rant poem
 

add a rant about issues of your own.. start with "i feel like..."

i'll hit it off!


i feel like farting REALLY loud
and standing on my chair to shout:
"motherfvcker, piece of shit!
i hate this job, cvnt, monkeytit!"

i feel like acting all insane
pretending that i've lost my brain
responsibilities, go fvck yourself
all obligations on the bottom shelf

fvck you, fvck you, fvck you all!
raaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!

Pissed are we? I like the monkeytit/shit rhyme! I'm in a mellow mood right now so I'll save my rant for another time.

(searches desk drawers for postcard to send Frieda)

come on peope.. add to the poem!

(although i do like postcards too :D)

Okay, here's my rant poem!

I hate your objections
And useless reflections
I wish you'd first think
Before emailing stink!

You're just in my way
And all you can say
Is "What about this?"
Well, you really piss

ME OFF!

YAY! :D

Fvckity fvckity bollocky knob
Why do I have this wankity job?
One day when I'm gone , I wont give a shit
but until then I'll just sit here and be quiet

I'd like to take my laptop
And throw it to the blacktop
And jump up and down
On its IBM crown!

"I HATE YOU!" I'd crow
And then I would throw
Out my dongle (VPN)
And scream it again.

I suppose I could rant because work is so slow,
but I live on a boat and just float with the flow
of the work as it comes, and I smile and say thanks
cuz my soul and my boat are both owned by two banks.

And when I take checks from clients with a smile
I fume to myself at the Farks all the while
"FVCK YOU, I cant bill for this tedious work
enough to make all of the bills you PHAT JERK".

I haven't worked now in over a year
Which by some standards is really quite queer
At first it felt dreadful, I wanted to shout
But my hair's growing back, no more tearing it out
I used to put up with such mind numbing crap
In the office, with morons I wanted to slap
Now I cook and I clean and I shop, and you know
Going back to work is actually going to blow

The best part of going to work?
Just the best
Is the part where each morning you wake and get dressed
And groomed, and your clothing should be freshly pressed
And the buttons done up in your trousers and vest
With hair that is carefully combed and not messed
And clean freshly scented, though don't be don't be Obsessed
Calvin Klein hates those posers. Oh no, no THE BEST
The best part of going to work
Is the rest,
The rest that you get with the rest
Of your peers, if you're blessed
Like the rest of your peers with a rest.
Bless the time that you spend in your own little nest,
Because always too soon, you'll have to get dressed.

I feel like if you play with the plants
you shouldn't worry about the pants.
Old shorts will do
and dirty shoes, too.
So don't judge my clothes
or i'll kill your fvcking rose
and sic Frieda on you with ants.

:D

for poems it ain't terriffic
if your anger's non-specific

Byrniad

I want a Poet -- an uncommon want
When every website seems to bring a new one;
But I want one who's got the cash to flaunt
Which shows that as a Poet he's a true one;
But searching's hard and I am nonchalant
So I'll make do with our old friend McKuen:
A sample that I'll use to teach Ed Byrne
Not to talk so often out of turn.

"In media res" the PR people plunge,
And blindly follow Horace's advice,
To show their poets cleansed of all the grunge
Adventure cakes in every crack, and twice
As thick on skin and hair, by some soft sponge
Who puffs and blurbs so everything smells nice
And looks so fine, which gives a poet chances
To lie about advances and romances.

That's the usual way, but what the hell --
Already I have stolen Byron's stanza,
So why not take his method here, as well?
But this small thing is no extravaganza,
No tale that only epic lyres tell;
It isn't even "Gunsmoke", or "Bonanza",
Before we're swept away with Western fever;
It's really way too much like "Leave it to Beaver".

But never mind -- there's no one wants to hear
An epic mocking Valparaiso Byrne
Because his snivel fits his tinny ear
In prose he styles as verse. He could not turn
A phrase if he had a phrase-turning gear
And a two-foot lever; he uses words to spurn
The straightest sense, to hide his sly agenda
Behind his tales of poets he's a frienda.

Or rather that he read with years ago,
Or says he saw across a crowded room,
Or heard of from a girl he used to know --
Degrees of separation lost in gloom
The minute he suspects that you might blow
His cover, brought back out in light to bloom
Luxuriantly in its little plot
The moment he believes he wasn't caught.

His cringing style is perfectly portrayed
In passive voice, his mode repeats a drone's
Reactionary politics conveyed
In superficial Readers' Digest tones,
And anyone can see he's so afraid
Some quick strong verb will kick him in the stones
That, if his writing's any indication,
He's twisted up in pained anticipation.

But how did I get here from Rod McKuen?
Oh, yes -- the way that Eddie Byrne equates
A marketplace achievement with a true one!
He's argued loudly Gibson's "Passion" rates
Artistic praise because in bucks and yuan
It soared so quckly up among the greats --
An argument he's all too often made,
While touting "Passion" like he's being paid.

And that's why Rod McKuen's who I need --
A man who, writing poems, made a pile --
To challenge Eddie's mercenary creed:
For how can any poetry be vile
If it has made a mint? How, indeed.
But even Eddie Byrne cannot quite smile
"My, what a pretty poem, Mr McKuen --
I just can't wait 'til you compose a new one!"

He doesn't say it, and he can't, and why?
If Rod McKuen's verse cannot be saved
By cash, then how can Ed deny
The "Passion"'s path to hell's not also paved?
"I haven't seen it yet." is his reply,
And quotes its newest grosses. Who behaved
Like that? A lot of people, when you ask'll,
Say it's Mr Collins cum Eddie Haskell.

Nevah Trust a lia^H^H^H Lawyer
 

An excuse to rant, how can I pass that up!

I feel like you think I'm a moron
In your company, I'm just a pawn
I may be from a small town
but that doesn't make me your clown!

So I called the IRS
I gotta confess
You messed up my taxes
So you could afford your waxes

I'm on to you, you fat tub o' lard
You think I'm just a dumb blonde tard
I'll let you think that, I don't mind
But may I suggest, You watch your behind! :eek: