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He who gossips to you will gossip about you.

Lebanese proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Devils Radio

Devils radio
Gossip, gossip
Gossip, gossip
I heard it in the night
Words that thoughtless speak
Like vultures swooping down below
On the devils radio
I hear it through the day
Airwaves gettin filled
With gossip broadcast to and fro
On the devils radio
Oh yeah, gossip
Gossip, oh yeah
Hes in the clubs and bars
And never turns it down
Talking about what he dont know
On the devils radio
Hes in your tv set
Wont give it a rest
That soul betraying so and so
The devils radio
Gossip, gossip
Gossip, gossip
(oh yeah) gossip, (gossip) oh yeah
(gossip) oh yeah, (oh yeah) gossip
Its white and black like industrial waste
Pollution of the highest degree
You wonder why I dont hang out much
I wonder how you cant see
Hes in the films and songs
And on all your magazines
Its everywhere that you may go
The devils radio
Oh yeah, gossip
Gossip, oh yeah
Runs thick and fast, no one really sees
Quite what bad it can do
As it shapes you into something cold
Like an eskimo igloo
Its all across our lives
Like a weed its spread
till nothing else has space to grow
The devils radio
Can creep up in the dark
Make us hide behind shades
And buzzing like a dynamo
The devils radio
(gossip) oh yeah, (gossip) oh yeah
(gossip) gossip, (gossip) gossip
Oh yeah, gossip I heard you on satans wireless

[...] Read more

song performed by George Harrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Innuendo, Gossip 'And' LIES!

Isn't it easy for you to sit and criticize?
With nothing you do to be held accountable to.
With no responsibility...
But to approve or disapprove as you choose.
And say what you like and dislike about others.
And who you have chosen to agonize and despise.
With innuendo, gossip and lies!

'Oh my...
Innuendo, gossip 'and' lies? '

That's right...
Innuendo, gossip 'and' LIES!

'Ewww...
That's awful! '

Isn't it easy for you to sit and criticize?
Without one effort made to create and strategize.
And those all day and night sleepless work binges...
Could not approach or touch,
Your lazy appetite for life!

Since what you do best,
Is make attempts to initiate unrest!
With innuendo, gossip and lies!

'Oh my...
Innuendo, gossip 'and' lies? '

That's right...
Innuendo, gossip 'and' LIES!

'Oh my...'

Isn't it easy for you to sit and criticize?
With nothing you do to be held accountable to.
With no responsibility...
But to approve or disapprove as you choose.
And say what you like and dislike about others.
And who you have chosen to agonize and despise.

'Don't say it!
Not with...'

Yep,
That's right...
Innuendo, gossip 'and' LIES!

'Oh my...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ruth

All is well—in a prison—to-night, and the warders are crying ‘All’s Well!’
I must speak, for the sake of my heart—if it’s but to the walls of my cell.
For what does it matter to me if to-morrow I go where I will?
I’m as free as I ever shall be—there is naught in my life to fulfil.
I am free! I am haunted no more by the question that tortured my brain:
‘Are you sane of a people gone mad? or mad in a world that is sane?’
I have had time to rest—and to pray—and my reason no longer is vext
By the spirit that hangs you one day, and would hail you as martyr the next.

Are the fields of my fancy less fair through a window that’s narrowed and barred?
Are the morning stars dimmed by the glare of the gas-light that flares in the yard?
No! And what does it matter to me if to-morrow I sail from the land?
I am free, as I never was free! I exult in my loneliness grand!

Be a saint and a saviour of men—be a Christ, and they’ll slander and rail!
Only Crime’s understood in the world, and a man is respected—in gaol.
But I find in my raving a balm—in the worst that has come to the worst—
Let me think of it all—I grow calm—let me think it all out from the first.

