| dim all the lights - wow
Posted: 11/1/2007 9:52:10 AM | Poets and hot air
It seems poets do not need to worry
About the world ending in a hurry and flurry
They do need to worry about an energy crisis
Or inflationary world wide oil prices
They have their muses to keep them glad
And admirers who are not normally sad
They don't need to worry about feeling hot
They can keep themselves warm by talking rot
These writers of verse won't feel the cold
They have warmth deep within their souls
They will gather to gather in a poetic ring
They will warm their hearts as each other sings
From poets we can see hot air wafting
As they are composing and continually crafting
Their love for humanity and their fellow beings
Is a joy to behold a delight worth seeing
The art of poetry and the obvious love that it gives
Will give succour to poets no matter where they live
The rest of us plebs will just have to wait and see
The chill winds of the ice age creeping up on me
Oh wonderous admirers blow hot air my way
Keep me warm on this cold autumn day
Surround me to with great praise and greetings
Then I too may turn down the central heating | |
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| dim all the lights - wow
Posted: 11/1/2007 9:57:04 AM | Oh Bird
How truely wonderful thou art. It does me such joy to read thy art. My heart bleeds for you when you feel chill winds. I think you might get warmth from your sins.
Stir the shit* gently
Stir the shit* hard
Move it around
Don't discard
Feel the texture
Feel the rough
Sometimes it seems
The shit* is so tough
Stir up the mix
Stir it again
Shit* from the bird
Is surely a pain
The wire | |
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| dim all the lights - wow
Posted: 11/1/2007 10:35:51 AM | Oh Oh Oh Boy Bird, boy do you know your shit* of what!
I sit on the toilet
I have a shite
I sit and I think
I read and I write
On this seat of learning
I find some lost heart
When I muse in between
Exploding farts
I do my best work
Sitting on the throne
I wonder if you worked
That out all on your own
My gutteral humour
It has an edge
As I have a crap
And let go of the veg
My face is contorted
As I push and squeeze
I try to write
With paper on my knees
The magic mushrooms
That went to my head
Now look up at me
On the pan, dead
The inspiration I get
From my ebullitions
Will help me start
The next revolution
I wonder if we poets
Get all our inspiration
With a little touch
of perspiration
If that is the case
Will our next sensation
Be the result of dire
Constipation
Oh Wire, purely purile, you have a certain way with words! | |
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| dim all the lights - wow
Posted: 11/1/2007 10:49:49 AM | Toilet Humour #2
The poets soars as he sits on the seat
With his trousers doon around his feet
His task is not done it is not complete
Until he has wiped the toilet seat
His poetry finished he can give a gasp
As the winds of agony seek to pass
The curry and rice has inspired his toil
The vindalooo has made his blood boil
The Lord of the John writes with lots of passion
He can often be heard signing with compassion
Then now and again he shouts when on the brink
I have got a floater, the thing won't sink | |
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| dim all the lights - wow
Posted: 11/1/2007 12:04:41 PM | Bold or Bowled?! That is the question? Toilet Humour #3 (The begining of an epic)
The toilet bowl is so appealing
It has visions that are so revealing
Like a crystal ball in the Gypsies den
The toilet bowl is your best friend
If I may be so courageous and perhaps so bold
To divulge more about the toilet bowl
This seat is a pedestal it has a higher purpose
It is not just for removing wasteful surplus
This piece of vitreous enamel is quite unique
Where else do you get a private seat
It once cost the user just one pence
You could sit for hours and pretend to be dense
Your mum would shout something obscene
Get out of there and make sure your bums clean
Toilets were what made budding poets class
It was where their heads were discovered up their ass
My da would go in and read the daily news
Have a smoke of Woodbine or was it Blues
It was the one place privacy was guaranteed
The toilet was the place one could be free
Freedom is an ideal you have heard me shout
Now you know where it first came about
I found my freedom in the seat of learning
Throwing up, my stomach wretching and churning
For all you sages who have scholarly teachings
I listen to you wise men constantly preaching
But I know the secret to eliminate intellectual fog
It's thinking of you having a crap, sitting on the bog
When I think of my professors those so esteemed
If they spoke down to me then I would dream
I would visualise them sitting with their trusers doon
Sitting on the bog and their bums all broon
These pompus pricks could not undestand why
Why when they ridiculed me I would not cry
I would imagine them sitting on the John
Their pomp and ceremony was suddenly gone
I invite all your budding poets to prey tell
You individual story leave out no unkind smell
Of how when you thought of your one great story
It was sitting with a fag on the top of old glory | |
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| dim all the lights - wow
Posted: 11/1/2007 12:25:19 PM | Scarlett777
Welcome, Welcome Scarlett to my feeble thread, your incisive and decisive comments were truely awesome, such clarity of mind, such wisdom and such beauty in poetry. I am your servant, do with me what you will. Speak to me once more Goddess, speak I beseach thee, speak! Let your great wisdom shine on me that I may be a better and more humble man.
