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Poetic Tributes (To people who wouldn't ordinarily get them)
By: MrWooD (ICQ: 5766698)

Back in the old days, Poets wrote poems glorifying lowly people, like Longfellow's "Village Blacksmith" and Kiplings "Gunga Din". Well, there aint any longfellows around today, but there ARE alot of folks working in lowly occupations. I feel that it is time these people were saluted in rhyme, which is why we now offer these poetic tributes.


When you were just a lad of six
You found a kid could get his kicks
By pounding on his baby brother;
Before you knew it, you were ten
And showed you had a future when
You snatched a purse belonging to your mother.

The years flew by--in high-school, you
Discovered joys you never knew;
At seventeen you floursihed as a punk there;
And after class, out on the street,
Your day would never be complete
Until you'd smacked and rolled some local drunk there

Twas then you found you had it made
As through the night you plied your trade,
Attacking passersby who were defenseless;
What fun it was to take their cash
To punch and club to kick and slash,
Then leave them on the pavement lying senseless.

Today not even middle age
Can dim the glory of your rage;
You havent met the man who can control you;
Although for now you take it slow,
You'll mug again because you know
In 2005 they will parole you.


Your face has not been sculptured
In marble or in bronze;
You know that men receive no praise
Unplugging stopped-up johns.

You're never in the columns;
You're never in the news;
The only thing you're ever in
Is icky, smelly ooze.

You'll never be a leader
And rule the world with power;
Who needs it when you charge a rate
Of fifty bucks an hour?


At early dawn he makes his rounds
To pick up bones and coffee grounds;
He drives a bulging truck that creaks
And fills it up with stuff that reeks;

He wrecks our sleep, disturbs our peace
Leaves trails of egg-shells, lard and grease,
While littlering our front-yard grass
With apple cores and broken glass,
And then befouls our flower-bed
With rotting meat and moldy bread!

He is a man of pride you see,
Who wants respect from you and me
And that is why we call him here
A Sanatation Engineer!


A boundless freedom fills your heart
With all that you can muster
What does it matter that you smashed
The fender of that Duster?

A carefree youth, that's what you are
No love of life looms larger
So what if parking that Peugeot
You backed into a Charger?

You're not hung up by rules and such
Your world's a joy to be in
Who cares if that Chevette you crunched
While backing a Capri in?

So live it up in days to come
Enjoy each future labor
That is, if you recover from
Your wrecking that Le Sabre.


Who's loading up his giant van!
He prides himself on being strong and agile
With great concern he carries out
Our precious goods and we've no doubt
He'll handle gently boxes we've marked "fragile".

With loving care he sents down crates
Of vases, lamps, and costly plates
We don't freak out--there's never any cause to
However we should make it clear
If you believe what's written here
You probably believe in Santa Claus too.


When money is scares and we are refused
by banks all over town
We turn to you because we know
You will never let us down.
You gladly give us what we need
So we can pay our rent,
And only charge an int'rest rate
Of 35 percent.

And should we, by some careless whim
Your warnings fail to heed
And somehow miss a payment on
The date which we agreed
Who whos to say you shouldn't get
Upset from such delays?
And break an arm or leg to show
The folly of our ways?

We fully understand yourr need
To clout and punch and maim.
And yet we know you'll stop in time
for murder's not your game;
You'd never kill a fellow man
Because within your trade
Unless your client is left alive
You never will get paid!


Let's now salute the postal clerk
A man who does a hard day's work
Amid great mounds of mail he stands
And sorts it with his own two hands
He empties letters from their sacks
Then piles them into tidy stacks
In which they sit five days and then
Are dumped back in their sackes again.

He spots a letter from L.A.
Addressed to folks in Santa Fe.
He holds it out till 2 o'clock
Then speeds it on to Little Rock;
A parcel meant for Denver he
Now sends to Washington D.C.
Dispatches upon an east bound plane
By way of Kennebunkport, Maine,
Along with letters by the score
For Denver via Baltimore

Small wonder as he ends his day
He beams with pride as if to say
"It's good I've got this job to do
"If not, the mail would not go through."


Forever he's regaling folks
and thinks they'll be impressed
With stories of withholding tax
deductions and the rest.
He rattles off accounting tales
And other deadly stuff
And now we'll end this verse because
we've bored you long enough


A man can be a Congressman
And run a big committee;
A man can be a Gonvernor
Or Mayor of a city.
A man can be a diplomat
And put on fancy airs
But when a man's Vice President
Let's face it--no one cares.

This page is the property of MrWooD. Which means if you copy my stuff with out my written consent I'm gonna hunt you down and gouge your freakin eyeballs out. And don't think for a SECOND that I wouldn't either. Because I will.