Beyond the horizon of Self do the walls of my prison retreat,
And I stand in a gap of the hills with the scene of my life at my feet;
The range to the west, and the Peak, and the marsh where the dark ridges end,
And the spurs running down to the Creek, and the she-oaks that sigh in the bend.
The hints of the river below; and, away on the azure and green,
The old goldfield of Specimen Flat, and the township—a blotch on the scene;
The store, the hotels, and the bank—and the gaol and the people who come
With the weatherboard box and the tank—the Australian idea of home:

The scribe—spirit-broken; the ‘wreck,’ in his might-have-been or shame;
The townsman ‘respected’ or worthy; the workman respectful and tame;
The boss of the pub with his fine sense of honour, grown moral and stout,
Like the spielers who came with the ‘line,’ on the cheques that were made farther out.

The clever young churchman, despised by the swaggering, popular man;
The doctor with hands clasped behind, and bowed head, as if under a ban;
The one man with the brains—with the power to lead, unsuspected and dumb,
Whom Fate sets apart for the Hour—the man for the hour that might come.

The old local liar whose story was ancient when Egypt was young,
And the gossip who hangs on the fence and poisons God’s world with her tongue;
The haggard bush mother who’d nag, though a husband or child be divine,
And who takes a fierce joy in a rag of the clothes on the newcomer’s line.

And a lad with a cloud on his heart who was lost in a world vague and dim—
No one dreamed as he drifted apart that ’twas genius the matter with him;
Who was doomed, in that ignorant hole, to its spiritless level to sink,
Till the iron had entered his soul, and his brain found a refuge in drink.

Perhaps I was bitter because of the tongues of disgrace in the town—
Of a boy-nature misunderstood and its nobler ambitions sneered

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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They Know That They Don't Know

They know that they don't know!
And their opinions discloses the evidence.
Most of their knowledge has been obtained,
By innuendos and nonsense.
Leaving them exposed,
To an ignorance that shows.

They know that they don't know!
And any actions taken to comprehend...
Becomes entrapped by an inferiority,
Felt within them.

And that which escapes their understanding...
Is left out of their reach.
Although very close...
Are those answers they seek most.
But quick they fold their arms to their chests,
With stubborn hands to express...
Their choice not to hear,
What for them is best!

Declaring they wish not to listen...
Because facts distracts,
A consciousness they lack!

They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it...
And spread those rumors made to fit,
Those ears that are as limited!

They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it...
And spread those rumors made to fit,
Those ears that are as limited!

They know that they don't know,
With their minds closed.
They know that they don't know,
With their minds closed.
They know that they don't know,
With their minds closed.
And spread those rumors made to fit,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The White Bull

Ev'ry dusk eye in Madrid,
Flash'd blue 'neath its lid;
As the cry and the clamour ran round,
'The king has been crown'd!
And the brow of his bride has been bound
With the crown of a queen!'
And between
Te Deum and salvo, the roar
Of the crowd in the square,
Shook tower and bastion and door,
And the marble of altar and floor;
And high in the air,
The wreaths of the incense were driven
To and fro, as are riven
The leaves of a lily, and cast
By the jubilant shout of the blast
To and fro, to and fro,
And they fell in the chancel and nave,
As the lily falls back on the wave,
And trembl'd and faded and died,
As the white petals tremble and shiver,
And fade in the tide
Of the jewel dark breast of the river.

'Ho, gossips, the wonderful news!
I have worn two holes in my shoes,
With the race I have run;
And, like an old grape in the sun,
I am shrivell'd with drought, for I ran
Like an antelope rather than man.
Our King is a king of Spaniards indeed,
And he loves to see the bold bull bleed;
And the Queen is a queen, by the saints right fit,
In half of the Spanish throne to sit;
Tho' blue her eyes and wanly fair,
Her cheek, and her neck, and her flaxen hair;
For free and full--
She can laugh as she watches the staggering bull;
And tap on the jewels of her fan,
While horse and man,
Reel on in a ruby rain of gore;
And pout her lip at the Toreador;
And fling a jest
If he leave the fight with unsullied vest,
No crack on his skin,
Where the bull's sharp horn has entered in.
Caramba, gossips, I would not be king,
And rule and reign
Over wine-shop, and palace, and all broad Spain,
If under my wing--

[...] Read more

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Short Term Gossip And The Gossip Hounds

Are people really so bored
with their own lives
especially in small rural towns
that other people's lives
must become common
run away gossip oh so much
more interesting than
theirs own off limits lives?

