"rodgers" poems
[Verse 1]
Monster sized swag; not modest bout my splendor
Marvel at the flag and I'm the ultimate avenger
Buck Rodgers, D-Bird yep I'm the number one contender,
So I gotta uphold this rep of bein uncontrollable
so I'll take the lead, I hold the world beneath my feet
I'm a fiend, elite
Haze so cloudy cause I be blowin Swisher Sweets
Drug addiction is my disease
It's my expertise
See here's the masterpiece:
Raps lobotomize
I'm traumatized since 1993
[Verse 2]
Victimized by the lies
of this trifilin enterprise
You can front but you can't hide
There's no fault behind your eyes
So I hope this insult will suffice
It should come as no surprise
A grin will spread across my face
From side to side
My ***** mouth will mesmerize
hypnotized, memorize
the words that escape my lips
I'm a degenerate unabridged uncut
You're a ************* ****
Go hang yourself from a bridge
Here's a rope, I hope you choke
******* ******* smoochie smoochie
Only chains you got is Gucci
Y’all basic brothers rep that set
But fake like that 2chi
[Verse 3]
man I get so high,
Now watch me get higher
Watch me take flight
As my wings soar skyward
You know I'ma fighter
So watch me take my place
As I eat this rap game up
and then spit it in your face
Now pass me a lighter
see me rollin while I bake
I mean I'm not a pastry maker,
but I still bake for the sake
My rhymes are so ill
They're gonna make you sick
I be tweetin on my twitter
While Betty Crocker ***** my **** uh
[Verse 4]
Reid between the lines son and please proceed with caution
Alien splittin kilos, I be one tweaked ****** martian
I'm five steps ahead and these haters ****** forfeit
You four feet tall and I'm so high I'm in ****** orbit
Make these snitches sleep with fishes
How ****** vicious spittin mischief
****** trippin out these hypocrites
Dishin out these disses which
Bein inconsiderate
in this fast paced game of chase
But if I wanted to catch your drama
I'd just go check my facebook page *****
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
1
Monday Night Football on a Thursday.
Preseason. Johnny Manziel, running.
The nurse is a signal caller, too.
She flicks the wrist like Rodgers,
puts spin on it like Manning.
Once a rookie, now a seasoned vet.
2
Monday Night Football on a Thursday.
Network glitch? John Gruden, talking.
Anxiety lurks in the tall grass
still licking its paws. My head's out the game.
I've become an easy meal.
3
Monday Night Football on a Thursday.
If I had another John he'd go right here.
I miss my mother, and how she smiles
like my illness only increases my value,
puts gold in my veins instead of chemo.
Rex throws his clipboard, I lose my appetite.
4
Monday Night Football On A Thursday.
No more John's. Get over it.
Game's almost over. My head fresh from
the toilet, pieces of everything falling out
of me. Broken. Stumbling. At this moment,
football is enough.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
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Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
Number 12 we trust
Lead us to the Superbowl
Yeah Aaron Rodgers
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 12:16 AM UTC
From grey plaster dwellin’s they come to us
fer enough sun t’ melt their lollies but
after sun-burnt migrations, some remain
as they can choose our shacks fer their castles
and their spawn breaks the spines on each weaver
and fer their red-faced fuss ‘e is broken.
The ‘ermit crab too takes ‘is leave broken.
The ‘ome ‘e made now closed to all of us
Not passed by ta’ooed ‘ands o' net weavers.
The painted shells still litter these streets but
suited slugs paint gray on our small castles
till only mockin’ shades of age remain.
“Shave off, bastards’ll pick till none o’ yer remain”
screamed mad John as relaters “fixed ‘im” broken
into some plastic ‘ouse from ‘is castle.
‘ow ‘e used t’ tell those old tales to us
'o the deep places and the things there but
they ‘ad ‘im by the gills, poor old weaver.
Spines down, in nets made by ‘is own weavin.
we did it to ourselves, we can’t remain
Wi’ nets o’ money, o’ ***** o’ smokes, but
black flags still fly, bein’ bent never broken.
Cross-bone attractions will be left as us
‘eld by those who took away our castles
Stormin’ beaches to kick down our castles
the sandy ‘oles and ‘ides of those weavers.
Sellin’ our anger like lug, dear to us
cast from the sea of us that will remain
‘ook lipped, ring-eared, ink-stained and not broken
nothin’ t’ be fixed and no-one changed but
In come those nets, I ‘aint been caught yet but
that gray, that London gray sweeps my castle
away where the concrete can’t be broken
t’ reach lug beneath dried surface weavers
as gulls break beaks t’ peck at the remains.
yes, we’ll eat each-other if they take us.