And as Christie Moore says "Don't foget your shovel!" which neatly falls into tonights theme of bog standard humour. Welcome, once again welcome. | |
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| I am an artist
Posted: 11/1/2007 1:04:35 PM | I am an artist
I am an artist
I don't care what you say
I have a style
Which goes it's own way
The style is from Belfast
The city of wall paintings
And now and again
Knee cap faintings
In my home town
I would have my own title
But I am not unique
There is a large cycle
Of old ones and young ones
Who are just as able as I
Who can pull out their willies
And pee high in the sky
Yes I am a piss artist
I have earned the right
I will take the piss
Out of you all through the night
You will not know
If you are coming or going
If I am being truthful
Or if lies I am sowing
I wear a mask
To disguise my true intentions
I don't want you to know
If my views are inventions
I will take the micky
And play the fool
If you think i am simple
More fool you
This piss artist comes
With numerous qualifications
And quite a few
Prevarications
So don't be annoyed
Or clench your fist
It's only me
Taking the piss | |
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| Lawyers?
Posted: 11/2/2007 2:29:52 PM | Lawyers?
I wonder what we all would do
If without lawyers we could sue
If we could get direct access to the law
Would that be such a terrible flaw
No solicitors and barristers both to pay
In court we would surely have our day
Instead these "buggers" rip us off
They think the public is stupid, just a bit soft
Their fees are astronmical, their service is poor
They inflate their charges of that I'm sure
The number of hours they manage to run up
I wonder if every solicitor is corrupt
They drag out the service right to the end
Where two partners can never be friends
Why settle early when you can settle late
Why restrain the horse when you can bolt the gate
They connieve and plot and together scheme
It's all part of the legal machine
Get the idiots onto the steps of the court
Keep them waiting all day and then we will abort
Four sets of fees to pay to get a decision
Without any judge to lend precision
Often I wonder who are the real crooks
Those in prison or those with legal books
They use terminology to seek to confuse
They never tell you directly that you will lose
They feed and stoke and agitate
Soon the two parties start to hate
The main beneficaries of the judicial game
Are both sets of laywers isn't that a shame
They always make sure you have got financial cover
If that's not the case they don't want to bovver
The law is not cheap to get a judicial decision
Seek legal aid and you will soon get derision
Their incompetence astounds even me
They turn up late and have no courtesy
They treat us all like some sort of fools
Just because we don't know legal rules
The Law Society has become a real joke
Just ask the miners thousands of deceived folk
The legal practicioners running their rackets
Took the compensation out of the miners pay packets
Not content with taking the government payments
The solicitors decided these were insufficent
Hundred and millions of pounds were usurped
By thiefing solicitors acting like Wild Eurp
You don't need to dawn a mask to become a robber
Just train for four years to become a lawyer | |
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| I love to hate
Posted: 11/3/2007 5:05:01 AM | I love to hate
I love to hate
Those that legislate
Those gormless members
Without glowing embers
Where have the political characters gone
No one left to sing their song
Who know's where and when
We will find another Anthony Benn
No matter where he sat in Westminster Palace
Here was a man who sough to harrass
To fight for truth and for everyman's justice
Irrespective of any personal loss
Strong in the traditions of the Methodist Church
Armed with God, a strong arm and a brush
Knowledge and intellectual debate made his enemies curse
Restricted in promotion they could do no worse
Men like Connor Cruise O'Brien
Now all sadly moving towards the dying
He took on pre-conceptions and romantic historians
He stood on a pedestal like a Roman Centurian
Where are all the brand new stars
Drinking freebies in the Parilamentry Bars
How many can you happen to name
Their anonimity does them great shame
Political yes men doing their bosses bidding
No strong convictions worth a chiding
Controversially and love him or hate him
Enoch Powell shone greatly above them
Forthright and not afraid of stirring the pot
Was he right, did he hit the spot?
Unimportant if he was correct or not
He spoke of his convictions and accepted his lot
He gave the electorate a chance to rage
To know his views and kick him of the stage
Pray tell me for what do Labour and Tory's stand
I simply don't know shouts come from across the land
It's all become a matter of presentation
They think everyone is stupid in the nation
What would Ben Disraeli think
About the current political sink
Would Bill Gladstone be more impressed
By looking down upon the rest
David Lloyd George might be verbose
Looking at the political morose
Even Margaret Thatcher illicited conversation
She managed to divide and split a nation
What have we left now to see
Apathy and men most ordinary
The politics of the undivided
No more are things now two sided
No more left and now no right
The centre now has all the political might
No more convictions held deep and true
No more red and no more blue
No serious intellectual debate
No fantastic political figures there to hate
Now the only political necessity
Is to do what ever is a media necessary
What ever the public seem to want
Then tell then it simply and in a rant
Do not lead from the political front
Hide behind the National Front
The public are there just for derision
Much more important is the televsion
Politicians play to the world media
Sounding like they swallowed an encyclopedia
So many words not much sense
But then again they think the public is dense
They get caught in embarrasing positions
But will never resign their commissions
They present us with incorrect figures and facts
Never ever do they face the sack
They take young boys into dark shady parks
Then tell their wives it was just a lark
They borrow money for their their large domains
Then tell lies about their financial gains
They can get you a passport in a hurry
If you happen to like spicy curry
Their husbands are allowed to wheel and deal
The Italian police however think that they steal
They chastise the public for no moral compass
Whilst the Prime Minister gets his bit of ass
They smoked dope whilst studying at Oxbridge
Then try to tell us what to keep in our fridge
They close down multi million pound investiagtions
When it might embarrass the Saudi nation
They tell us nuclear weapons are quickly coming
As they start the war beats drumming
After twelve years in charge of policy
They are never to blame, it's just a falacy
They draw down salaries and massive pensions
Then they refuse to tell us their intentions
They slate the media for all their ills
Then they secretly pop wierd pills
When they take drugs it was a bit of fun
When they drink it just the one
When they go in front of the local magistrates
They don't get convicted it's so irate
They demand special gratuitous attention
They break every rule and norm and convention
Then they chastise us for voter apathy
The whole bunch are a Fu*cking calamity
Right or left
Parliament is bereft
No more strong enigmatic creatures
Only those with no intellectual features
They lead our once proud nation
Towards alienation and stagnation
Increasingly they chop and change
Laws they just recently re-arranged
How many goes do they need to get right
Legilsation to prove their might
They don't admit their many mistakes
We know them however for they are fakes
To much increasing and detailed legislation
Leading to rapid human stagnation
Freedom once common is now minimised
By Parliamentary and political disguise
Individuals have lost the will
To be an individual
Why try to use your iniative and brains
It's only the tax man who will gain
Do not dare to take on the government bosses
Or ever criticise their economic losses
Anyway its not really their loss
That's the way they will present the gloss
They will manufactuer and circumvent
All manner of circumstances in order to prevent
Scrutiny by auditors or public commission
Into their public and those of Lords commissions
You can buy a seat in the House of Lords
Just give Tony Blair a couple of bob
Ask Bertie Ahrene were he got his money
He can't remember now isn't that funny
I think there should come a time
When politicians should be undermined
That time I think has now has come
And so I will keep on as I have begun | |
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| Isn't she a lovely baby
Posted: 11/3/2007 11:10:54 AM | Isn't she a lovely baby
The baby sleeping soundly in the pram
Has no inclination and was not alarmed
Sweet dreams and thoughts of other worlds
Wrapped in blankets, warm in her curl
Suddenly she is overcome with a terrible forboding
Sheer panic rises as she imagines freeloading
She realises with intuition that something is pending
She can smell the fear of her mother pretending
Then with the blanket removed and the feel of the chill wind
Baby looks up and sees this hideous grin
Out of her pram she is lifted quite abrupt
Flashing bright lights and shutter speeds erupt
What has intervened to spoil the infant's slumber
As two hands bend down and up baby lumbers
A shriek is let out as the baby recognises
The man from the TV there are no disguises
Held in a most uncomfortable embrace
The child is pressed to the man's gleaming face
Camers go biserk and the media shout out
Give it a kiss, hold the baby out!