Nosy people are basically
exactly that just nosy
nosy people need
little provocation
little scent incentive
bait bloodhound
encouragement
to engage actively in
their favourite pass time.

But secretly
most people
are short term gossip
really they do not
care that much
most people
are rapid ready
to move on to
choice fresh gossip.

Thus it does not
leave many gossips
too worry about
the real blooded hound
an aristocratic sleuth
has a nose for trouble
prepared ever ready
to dig into choice dirt.

These specimens
of active inquiry
may be bothersome
when out about
on preferred case
when their nose
is out of joint
two strains truth
black and white
may be spiced
with imaginative
shades of grey.

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Kitchen Bitches

Round table they all meet, set up in the kitchen.
They had a book highlighted with their so call friends name,
They all did their homework report and came to tell about the information that they've gather.
Pour their tea ready to talk about anecdotes,
the conversation is backbiting about their friends life

The kitchens bitches spread intimating rumors about they friends who live way better than the kitchen bitches

They begin with 'word of the mouth is! '
They love to gossip, it is like a rush they need every week,
this meeting make them feel good about themselves and also put them in the right mood

'Gossip conference is over, so next week lets meet at a new location! '
Their small minds discuss people, but they're blind to see that they own life is more mess up than anyone on the block.

Kitchen bitches only dislike gossip is when you gossip about them.
Ever member of the kitchen bitches even talk about the misssing member when they move to a different kitchen.

poem by Brittany Wongus
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Penguin Conference

Three prying penguins clustered close,
Their gossip to relay
And almost standing nose-to-nose,
So secrets couldn't stray!
And so began their chinwag there,
Their raucous rendezvous,
With all the latest they could share,
Like naughty penguins do!

Nobody's safe from prying eyes
And there's the living proof!
Three spying penguins seem so wise
Just 'cos they know the truth!
Nobody trusts a single one!
Nobody calls them friends!
You see the gossips have their fun
At everyone's expense!

The pensive penguins pay no heed,
Addicted as they are,
To others and their every deed,
No matter, near or far!
Their conference is all they've got,
For friends they've found and lost...
And though their gossip's sometimes hot,
They, too, must pay the cost...

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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The Three Gossips' Wager

AS o'er their wine one day, three gossips sat,
Discoursing various pranks in pleasant chat,
Each had a loving friend, and two of these
Most clearly managed matters at their ease.

SAID one, a princely husband I have got.
A better in the world there's surely not;
With him I can adjust as humour fits,
No need to rise at early dawn, like cits,
To prove to him that two and three make four,
Or ask his leave to ope or shut the door.

UPON my word, replied another fair,
If he were mine, I openly declare,
To judge from what so pleasantly you say,
I'd make a present of him new-year's day.
For pleasure never gives me full delight,
Unless a little pain the bliss invite.
No doubt your husband moves as he is led;
Thank heav'n a different mortal claims my bed;
To take him in, great nicety we need;
But howsoe'er, at times I can succeed;
The satisfaction doubly then is felt:--
In fond emotion bosoms freely melt.
With neither of you, husband or gallant,
Would I exchange, though these so much you vaunt.

ON this, the third with candour interfer'd;
She thought that oft the god of love appear'd,
Good husbands playfully to fret and vex,
Sometimes to rally couples: then perplex;
But warmer as the conversation grew,
She, anxious that each disputant might view
Herself victorious, (or believe it so,)
Exclaim'd, if either of you wish to show
Who's in the right, with argument have done,
And let us practise some new scheme of fun,
To dupe our husbands; she who don't succeed
Shall pay a forfeit; all replied, "Agreed."
But then, continued she, we ought to take
An oath, that we will full discov'ry make,
To one another of the various facts,
Without disguising even trifling acts.
And then, good upright Macae shall decide;
Thus things arrang'd, the ladies homeward plied.