Take enough of us, and leave shell castles
no ‘ands to ‘old jolly Rodgers and sing
‘appily swear, or dance on tables but
**** that.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
*the twigs are still and quiet
indeed the birds have flown
soon it'll all be ice and snow
and shrubbery in a white gown
as everywhere traffic seeks ease of flow
i see that the birds have flown
and that no more grass has grown
no more daffodils, lupine and hollyhocks
or the bluebirds, larks, thrushes and nightingales
that jimmie rodgers waxed lyrical about
one swallow i see in acrobatic show
of frantic rhythm to beat the snow
but futile its extravaganza ever is
for one swallow does not make a summer
i see that indeed the birds have flown*
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
I found myself in a record shop
Which got me all to wondering
How these bands all got their names
And wouldn't it be summon
If I went through all the racks
And pulled them randomly
What it is that I would find
To solve this mystery
When this idea hit me
I was standing before the M's
So based upon that simple fact
Is where this journey begins
Mega Death-You must be kidding!
Are theses guys for real?
How big a death do you have to die
Before your still road ****
I decided to jump around
To get the full effect
Can not help but wonder
At what will pop up next
Oh, lookie here...Butt Hole Suffers
I bet their momma's proud
When those guys hang ten
Are they surfing in or surfing out
I came across Badfinger
In an old 70's record bin
I'm telling you the honest truth
I don't care to know where that fingers been
Over yonder a band called The, The
The, The...What?!
Then there's Chumbawamba
Chumbawamba...Whoba?!
This may all sound a bit far fetched
But it's the honest to goodness truthba!
The H's are holding Hoobastank
The closest I can figure
Is that the guys in this band
Hang out with Badfinger
Albino Toilet Boys
Cottage Cheese From The Lips Of Death
My Dog Has Hitlers Brains
Norman Bates And The Shower Heads
Poultry In Motion
Brady Bunch Lawn Mower Massacre
**Roid Rodgers And The Whirling **** Cherries**
Are today's record shop de jour
As I'm leaving out the door
Arms piled high with newly purchased song
I grab the last copy of **Yoko ****
For soothing dinner music later on
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
I was dreaming lucky
But woke up cold in hand;
I dreamed I had a dollar
But woke up cold in hand.
Woke up this morning
Feel around for my shoes.
You know about that?
They took yours too?
Sometimes I feel
Like walkin'.
Sometimes I feel
Like cryin'.
Sometimes I feel
Like a motherless child.
Sometimes I feel
Like I ain't no one at all.
Say brother,
I can't make change
For a nickle.
Say sister, oh sister,
Can you spare me
One thin dime?
"When a man gets the blues
He grabs a train and rides."
I know
I ain't no man.
"When a woman gets the blues
She hangs her head and cries."
I know
I don't feel
Like no woman.
So when I get me back
My walkin' shoes,
Those worn out, old walkin' shoes,
I'm takin' this suitcase
Full of blues I got
And ride the boxcar blinds
Past Boogie Street
All the way to
Johnson's Crossroads.
Lines in Quotations are direct from Train Whistle Blues by Jimmie Rodgers, 1929
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
my grandmother washed her skin in olive oil
and ate whole cloves of garlic
and let me play with her good china
and had Rodgers and Hammerstein
fill the room with music
for play time every day
as my tiny lungs filled with her air
and my tiny heart filled with my blood
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Gerry And The Pacemakers
Best Of Gerry And The Pacemakers
You'll Never Walk Alone
(R. Rodgers - O. Hammerstein II)
When you walk through the storm
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of the lark
Walk on, through the wind
Walk on, through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Rodgers and Hammerstein in my head,
The sound of words i never said,
My brain is spinning like a carousel,
Pipe dreams and wishes that once fell,
Like Juliet all alone with me,
Or Cinderella at midnight running free.
Lennon and McCartney on my mind,
With yesterdays i thought I'd find,
Somewhere back in the U.S. states of love,
When free as a bird high above,
I realise that she just loves you,
Don't ask me why but i know I'll get you.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
"Be
the kind of person
who makes
everyone
you come across
feel okay
being
exactly who they are."
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
The man who lived on the silver screen
Was never the real hero to me
for he was the man who worked the side-door
And let me and my Mum in for free.
Back in those days the heroes were many
Tex Ritter and Roy Rodgers were just two
The cowboy films were always the best
Watching those I never felt blue.
But the real hero to me was my granddad
Who attended the cinema side-door
He'd trained engineers till retirement came
And the side-door job paid for a bit more.
There were stories of robbery and mayhem
Tales of magical mystery and fun
And we were always let in through the little side door
The moment the programmes had begun.
Everyone sat there in the darkness
When suddenly all the screen lit up
And the sheriff rounded up al the bad men
As our hands went into big popcorn cups.
My granddad was as good as those cowboys
He took me to my first cricket match
I remember once when the ball flew at me
He put his hand up and made a good catch.
He served his country throughout the First War
as auxiliary he served through number Two
He was a fine man who everyone loved dearly
He did good things just like heroes do.
They don't give medals for just being a granddad
They should do when they are the best
Now I have grandchildren of my very own now
I just hope that I too pass the test.
©Joe Wilson - My own personal hero...2014
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
I sat waiting on a drink to be brought to me
when you entered the room,
hair billowing in gold and bronze streaks
across narrow shoulders hidden under a sweater,
your scarf releasing as you unwrap it from your thin, pale neck...
You lay your elbows casually on the counter as you order,
then spin 180 degrees after paying from a small brown purse
no bigger than just to fit your phone, money and some drugs for later.
I admire the way your lips part, smiling at a child asking his mom for a cookie,
and i wonder what you may have looked like as a child...
I find your fingers, thin and pale, clutched around the ends of your scarf... playing with the fringe...
a waitress interrupts my view and i give a hurried and annoyed "thank you"
as she sets down a large mug beside me.
You receive your own drink--to go.
Please do not turn around too quickly..
Linger at the counter to add sugar or caramel...
Please come and sit by me, and we could talk about that book you just finished
or a concert you saw last week
or a cloud that oddly looked like Mister Rodgers.
But you do leave, wrapping your scarf around your neck
hiding your little white neck
and your long bone-like fingers brush your hair away from the knot,
then exit, scooting out of the way for the next customer.
I watch you walk past the window i sit behind,
kicking myself for being glued down by your beauty--like sunlight.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
Peyton, not the type.
Brady, is not the type.
Michael Jordan, never been the one.
So you must admire Colin Kaepernick protesting.
We knew when he chose to do this.
He would be the team backup.
As much as many states they marched with King , the truth stands many rose to do anything.
Similar to many ministers now.
Many has no back bone to represent anyone.
And these the ones saying be like Jesus without comprehending his stand.
Aaron Rodgers, wouldn't.
Stephen Curry, well hard to say.
This also goes for Lebron James.
People called "brand" don't like to tarnish their image.
And these guys mention are millionaires.
So for a players of Colin's stature to create a conversation.
He must be saluted.
Notice, it's the youth group of players starting this revolution.
Then, if you remember the sixties protesters and hippies they also was the young ones.
Those in power had to face the rage of a changing nation.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC
Let us consolidate our energies, as branches crunch under our feet in the depths of the forest.
Solstitium reminds me of the polarity between the land and sky.
Have you ever listened to Paul Rodgers?
Drought is prevented by the availability of water in this midsummer spell of philosophical ***
The sabbat will commence at the appointed time.
Nightfall reminds me of those haunted monks who chant in the sacred forests of explicit storytelling.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
You are not a dancer,
But I like to watch your mind do pirouettes
As you take to the page.
You are far too gangly,
And your feet are much too large and cumbersome,
To accompany me to a ballroom,
But I could watch you waltz solo for hours,
As you labor gently over your words.
"Natural grace" has never applied to you
In the physical sense,
But your thoughts could rival
Fosse's signature moves in beauty and brilliance.
You are not a dancer,
But I like to imagine
That we tango in the moonlight
With words tumbling forth
In our precision steps:
One, two, three, one.
I'm not nearly as graceful as you are
In this realm, but someday
I hope to be the Ginger Rodgers
To the Fred Astaire of writers.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:20 PM UTC
I am from noise.
From a womb that was too crowded
and a million hospital wires
In a tiny broken body.
I am from laughter.
From towering Christmas trees and squash soup.
(Bright orange, it tasted like warmth)
I am from music.
From constant choir chants and piano fingers
Scrambling and hurried, excited.
I am from Michelle my Belle
From a full hectic house and gravestones
That never made the cut, no matter how artistic.
