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The Poetry of Poverty
Poets are an odd breed. Often, they are misunderstood when living and hailed as prophets when dead. That’s because they write in some kind of senseless code. It takes about eighty years to figure out what the hell they’re trying to say in their cryptic verse!
Because of this, poetry and poverty are inextricably linked. Just ask anyone who’s ever tried to make a living writing poetry -- poverty is the result of such ill-advised actions.
I guess that I’m a lucky one -- I didn’t need to go through years of writing poetry just to be broke. I managed to get broke on my own, thank you very much! So, the way I figure, as long as I'm broke, I might as well let my sensitive side show and write some poetry about it, ya know?
Thus begins the first installment of The Poetry of Poverty. Or, as I like to call it: Bad poetry for people with bad credit.
by Noonan
Janet Reno’s really got me pissed,
The country’s broke and it’s her aim,
I don’t know why she picks on me,
I’ve got no compound, I’m all alone
since she found my name on a gov’ment list.
Now she’s planning a big federal raid
to collect on loans I have not paid.
to track me down and place the blame.
I’m destroying America, she raves and rants --
‘cause I treat student loans as if they’re grants.
I’m not the problem as you can see --
‘Cause I ain’t on the welfare dole.
And I wouldn’t take food stamps to save my soul!
a pawn shop gun protects my home.
So, Janet don’t send your troops, oh no sir,
or they’ll be headshots for your student loan officers.
by Noonan
Pizza Hut is where I slave
Small dogs have bit without remorse,
Cruel parents revel in that game
I don’t deliver for my wealth,
barely making min’mum wage.
Five nights a week I do toil,
with my car burning gas and leaking oil.
and made the lawn an obstacle course.
I die a death at each new door.
I can’t take this job no more!
of sending kids with exact change.
These are words that they should hear,
I’m hoping I can make this clear:
I need insurance for my health.
So do your part to spread some joy,
and kindly tip your pizza boy.
by Noonan
My Visa bill is in arrears,
Now Visa’s got my home phone number.
They question me for when I’ll pay,
I tell the truth, I think it’s funny,
They yell at me in blind rage
They threaten me with bod’ly harm,
I really owe those senseless jerks,
I have not paid in seven years.
Their letters, they are getting stale,
if not for Visa, I’d have no mail.
Each morn they end my restless slumber.
From hopes and dreams I do awake,
to rude reminders of my broken state.
I hem, I haw, I say... someday.
They harass me, they give me heat,
they call me names, like deadbeat.
to bucktooth strippers, I gave their money.
(what a way to start the day),
“Now listen here you little punk,
we didn’t make Visa to keep you drunk!”
like broken legs and broken arms.
Their threats are veiled, of this I’m sure,
‘cause Visa credit is unsecured!
without their calls, I’d sleep through work.
by Noonan and Brett Meyer
French people really piss me off,
Napoleon was short, de Gaul was rude,
Their bread is hard, their wine is fizzy --
the way they moan, the way they scoff.
I don’t like their attitudes!
Let’s send Nichols and McVeigh to Euro Disney!
by Noonan and Brett Meyer
Back when boys still died in Viet Nam,
"Excuse me," she said, "for being bold,
Although, but eight, I took a stand.
She sabotaged my KISS lunch box
Just when I thought my point was made,
Commencement day brought with it knowledge
Finally, with awesome glee,
mom tried to KILL me with strawberry jam.
you must prepare for when you’re old,
to be a doctor a lawyer, a sophisticate...
but, how can you when your jelly’s grape?"
I did not like her odd jelly plan.
"Have you gone mad, my dear mother?
Only GRAPE jelly goes with peanut butter!"
with odd jelly made of apricot.
When I got home, this caused a mess,
I threw up on her brand new breasts.
she force fed me orange marmalade!
For a decade we maintained our feud,
mom kept screwing with my fav’rite food.
that grape was the jelly served in college.
And so, struck I, out on my own.
I left behind my odd jelly home.
the jelly choice was up to me!
A doctor or lawyer I’ll never make,
‘Cause still, I like my jelly grape!
by R.J. Welsh
Some think of poverty as a curse
For ignorance, they say, is bliss
The lovely things that cash can get,
Big screen TV, designer clothes,
A house, a life, a bit of hope.
But smart and broke is even worse!
But I am smart enough to miss
Like stocks and bonds, a new corvette,
Decent food, a smaller nose,
With half a brain I'm sure I'd cope!
Bad poetry may be hard to read, but it’s easy to write. Here’s what you do: Just line up all your bills and look at what little food you have in your cupboard. Break out your checkbook, look at your balance and then calculate the fees you have to pay for keeping so little money in the bank.
When you’re done with that, go outside and try to start your car. After your neighbor takes you to the junkyard to get a new (used?) alternator, get a pen and start writing about your day on the back of your receipt. Now, make it rhyme. It’s as easy as that. When you’re done, its time to write your bad poetry below so that it may be shared with the rest of the world!
(Since February 21, 1997)
Noonan
1010-B Ocean Boulevard
Isle of Palms, SC 29451
npnoonan@aol.com
(803) 886-8096
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