The infant smells the man's putrid stench
Like a man digging graves coming out of the trench
Baby has been usurped and become a photo opportunity
As the grinning older man promises to help the community
Look he says I am a friend of you all here
Come with me to the pub and I'll buy you a few beers
Of he goes and he buys the crowd a few drinks
Only one notices the receipt and quietly thinks
Baby has seen it all a million times in the past
The political animal has did not buy them a glass
He got re-compense and his expense account was repaid
And once more again the electorate got waylaid
The baby was released unharmed but shaken
But it took an innocent to see who was faking | |
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| Remembrance Day
Posted: 11/4/2007 4:35:28 AM | Remembrance Day
The flower peaked out over the top
Radiant and orange for a moment it stopped
It waivered and waited and sought a cue
As it waited it was joined by another one or two
Then more of the same flowers could be seen
They were orange and red with leaves of green
In the still of the morning when all was deadly hush
Flowers started adorning before the rush
A landscape so bare and oh so barren
Nobody had dared cross this rabbit warren
Secured in their trenches they waited nervously for days
Young men silently would close their eyes and pray
Safe from the guns in their dug outs and caves
Over the hill waited the Huns for those young and brave
Lads only turned seventeen would soon walk to their graves
Death and honour prefered but not to be slaves
Looking out over the top for a peak
With a flower on their hat they would nervously seek
Others wore the flowers around their neck
Distributing Orange lillies from old rugged sacks
Then all of a sudden the sashes appeared
Young men sang out and others wildly cheered
They remembered battles of days of yore
And in that moment there was a fierce roar
Songs of the past broke through the silent morn
As Ulstermen sang and the Huns poured scorn
Rifles were lifted and bravado was high
It was the 1916 on the 1st of July
The Battle fo the Somme was about to commence
Ulstermen would face bullets climbing over the fence
The Ulster Division with death on its mind
Pretended to itself that everything would be fine
Unbeknown to them that in a few days time
Several thousand lads would be buried below lime
As the whistles blew out and the charge was mounted
Up went the flutes and and a bagpipe sounded
The Ulstermen and men from County Monaghan
Where joned by fellow Irishmen and men from Cavan
Young men from South and the North gigged and danced
Striving to bring freedom and to liberate France
The orange lily mounted on collarettes
A few even were worn on officers epulates
Shining bright orange and handsome in Flanders fields
As the men wearing the lillis swore never to yield
The Kaisers Guns which had been lying in wait
Awoke with might and Ulstermen walked to their fate
The fury of slaughter was a frightening sight
Bravado was cut down by the German might
Whole streets and roads lost men and sons
As Ulstermen did Thiepval Wood overrun
Great numbers departed from the face of the earth
Lads who would never return to the place of their birth
Destroyed a small nation who gave up their own
To the service of Europe and to God and the Throne
The death of those men at the battle of the Somme
Wiped out a whole generation for many years long
On the first of July as each year passes on
We march and we dance and remember those who are gone
Now this time of remembrance once again comes around
On the 11 November when the leaves are on the ground
It's easy to forget and be critical of the past
To forget many heros whose lives did not last
It was not poppies which were found lying in Flanders
It was descimated lillies torn, blood red and in sunders
The orange lillies are now exchanged for poppies of red
Which we wear proudly to remember our brave dead
Would I give my life for you and my neighbours
Would I risk my health for all that life savours
Would I enlist to ensure that my children
Maintained freedoms and justice in our dominion
I can't answer but I know there was no prescription
The men of Ulster enlisted without conscription
All Volunteers every man jack and son
They died for freedom under Germany's gun
When the Flanders poppy is displayed soon at commemorations
Remember dead Ulstermen helped create the league of nations
4 November 2007 | |
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| Blow the bugle
Posted: 11/4/2007 10:24:12 AM | Blow the Bugle
Blow the bugle sofly boys
Blow the bugle soft
Let the notes ring out
Proudly boys
Let the notes ring out
See the old comrades walk on past
See them march in step
Blow the bugles gentle boys
Never ever please forget
Men walking with their aids
Older men pushed in chairs
Men with their limbs missing
Helping each other walk in pairs
The men file past the Cenataph
They shuffle across the pavement