I am from a rusty fifteen passenger van.
From Rodgers and Frere Jacque.
Dancing bare feet on the cold white cement.
I am from Roots and Wings
From “that’s my girl!”
And “I’m sorry for your loss”
I am from hot cinnamon skin,
Glistening with sweat.
From a hard day’s work and “If you get better”
I am from squinting eyes and skeptical looks.
From the big oak tree leaves you could touch if you
Reached high enough.
And screams echoing everywhere.
I am from footsteps getting the laundry
From black and white movies that a child
Should never watch.
And gingersnaps with a hint of smoke.
In a black bound notebook,
Covered with crayon marks crazy
Within every lined page are my days I lived
My horizons are laced with uncertainties
I hide them under my pillow
Listen to ghost footsteps
And cradle Sunny to sleep.
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
*Paw Wilson clutched his dressed Auburn Market hare waiting on a trolley
His Friday night reward from a long week of barbering
Fifty cent haircuts to keep his family from starving
Paw cleaned his dress socks in the kitchen sink
Ironed his shirt an slacks while he sipped a drink
He would fall asleep drunk at the kitchen table
Paw Wilson woke up at five bells with the music of Jimmy Rodgers , whistling , ready , well groomed and able* ..
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
Patterned multi colored visuals to make you look ugly
Them pills didn't help me concentrate
It was always about the passion behind it
I've been realer lately
What if happiness isn't for everyone?
What if depression is supposed to be the way someone feels because that's the way they're meant to be
Apache heart, feel everything around me
I love without the mystics
I love passed the speed of light
I'll love until my grave becomes dirt
I knew I could be everything when I surpassed my Elliot Rodgers phase
I'm under the sun, under a ray that distinguishes us
A ray of light that makes us discriminate
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
One was cleaning herself and catching dinner
Her partner swimming around
So elegant and lively
Exquisite and lovely
Rodgers and Astaire on water
Some can be nasty and mean
Yet at sunset
A truly stunning couple
Swimming towards each other
We wished them a lovely evening
Jan 26, 2025
Jan 26, 2025 at 6:32 PM UTC
1. Your car was in a parking lot. I was immediately paralyzed by fear. A sigh of relief escaped me when a young woman opened the door.
2. I saw you in Elliot Rodgers. How he believed that women exist to fulfill his needs. When he took out those who didn't.
3. Your face appeared in a dream. Patronizing me, chastising me. Blood blossomed from my wrists. I woke up disappointed.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
Because the world made Elliot Rodgers,
And I was made just the same,
I may not go as far as to **** people,
but I felt all of his pain.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Your words arrive like echoes deep,
A whisper soft, a vow to keep.
"Be the best," you gently write,
A spark, a hope, a guiding light.
"Kind, caring, considerate"—
Each line a warmth deliberate.
To listen well, to hug, to see,
A kindness shaped in poetry.
You walk with thoughts and music near,
Till swans arrive, serene and clear.
"Spring is on her way," you say,
With nature’s touch in verse’s sway.
And when the world turns cold and gray,
You pen the truths none dare to say.
"Enough," you cry, "of power's reign,"
While hunger weeps in silent pain.
Yet still, in words, you find a way,
To turn the night into the day.
"Ideas awaken you softly,"
With whispers bold yet never costly.
So, poet bold, let verses flow,
For in your ink, the bright flames grow.
The world may waver, doubt, or bend,
But words like yours will never end.
At 5 a.m., the words arise,
like dawn-lit waves in endless skies.
Similes, whispers, metaphors bright,
Ideas stir before the light.
"For the youngest, for those to come,"
For dreamers crafting songs unsung.
"For today, for now, for peace,"
For kindness' touch that will not cease.
Boundaries drawn, firm and wise,
"Set them, hold them, let them rise."
Not all will stay, some will go,
But the poet knows—so it must flow.
Swans at sunset, drifting free,
Rodgers and Astaire upon the sea.
A melody hums, a chorus sings,
Does it hold truth? Does it have wings?
We once were blind, now we see,
Through lyric, verse, eternity.
The poet’s heart beats strong and fast,
A voice, a beacon—built to last.
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 3:26 PM UTC
(Song title from “The Sound Of Music” by Rodgers and Hammerstein)
They have called me cruel and evil,
And their words drove daggers to my spine,
I feel the pain as my blood is shed,
Dare to do something good this time.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 10:56 AM UTC