#satirical poem

[artistrichardhfay]

I'm prett sure I've shared this one before, but I'll share it again...a satirical poem I wrote in 2008 in which I adopted the persona of a pretentious poetry snob named I. E. Loquence. If I recall correctly, this piece was inspired by a real-life encounter with a fellow poet who, in a drunken rage, called me a "poetaster" (among other nastier things). It's now my standard creative response to literary snobs, those who might call my verse "enuretic ooze" and "unlettered doggerel". I know damned well they fail to get the satirical joke contained within this one! They're blind to how foolish they truly look.

No art to accompany this one, since this one is all about the words.

I Mock You With My Poetry

By I. E. Loquence

I mock you, pathetic poetaster, with my own superior verse. Your damnable doggerel And sadly stilted lines Pains my poet's ears.

I mock you, wretched wannabe, With pointed words And sharper wit. I cut your work to ribbons And laugh at the mess.

I mock you, false bard, Purveyor of indifference, Meretricious minstrel, Seller of languid lines And cheap tricks.

Away, foul prostitute! Take your pedestrian works And hawk them elsewhere. Your pale glimmer fades Beneath my mighty shadow.

THE END (of your dismal dregs, not my fine libations)

[notthatdom]

Some people be like " I want become your peace " and then become " a piece of shit " for you

[the-most-humble-blog]

What do you mean, man?

It’s a pussy.

It’s not supposed to smell like a candle aisle or a fucking floral arrangement from Trader Joe’s.

It’s supposed to smell like her — like heat, like friction, like wet decision.

It should slap the air with something godless. It should haunt the room like a secret the walls are too polite to mention.

You ever been near a woman who’s actually turned on? Not “flirting.” Not “posing.” Not “waiting for your approval.”

I mean activated.

You can smell it before you touch her. And when you do?

That scent doesn’t just linger — it marks you.

You leave the room and every nerve ending remembers. Your fingers will betray you later. Your breath will slow at the thought of her thighs opening just enough for her truth to leak out.

That’s not filth. That’s not shame. That’s divinity sweating through her lower lips.

If it doesn’t throb with something primal and spiritual and unholy all at once— it’s not even doing its job.

[thoughtsfromb4]

The Demagogue

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free

So I can see their faces as I cast them back into the sea.

For I have no time to save them, nor be bothered by their fate;

As I must save the nation from all the Dreamers at the gate.

First, though, I must deal with anyone who does not look or sound like me,

Especially all those sad, bad hombre types who would dare to take a knee.

I mean, they make tons of money right (though not nearly as much as me),

So why should they care about the victims of some police brutality?

It's not like they are suffering, nor having their history erased.

Like all those "fine folks" who are having their monuments displaced.

Yet there's no need to fear, I know what monuments and parks to remove,

And with the regulations gone, new wells and mines can be approved.

So to those pathetic liars who say that this type of order is unfair,

Know that I am just making room to bury you beside Obamacare.

And once that’s done I can finally move on to updating our economy;

So that the full 99% are poor and all the rest are rich like me,

Because I know which type of people have suffered most of all — 

The bankers, brokers, and capitalists with their backs against the wall.

And so now you can see the "stable genius" of my “unpresidented” plan:

Stripping all the wealth and liberties from everybody that I can.

Because all the blood and treasure that we've paid for our liberties

Were really spent to secure the wealth of rich old guys like me.

--@thoughtsfromb4

[bootlegviolatwelfthnight]

My college roommate woke me up at six in the morning on a Tuesday, shouting my name and shaking me awake.

"Y/N, get up and pack a bag. he's almost here."

I moved my hot pink eye mask from over my eyes to look at her, and I I batted my sleepy cerulean orbs in confusion.

"who's here?" I asked.

"I sold you."

WHAT?!?!?! I jumped out of bed, and tossed off my Weezer branded pajama set, before throwing on a My Chemical Romance t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

"you're joking!"

She was in fact not joking.

"Pack a bag. I'm selling you to pay for DoorDash."

I grabbed my Weezer branded suitcase, and threw a couple of my awesome band t-shirts into it, along with my copy of the Catcher in the Rye. But I was still confused.

"Who did you sell me to?"

Suddenly, we heard a knock at the door, and my roommate went to open it. Standing there, in front of us, was Duke Orsino of Illyria.

"Hello. I'm here to pick up Y/N."

And that's the story of how my college roommate sold me to Duke Orsino.

[novelties-and-notions]

Stoß an! To the New Year!

I wish all of you a delightful new year: Stoß an!

Let's all now be merry and full of good cheer: Stoß an!

The old year is past; raise a glass of fine wine: Stoß an!

To good health and joy, and a future that’s fine: Stoß an!

To young and to old let us drink the same toast: Stoß an!

Good luck to all those who may need it the most: Stoß an!

With a smile let’s clink glasses with those we hold dear: Stoß an!

In peace and with hope we now greet the new year: Stoß an!

Happy New Year!

[By A (for Alphonse) Poeticus Abysmus, the lousiest poet on the midway.It baffles science!]

[kathegoose]

this is my mimic plushies poem

OTHERS WILL BUY THEM FOR COLLECTIVE PURPOSES. I WILL BUY THEM TO GIVE THEM LOVING SERVICES.

OTHERS WILL LET THEM ROT ON A SHELF. I WILL LET THEM SLEEP ON THE BED WITH MYSELF.

OTHERS WILL ADMIRE THEM AMONG THE REST. I WILL ADMIRE THEM AS THEY ARE, BECAUSE MIMIC IS THE BEST.