Everyone with memories of long lost friends
Everyone suffering from bereavement
Men aged seventy and eighty
File past
All served in several engagements
From Burma to Egypt
From Normandy to Iraq
Here today for meaningful arrangements
Old friends encountered
Old buddies rejoined
All one year closer to death
All with tears on their face
And sorrow in their heart
Remembering comrades left
With both pride and sorrow
They match to the drum
And then quietly
Come standing
The Last Post is played
Not another sound to be heard
Except for the silence of tears
The regular soldiers
Look on upon
Old giants without any fears
Some gave a lot
Some gave all
Some can now barely stand
Yet once every year
On Armistice Day
They march to the army band
Play the notes softly
Play the notes clear
Play just one more time
With every note
With every sound
The old soldiers form in a line
The wreaths are laid
The prayers are said
A minute is offered in silence
Old men look
To the younger ones around
On them there is now reliance
Then
The band strikes up
The bass drum quickens
The tempo and pace increase
Old men find life
From deep within
And a smile is quickly released
A toothless grin
Recogonises the march
Heard a hundred times before
Without a thought
Their chests swell up
To fill old blazers, some now tore
Down the Mall
They march in time
Remembering
And weeping
Of other times
Wishing that Joe
And Bertie and Jim
Could be with them
To exchange a grin
Past the Cenataph
Past the playing brasses
Past the dignataires
They march with their bus passes
Who off us who has not served
Could ever would ever have the nerve
To remove this day from those who remain
Who today remember with so much pain | |
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| Self parody
Posted: 11/5/2007 10:33:07 AM | Pretentious Poets
Pretentious poets are all fecking crass
They have their heads up their own ass
They pontificate, they write in verse
They make me sick and I have to curse
Words they use I can't comprehend
Seem so easily to flow from their pen
Why say one word when you can say four
Reading shite is such a bore
They all seem to be approaching eighty
Ricketty legs and minds that are flakey
Even the younger ones need a good kicking
They are all so nice it's thoroughly sickening
I would love to smack one in the gob
It would be worth a fine and pay a few bob
To threaten a poet to stop writing verse
Go get a proper job, perhaps become a nurse
They all act so high and mighty
Some still talk of England as dear old blighty
They all wear beige and don stupid hats
They are unwashed, unclean and always fat
They drink the best wines and scoff French cheeses
They then go and write something to try and please us
Apparently the moon is a goddess from above
The earth is a living being with snow white doves
Oh good God have you ever read such crap
If they were my kids I would fetch the strap
If my kids use words of more than two syllabils
I will shout and scream and pop strange pills
If they can't tell me in one simple sentance
I will get my gun and then seek repentance
I think poets should be rounded up and jailed
There they could write and weep and wail
Their anquish would be genuine and their tears would be real
They could languish in prison until old and frail
OK I'm heartless they are an innocent enough bunch
But I ask you would you ever do lunch
With some old geezer who speaks in rhymn
When he tells you he loves you and you should be entwined
I think we must humour this section of society
And ignore their pleas to attain notoriety
They are all a bit simple possibly pointless
And no doubt they consider me thoroughly charmless
But come on guys start to get real
Poetry is for wimps, real guys absail
Let us be honest the only time guys write prose
Is when they are trying to get a woman
To take of her clothes | |
|
| Gentile Ladies
Posted: 11/5/2007 10:49:22 AM | Gentile Ladies
Gentile ladies walking their puppies
Little French poodles, curly and fluffy
Walking the pavement, looking around
Oops,
Puppy drops something that is smelly and brown
Madam looks askance her face goes crimson red
Out comes the poop scoop she keeps in the shed
With a flick of the wrist to be revered
The puppies left overs have instantly disappeared
Her little plastic bag is completely disposable
It will go on the compost heap which is compostible
Compare and contrast this with the Belfast streets
Where mounds of dung are piled up in huge heaps
The dogs drop whoppers and you must be take care
Where you put your feet and what you wear
Don't wear sandals or classey brogues with your suits
I swear when in Belfast better wear wellington boots
Here the lady would have to take different measures
When she decides to walk her precious, her little treasure
She should walk not with a bag but a wheelie bin
Which mangy dogs could fill to the brim | |
|
| What If
Posted: 11/5/2007 1:45:01 PM | If you are going to be offended, don't read on!
