feels unfair. This parenting grind—it gets me down too. This parenting is rough, times are tough, But love's enough, my scruffy fluff. Stay home, my love, take a break, just do you. No cell, no computer, just rest for a spell, Things will work out, and all will be well.” The raccoon clutched its head with a wail and a moan, “My family loves me, and I’ve been so prone To act like a fool, ungrateful, unwise! Let me hug you all tight ‘neath these morning skies! For you, my clan, I'll be the man!” Then off through the woods, with a bound and a leap, He raced to the town where the streets climb steep, To hunt for some food, for his heart was set right, To feed his dear kits and bring joy by tonight. But what happened next, oh, the tale turns grim, For fate had a plan that was cruel and dim. Crossing the road with no glance left or right, He was struck by a car in the harsh morning light. Now dead on the median, his body lies still, A victim of haste and a moment’s ill will. The cops soon arrived on their mopeds’ loud drone, Cordoned the street, left no car to roam. Yellow tape fluttered, their hands swift and sure, Three paramedics rushed in to explore. They prodded the raccoon, its fur cold and slack, One raised a finger, his voice sharp as a tack: “Raccoon’s dead on the scene!” he proclaimed to the air, As onlookers gaped in a sorrowful stare. Then Justin Trudeau swooped down from the sky, On a parachute bold, with a tear in his eye. He gazed at the raccoon and cried, “What a shame! Whose wheel could have dealt such a terrible maim? Oh, horror, oh, grief!” he wailed to the crowd, His voice ringing clear, both anguished and loud. To the news crews he turned, with a vow firm and grand, “His memory will live through the heart of our land! To his family bereft, with no breadwinner near, Ten million dollars I pledge—let’s be clear!” But Andrew Scheer roared up, his bike’s engine shrill, “Trudeau, you’re mad!” he barked with a thrill. “Ten million for a raccoon? That’s a crime! He’s a trash-raiding rogue, not worth a dime! Ten mil? Absurd! That's quite a sum For vermin who eat garbage **** Ten million’s a wound to our budget’s core, I say nine’s enough—or six, maybe four. No, five’s the limit! No, scratch that, none! No cash for this trash when all’s said and done. Raccoons overrun us, they breed without end, They’re bandits, they’re thieves, not a soul’s faithful friend. They crowd out the critters we ought to hold dear, The more that get squashed, the more RHINOS cheer!” The raccoon’s poor soul, floating high o’er the fray, Could bear it no more and had something to say: “What gibberish nonsense you’re shouting below! I’m no Ontario crook—let the truth freely flow. I’m Ratun Lavoir, from Quebec’s proud land, Write that in your papers, make the world understand. I died by mistake, but no drama’s required, Live kindly, love deeply, let peace be inspired. Cherish your children, hold your spouse ever near, Walk with your God, let no quarrels appear. And when crossing the road, oh, please take due care, Look left, look right, lest death catch you unaware, Moral more bright than a stop-sign so red: Mind where you tread or you'll wind up dead! I messed up and died, but I’m not one to rue, I was a good dad, and my heart was true. My wife, my sweet spark, held me close to her core, Though death split us briefly, it can’t break love’s lore. For love's never gone when it's true from the start, It burns past the grave, soul to soul, spark to spark. So wave to my babes, send them kisses so grand, Spin tales of their dad with a sausage in hand. I'll watch from the stars, where the trash cans gleam gold, And paradise tastes like the junk food of old!"

137

There’s a circus tent in my yard It’s big and wide, And stands with pride, A fortress at night There’s a circus tent in my yard In every yard on the block However empty they are in the day In the dark the clowns flock Big and tall Or micro small They all have the same wardrobe of despair I want to grab their hand And lean down man to man Say that I have joined a circus or two And know the feeling of solitude But they will simply honk their horns Look at me with scorn Because I do not know the Canadian cold Is what makes their noses red I do not know that their faces are frozen, not white painted on their head There’s a circus tent in my city It’s big and wide But there’s no clowns in sight Only people to pity For whom we cannot provide There’s a clown in my yard But he does not sit in a tent Instead he sports a suit and tie Seemingly never the bad guy Justin Trudeau repent!

0

Nov 8, 2024

Nov 8, 2024 at 5:05 PM UTC

newwriterontheblock

There's a circus tent in my yard

There’s a circus tent in my yard It’s big and wide, And stands with pride, A fortress at night There’s a circus tent in my yard In every yard on the block However empty they are in the day In the dark the clowns flock Big and tall Or micro small They all have the same wardrobe of despair I want to grab their hand And lean down man to man Say that I have joined a circus or two And know the feeling of solitude But they will simply honk their horns Look at me with scorn Because I do not know the Canadian cold Is what makes their noses red I do not know that their faces are frozen, not white painted on their head There’s a circus tent in my city It’s big and wide But there’s no clowns in sight Only people to pity For whom we cannot provide There’s a clown in my yard But he does not sit in a tent Instead he sports a suit and tie Seemingly never the bad guy Justin Trudeau repent!

31