SHE, 'mong the three, who felt the most constraint
Ador'd a youth, contemporaries paint,
Well made and handsome, but with beardless chin,
Which led the pair a project to begin;

[...] Read more

poem by La Fontaine
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Gossips warning

Gossips warning
~
The forked tongue of the gossip
Carries a serpents poison
Spreading words with malice
Without truth or substance
The thought they conceive
Birth pain and hatred in the innocent
Lies, lies and more lies
All in the name of a good story
Little whispers and messages
Behind the back of others
May as well be sharpened knives
Et tu good friend
No look to the eyes
No questions for honesty
Just the vile poisoned tongue
The bile of the gossip
Now facing a stark warning
Do not cross the poet

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Gossips Of Beauty

Have heard the gossips of your beauty
Have heard and now have seen, it's all true
That your beauty would make even the most
Chaste of men think of impurity
And I in number of too many
Suffer this burden of chastity the most
From the moment I cast my eyes upon your beauty
Indeed maiden, your beauty worth the gossips.

poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Love in the Valley

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,
Couched with her arms behind her golden head,
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,
Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,
Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:
Then would she hold me and never let me go?

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,
Swift as the swallow along the river's light
Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets,
Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,
Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,
Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,
Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,
More love should I have, and much less care.
When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror,
Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,
Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,
I should miss but one for many boys and girls.

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows
Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.
No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:
Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.
Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure,
Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:
Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones
Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping
Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.
Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,
Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.
Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting:
So were it with me if forgetting could be willed.
Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,
Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,
Arm in arm, all against the raying West
Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,
Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed.
Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
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The Double-Headed Snake of Newbury

Far away in the twilight time
Of every people, in every clime,
Dragons and griffins and monsters dire,
Born of water, and air, and fire,
Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud
And ooze of the old Deucalion flood,
Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage,
Through dusk tradition and ballad age.
So from the childhood of Newbury town
And its time of fable the tale comes down
Of a terror which haunted bush and brake,
The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake!

Thou who makest the tale thy mirth,
Consider that strip of Christian earth
On the desolate shore of a sailless sea,
Full of terror and mystery,
Half redeemed from the evil hold
Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old,
Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew
When Time was young, and the world was new,
And wove its shadows with sun and moon,
Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn.
Think of the sea's dread monotone,
Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood blown,
Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North,
Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth,
And the dismal tales the Indian told,
Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold,
And he shrank from the tawny wizard boasts,
And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts,
And above, below, and on every side,
The fear of his creed seemed verified;-
And think, if his lot were now thine own,
To grope with terrors nor named nor known,
How laxer muscle and weaker nerve
And a feebler faith thy need might serve;
And own to thyself the wonder more
That the snake had two heads, and not a score!

Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen
Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den,
Or swam in the wooded Artichoke,
Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock,
Nothing on record is left to show;
Only the fact that be lived, we know,
And left the cast of a double head
In the scaly mask which he yearly shed.
For he carried a head where his tail should be,
And the two, of course, could never agree,

[...] Read more

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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We are interested in the people

Gossip is not all false.
It contains some truth.
To gossip and to hear gossip,
Each one of us is interested,
A sign that we are interested
In the people around us.
19.06.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Reality Shows Tells Us Gossip

In this planetary dream
we have gossip which can get extreme.
It puts us in a more living hell
for people on reality shows have to tell
tell something bad to bring up the ratings
do something drama filled to be degrading.
But this puts us all into more of a living hell
we don't know this but we learned it well.
We learned when we where young
when our lives had just begun.
We learned to gossip to make us feel better
by listening to adults go on about people to the letter
Gossip gets old really fast—
ruined relationships that never last.
Why not more funny shows—
the kind where there are actors that nobody knows.
There is of course these shows that make you think
not hearing about someone else's stink.

Written By Christina Sunrise on March 8,2012

poem by Christina Sunrise
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Old Town Types No.2 - Red Matt

He gleaned all the gossip and he gathered all the news,
Mad Matt, the carrier, delivering the grub;
He knew the trooper's tattle and he knew the parson's views,
The gossip at the station-yard, the gossip at the pub.
That high-pitched voice of his, the loudest voice in town,
That shrewd blue eye of his, with humor all a-gleam -
Old Red Matt, with his cabbage-tree hat,
His trolley, and his two-horse team.

