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Mr Shankley Nov 2021
There’s an infinite sky above
Our land of salt and muck
It bares its beacons in the night
That you may try your luck.

But the brightest star tonight
Has gave its dying breath,
Still men who speak so clever and wise
Will follow what is dead.
Mr Shankley Oct 2021
Crawling from the catacomb
I’m uninspired flesh and bone,
Face so blue, lips so cold,
Please kiss me from my sleep.

I'm poor, deaf, lame and blind,
Void of anything divine,
I hold my breath until the time,
You kiss me from my sleep.
Mr Shankley Jun 2021
I banged my head too many times,
Up all the steps I didn't mind,
But up the steps I didn't mind,
That I banged my head too many times.
Mr Shankley Jun 2021
There's a certain type of vileness,
Only seen inside her iris,
The dagger lips and forked tongues,
Only add to the surprise
That you believed she was genuine,
But the detail's where the devils in,
And I can see it all clearly,
In the feature of your face.

There's treason, ****** treason,
In every single reason,
Why I love you, I still love you,
Won't you come and stay with me?
In this house I have built,
From the cards up my sleeve,
And I promise it won't blow away
As long as no one breathes.

There's a certain kind of violence,
Only seen inside his kindness,
The wine is spiked and the roses,
Grow sick within our minds,
The worm that flies in darkness,
Laying eggs in broken hearts,
Plants its seed inside of me,
Left me labouring the dark.

There's ******, ****** ******,
In every single word of,
"I love you, I still love you"
What a tender little curse!
Why don't you spit it in my face,
From the depths of you lungs,
I'll be waiting in the bedroom,
Just to catch it with my tongue!
Mr Shankley May 2021
There’s beauty in this life
Such abundance to suffice;
The sick, the ******, the beggars cursed hand,
And all their eternal strife,

You’ll be forgiven for your youth,
And every badly told excuse
When you stumble, fall, and dent the wall,
In your drunken search for truth,

So when you pass the places
Of past humiliation,
Look only with kind eyes in hindsight,
As you’ve grown so old with age,

If your heart is getting fond of
The darkness you may wander,
Remember, love is, most certainly,
Just around the corner.
  May 2021 Mr Shankley
Rudyard Kipling
You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ‘ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
      He was “Din! Din! Din!
  You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
      Hi! slippery hitherao!
      Water, get it!  Panee lao!
  You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ‘e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ‘im ‘cause ‘e couldn’t serve us all.
      It was “Din! Din! Din!
  You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been?
      You put some juldee in it
      Or I’ll marrow you this minute
  If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

‘E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ‘e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ‘is mussick on ‘is back,
‘E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
An’ for all ‘is ***** ‘ide
‘E was white, clear white, inside
When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire!
      It was “Din! Din! Din!”
  With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
      When the cartridges ran out,
      You could hear the front-files shout,
  “Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
‘E lifted up my ‘ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water-green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
      It was “Din! Din! Din!
  ‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;
      ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,
      An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:
  For Gawd’s sake *** the water, Gunga Din!”

‘E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
‘E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ‘e died,
“I ‘ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ‘im later on
At the place where ‘e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor ****** souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
      Yes, Din! Din! Din!
  You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
      Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
      By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
  You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Mr Shankley May 2021
In him inexplicably mix’d appear’d
Much to be lov’d and hated, sought and fear’d.
Opinion varying o’er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne’er his name forgot;
His silence form’d a theme for others’ prate;
They guess’d–they gaz’d–they fain would know his fate.
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,
Who walk’d their world, his lineage only known?
A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;
But own’d that smile, if oft observ’d and near,
Wan’d in its mirth and wither’d to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip but pass’d not by,
None e’er could trace its laughter to his eye.
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
At times, a heart as not by nature hard,
But once perceiv’d, his spirit seem’d to chide
Such weakness as unworthy of its pride,
And steel’d itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others’ half withheld esteem;
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest;
In vigilance of grief that would compel
The soul to hate for having lov’d too well.
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