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TITLE: Tired of Whiners
By James Koppen
04/27/06
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This is a satirical poem. The message may seem far from Christian, but perhaps that is the issue. Does this stir anything within you...?
Tired of Whiners

What to do, what to do?
The house is five now, the furniture’s new!
Granite counters, heated floors,
Enamel woodwork, cherry doors.

A car in the poll shed, two in the garage.
One a new Lexus, the truck a new Dodge.
A Harley and Polaris for seasonal fun,
Course hunting and fishing equipment and guns.

Investments in Stocks, Bonds, and CD’s,
Bare land and apartments, give write offs with ease.
Wolves tickets, and Gophers, Wild and the Vikes,
Wish I had time, just ain’t enough nights.

Work at the hospital, five days a week.
Great salary and bene’s, I didn’t have to seek.
Dinner with colleagues, each Friday night,
Finish the week, steaks cooked just right.

I’ve worked hard my whole life, it’s just what I do.
People get jealous, I say “What’s it to you?
Nobody stood holding you back from your chance,
You were the one who chose not to dance.”

So what if he beat you at night when he’d drink.
Or worse, ‘til you wanted to throw up in the sink.
Or smacked your mother around just for kicks,
We all had our issues, you must take your licks.

So what if no one would wake you for school.
Or tell you that you had what it takes to be cool.
It’s so over rated, it’s just so much fluff,
You really don’t need that to know you’re enough.

I’m tired of whiners, who cry in their beer.
I’m fed up with churches using tactics of fear
“God is there watching and wondering why?
We’ll all have to answer someday when we die!

It just one more con job, to get what you have.
Like God couldn’t change things, now that’s a laugh.
They send the sad pictures, the call it goes out,
I’ve lived long enough to figure it out.


If we don’t look out for ourselves, in this land,
If we fold each time someone else needs a hand.
When will it stop? How can we hold on?
To the stuff we’ve all worked for, it just might be gone.

They call in the evening, they whine in my phone,
‘Bout poverty, orphans, and sick people alone,
Ain’t one got a real job, or likely ever had,
A place to go home to, Wah, Wah, Wah,Wah!

You know that I feel bad, bout twisters and flood,
And Avian flu and Aids in the blood.
But there’s really just not too much more I can do,
Today’s foursome meets at the Club House at two.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.