Driving down the main street a-clatter with his load,
The great red beard of him blowing out behind:
'Hear about that accident's mornin' up the road?
Hear about the gold rush at Joe Scott's find?
Warmish sort o' day we got; thirsty weather this.
Got a bag o' spuds for you - Dang! Fergot the cream!'
Says old Red Matt with his cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.

Mad Matt, the carrier, standing at the bar:
'Well here's a go, boys. Got to get along
Seven pints I've had today and still to travel far.
Drink fast and drive fast, yeh can't go wrong.
Fill 'em up again, boss, ans hove it on the slate.
Half-a-ton aboard today - just tipped the beam,'
Says old red Matt with the cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.

Sudden were his wild ways, sudden, too, his end.
Jumped to grab a bolting team with kiddie sin the trap;
And they picked up Mad Matt, everybody's friend,
Silent now and broken; and they said, 'Brave chap.
Wild an' all,' they said of him, 'always was a white man.'
And they laid him, with a blessing, where his old mates dream,
Saying, 'So long, Matt, with your cabbage-tree hat,
And your trolley, and your two-horse team.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ethel And The Streaker (Fun Poem 82)

Based on characters created by Ray Stevens in his song The Streak.

Now Ethel was doing her shopping
with here friend Maizey-Be,
the local gossip of the community.
As they pushed their trolleys to the car
when someone shouted,
“Don’t look ladies! ”
It was too late;
Ethel looked and was moved on the spot.
Her mouth dropped open with absolute shock.
There darting across the car park
in all his naked glory with a saggy physic
was a streaker.
Maizey-Be saw him too
and fainted to the ground.
As fast as he came
the streaker was now gone.

Ethel was in the library
with her friend Maizey-Be,
the local gossip of the community.
They just picked a book from the shelf
when someone shouted,
“Don’t look Ladies.”
It was too late, Ethel already had an eye full
and was moved on the spot and dropped her book
the streaker came running
through the isle between the bookcases
in all his saggy glory.
Maizey-Be saw him too
and fainted on the floor
as the streaker rushed by
and disappeared out the door.

Ethel was at a baseball game
with her friend Maizey-Be,
the local gossip of the community.
As they watched, the batter hit a ball into out field
someone shouted,
“Ladies don’t look! ”
Too late, Ethel looked with her binoculars
and was moved on the spot.
The streaker was her beloved
husband Fred Trotalot.
He was showing everyone
more than she had seen in years
as he streaked around the diamond
to the home base.

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
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In The Land Of Gossip

I cannot be with you people because,
You are living in the land of Gossip.

A man takes a story and twists it to another,
A woman takes a story and twists it around!

Hatred and jealousy then becomes the order of the day,
And, that is what i see among you people.

For, others are also ready to insult and fight each other! !
So, i cannot be with you people in this land of Gossip.

You know the laws and, they are always around you people!
But, gossip had been the order of the day;
Destroying brothers and sisters in the faith.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Defending This Diminishes Quick

Indifference is a global threat.
Too busy sipping is a global threat.
And finding the time to wine and dine...
And complaining about neighbors,
In gossip is a crime.

Indifference is a global threat.
Too busy sipping is a global threat.
And finding the time to wine and dine...
And complaining about neighbors,
In gossip...
Is a crime.

And people who do nothing but sit on stoops...
With a hoop all day that's hollered,
Is crude and rude.
And children overseeing this,
Think these attitudes done...
Are cool to copy too.

Romancing what they do is sick.
And defending this diminishes quick.
Especially in the doing of it...
Is considered and respected,
As nobody's business!

Indifference is a global threat.
Too busy sipping is a global threat.
And finding the time to wine and dine...
And complaining about neighbors,
In gossip...
Is a crime.

And children overseeing this,
Think these attitudes done...
Are cool to copy too.
And showing them the opposite...
Will get the rolling of eyes,
And frowning lips.

Romancing what they do is sick.
And defending this diminishes quick.
Especially in the doing of it...
Is considered and respected,
As nobody's business!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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