[maybesomebodysomeday]

Not to brag but i have 50 followers on my Tumblr Blog, what's she have? *scoffs*

[herheartdisplayed]

Population 4,000 and something

Either you rule here or you don’t

I don’t feel like a god nor do I worship

I watch

I watch people my age get pregnant and arrested

While I almost burnt my dorm down with a microwave

Are we all up in flames?

Before I wanted to be them

Then I wanted to escape them

Now I can’t tell if I check-up on them every now and then out of bitterness, or humor

Or humor?

Isn’t it hypocritical to find them crumbling to pieces funny when they broke you?

Probably

But life is just a show, and they have already been laughing at my scenes for years

Break a leg!

[tankertalk]

TankerTWEETland comix No. 1947: Millie - "The Secret...” (4/11/2025)

[corvianbard]

#7290

A jester shall sing a song of satire About the monarch and his desire That is destructive like a wildfire.

[artistrichardhfay]

I had previously posted this quickly-penned poem, "An Ode to Net Trolls", elsewhere online, but I realized I had one less line in the first stanza than in the others. So, being the obsessive perfectionist I am, I added a fifth line to the first stanza. Now all stanzas have the same number of lines.

At least this one proves I'm still able to write poetry!

I decided to combine this one with my "Angry Man" artwork (see above), since both works were ultimately inspired by the same infamous writing world Twitter/X troll. This particular troll has targeted me on multiple occasions, but I've begun to treat his trolling as a bad joke. Yes, I'm making fun of the troll and his ilk.

An Ode to Net Trolls

By Richard H. Fay

Lurking in basement lairs, Sitting before glowing screens, Hiding from the real world, Net trolls fling their muck Muddying electronic discourse.

Pounding plastic keys, Posting insulting jabs, Gaslighting the unwary, Net trolls spew their hate, Spreading online misery.

Vomiting vile vitriol, Pushing fallacious arguments, Reveling in crude toxicity, Net trolls attack their targets, Bullying chosen victims.

Oh, pestering net trolls, What childhood traumas, Emotional deficiencies, Or mental dysfunctions, Turned you into such sad sadists?

In spite of the whys and wherefores, Regardless of their offensives, Notwithstanding their provocations, Let us pity the poor net trolls For being the pathetic wretches they are.

[solis-angelus]

a poem I wrote after seeing this post and many others on here.

Her name was Sidra Hassouna, and she was killed among the thousands of other people in Palestine. Never forgive never forget.

[the-most-humble-blog]

“The Thing With Soft Hands”

t does not knock. It does not slither. It smiles.

In daylight.

It is always nearby — But never too close. It waits where you jog alone. Where you shop. Where you feel safe because the sun is still up and your playlist is loud.

It knows what to say. Not because it means it — but because it’s fed on apology.

It studies you like a sympathetic surgeon who just wants you to know he’s different. But he isn't.

He is not different. He is designed.

It wears shirts with slogans. It kneels in photos. It retweets your trauma and coos at your rage. He claps when you call out men because that’s not about him. You’re not talking about him.

Until you are.

It will listen to your assault stories with glassy eyes and veinless hands. Not because it feels sorrow— but because it is studying how it works. Where it lands. How it echoes.

It is not crying for you. It is mapping you.

It is soft. It is so soft. You won’t feel it enter your circle. It’ll already be holding the wine.

It compliments your queef jokes but never makes one. It uses your pronouns like bait on a whisper.

It wants your praise. But it does not need it.

Because it’s not here to be respected.

It’s here to be admitted.

Into your room. Your circle. Your DMs.

It does not demand sex. It performs proximity until you offer it. And when you don’t?

It changes.

It vibrates beneath its ally skin until the mask begins to sweat and all your stories get used against you with academic precision.

He says “I’d never do that…” But he just did. And he’ll do it again.

Because he believes he’s owed forgiveness for being aware.

It is aroused by your pain. Not sexually. Not consciously.

But biologically. Because in his mirror neuron map your pain = his access your trauma = his rehearsal your softness = his window

And you’ll feel it too. Too late.

That tightening. That little flicker of discomfort in your gut. The way you don’t want to disappoint him even though you just met. The urge to laugh off your boundaries like it’s a TED Talk.

Your body knows.

But your mind is still trying to prove you’re open-minded. You’ll call him nice. You’ll call him safe.

Because predators don’t wear lavender pins and tweet about intersectionality.

Right?

He will say:

“You deserve better.” “Other men don’t get it.” “I just want to support you.” “Not all men…”

He’ll wait. He’ll stay waiting. Until the mood is right and your self-worth is low and the scent of compliance returns.

And when the trap closes — You won’t even feel teeth.

You’ll just feel used, hollow, and unsure how it even got that far.

You’ll feel like you invited it. Because it never forced. It affirmed.

It will disappear afterward. Not rudely. Not violently.

It’ll just say:

“I thought you wanted this.” “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

And the worst part?

You’ll think it’s your fault.

And that... That is what a male feminist is.

Let that into your life at your own detriment.

⚖️ Free Speech Disclaimer: This is a poetic horror allegory protected by satire, anatomy, and truth.

🔁 Reblog if this made your body flinch before your brain processed why. 💬 Comment if you’ve met this thing and didn’t realize until now. 📩 DM if your stomach twisted, your thighs tensed, or your cervix blinked mid-line. 🚷 Send this to a friend who keeps letting these into the group chat. 🔁 Share it before another one smiles at you with open palms and agenda breath.

[rikkiwildfire]

But What About Me?

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[kawaiimunism]

"i want a dyke for president" why would you wish such disgrace on our wonderful dykes