What If
I hated blacks
I detested spicks
I despised prods
I disliked micks
What if
I hated the Irish
I detested the Brits
I despised the Yankies
I disliked the Fritz
What if
I hated Capitalists
I detested the reds
I despised the Chinese
I disliked the Feds
What if
I hated women
I detested transexuals
I despised queers
I disliked bisexuals
What if
I hated my father
I detested my mother
I despised sister
I disliked my brother
What if
I hated the elderly
I detested the young
I despised disabled
I disliked Jung
What if
I hated burgers
I detested beef
I despised fish
I disliked green leaf
What if
I hate with a passion
Politicians who lecture and preach
Who lay down their statutes
Who curtail freedom of speech | |
|
| Mr Subtle
Posted: 11/5/2007 2:13:15 PM | Mr Subtle
Subtlety is my middle name
I think you might have guessed
It is the one virtue that I have
The one which I have been blessed
My delicate arguements
Are like fine wine
I am always oh so positive
I very rarely whine
My contributions are always subtle
You can savour them on your tongue
They should be digested slowly
So you can see what is being sung
I'm eager to expain my insuccint views
To anyone who might be slightly confused
I'm so diplomatic I should join the corp
I could get posted to some foreign war
I would smooth egos and massage those who hate
With my temporate views I would help sedate
I would never call you an infidel pig
Or shout out "Look at baldie wearing a wig"
I would call every man by his proper colour
And name everyone by their distinguishing feature
My opinions I would keep to myself
Except for those Bas*ar*s with so much wealth
I would show refinement and deportment too
When you wanted to make love and I wanted to screw
Subtlety is my middle name you would never know it
It's my claim to fame
That's why when I attend the charity ball
I can very quickly empty the hall
delicate, elusive, | |
|
| Economic Migrants
Posted: 11/6/2007 2:47:29 AM | Economic Migrants
The Poles and Slovaks have arrived on mass
To give the locals a kick up the ass
Every morning at the break of dawn
Up they get and out they are gone
No lying on in their beds throwing a sickie
Or taking the day off just to have a quickie
No lounging and sponging off the state
Getting their finger out so they won't be late
Of to the factories and the industrial estates
These lads walk and for the buses wait
They don their coats, their boots and their hats
They do more work than the Billys or the Pats
They do the jobs that the locals won't do
They are pleasent, mannerly and industrious too
Their arrival has caused problems for the infrastructure
But the economy would be lost without them at this juncture
So may I say thanks to our eastern European neighbours
Welcome and enjoy and thanks for your labours. | |
|
| The Critic
Posted: 11/6/2007 5:08:19 AM | The Critic
Her alabaster features like the finest Italian porcelain
Invitingly teasted me and held me in captivation
What manner of woman could hold me so transfixed
Oh if only my years were not so numerous
Hold on!! What rubbish is this pray tell
Call this poetry I call it living hell
I have studied poetry in primary school
I know my A, B, Cs, I'm nobodys fool
Everyone who can read or write
Knows that you talk absolute shite
Don't try to be clever, you moron, you dunce
You sound like a lunatic, you sound like a ponce
Why don't you say what you mean
And why don't you mean what you say
Tell us your story in a simply understood way
You are trying to be clever, trying to impress
Why not write something for the hard pressed
What about things that the working man can read
Not just words for the upper class breed
Everyone knows that poetry must rhymn
Your first four lines where an absolute crime
If you can't do any better give up and go home
Then I will write some poems of my own | |
|
| Songs of Hate and Love
Posted: 11/6/2007 5:41:14 AM | I was born in may
On a hot and sunny day
But mama never saw me that day
She loved me so
She was a top mama I may say
She cared for me
She showed me love
What a great mama I may say
I was cared with love
I was cared with tenderness
Until I found me a soul mate
Or should I say
I thought I found me a soul mate
Mama kinda of knew I was wrong
But she only hoped that she was wrong
I slowly died in no time
All that love and tender care
Oh poor ma
Confusion and sorrow crawled up
Until I knew I was wrong
He wasn’t the one to give love
He wasn’t the one to know love
My beautiful mama’s heart broke first
Now that she had two sad girls | |
|
| Question
Posted: 11/6/2007 10:20:05 AM | Question
Do Poets?
Do poets in their normal life
Speak the way they always write?
Do they speak in verse and alternate line?
Do they always speak in constant rhymn?
Imagine please if you will
The poet going to pay the bill
"Pray tell how much doth that item cost
Oh no my dear please call the boss
I will not pay so much for this garment
My anger rages and I ferment"
The girl at the check-out her eyes roll up
But she controls herself and keeps her gob shut
Imagine two drunken poets getting seriously blocked
One budding poet suffering from writers block
He says he's feeling slightly intoxicated
His friend laughts asking surely you mean inebriated
The other retorts you are such a wag
They both leave the club dressed in drag
When the poet is waiting for his bus
Can you imagine when he creates a fuss
"Where art thou going my good man
You must make haste as fast as you can"
The driver throws the poet a glance
And looks to the clouds his head askance
"Don't you ignore me" the poet explodes
"I am a poet you inglorious toad"
The bus driver forgets his etiquette
As his fist and the poets head first met
"You hit me you bounder" the poet says
"Why did you strike me in such a savage way"
The driver calmly says with glee
"I move like a butterfly
And sting like a bee
I'm a poet like Cassius Clay
And if someone doth have fun
He I will slay"
The moral of this story is to be polite to bus drivers | |
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| Mothers and daughters
Posted: 11/6/2007 1:17:29 PM | Mothers and Daughters
Vot to ver
Vot to ver
Help me daughter
Vot to ver
Calm down mother
Take a pill
It's only a party
Learn to chill
Aaagh vot to ver
Vot to ver
I have nothing pretty
Look at my hair
Oh be serious mother
Oh be maternal
Look in the wardrobe
For something eternal
You're a useless daughter
No help at all
Help me please
Prepare for the Ball
Oh give me a minute
Let me think
Give me your sissors
Then sit by the sink
Not my hair daughter
Don't cut it away
It's my pride and joy
Bleached every day
You're being silly
Acting like a child
Sit and be patient
Just wait for a while
Oh help me please
You dont understand
You must help your mother
Attract a man
Mum give me the curtains
And the sowing machine
See what I've created
The dress is a dream
Thank you daughter
My clothes you have mended
Now only my heart
Needs attended | |
|
| heart-less
Posted: 11/6/2007 1:34:07 PM | Heart-less
Have you ever had your heart ripped out
Have you had it torn asunder
With military precision, surgically removed
Wanting to be at least six feet under
Have you ever been rejected by one who is
Who is all that was meant to be
Did your groin feel the physical discomfort and pain
Did it feel enflamed by the fear of being free
Can you still remember or is the hurt still too deep
Too deep to pull back the curtains
When the invisible veil starts to lift
Do you still carry your troublesome burden
Has your heart been transplanted and rebuilt anew
Have your memories been erased and is rewind broken
Was the procedure worthwhile, did it cost much pain
Was it just another one of life's journeys, another token
When you look back and reflect
Would you ever take her back
Would you stubbornly and simply refuse
Would you open your arms and fall for her charms
Would you, would you, would you | |
|
| The album
Posted: 11/6/2007 1:45:15 PM | The album
Tonight I was tempted
To look at old photos
Taken many years ago
Long entombed within an album
Not opened since the day of the parting
Photos like memories
May be best laid to rest
Or at least allowed to slumber
Memories like dreams
Every now and again
Resurface and can cause
Much pain and sorrow
Or
Gladness and Joy
Who knows which
Will you take the chance
And open your album
Many times I have given
Careful consideration
To open the pages
I sit and look
And smile and reflect
I try and reason
What prevents
This hand of mine
From turning the cover
What fear lies deep within
Pehaps to reawaken
Times when tomorrow had no meaning
And meaning had no tomorrow
The album sits close at hand
Yet for years
It remains unopened
Some photos still engraved
Upon my mind
Others fading with age
Unopened
For fear of
reawakening the one time
When I was wide awake
For now
I let my memories slumber | |
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| Ego Trip
Posted: 11/7/2007 10:03:29 AM | Ego trip
I went out today to go to the shops
To feed my ego I would shop until I dropped
How to satisfy the ego I gave some thought
One so fragile but for a few pounds could be bought
I went to tailors to purchase a new designer suit
Not to keep me warm but so I could stand aloof
With my new suit I would need new shoes
Not for walking but to perfect my pose
Should I get me hair cut as it looked a fright
My ego gets ruffled when I sleep at night
What shall I have for lunch I started to wonder
Simply to feed the ego and not the hunger
Sandwiches and soup would do in haste
But that's to common, the hoi pollis's taste
I need to be seen sitting at the finest tables
So everyone can see my designer labels
My ego gets hungry the cycle is incomprehensible
I feel so relentless it's so insatiable
It's perhaps just as well the ego can't be seen
Or I would be over 20 stone and looking obscene
I should go on a diet to keep my ego in check
But I really can't be seen wearing old slacks
OK I accept that I'm an egotist
Hence I drink champagne when I want to get pissed | |
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