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Adam Prime Jan 2019
Up at o'four thirty
And down to bed at twenty-two
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

The trumpet's sound is the call of day
And the call of the trumpet ends the day,
But not the same.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

The sounds of boots in perfect sync,
Is interrupted in a blink.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

A battle rages between the groups,
But defeat is near to the troops.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

Men and boys cry alike,
As no help from allies is in sight.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

War as it seem is not lifelike,
Instead it causes death and fights.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

Up at o'four thirty
And down to bed at twenty-two
This is a tale of a mother's lad,
A mother's lad he was.
Jackie Mead Apr 2018
Once there was a young man, who lived from hand to mouth.
Finding work where he could while travelling South.

He had in mind to make his fortune, see his name in lights.
He had a special trick he could do, while riding on his bike.

He pedalled into a new Town one day, and set about to explore.
He began to look for work, by knocking on people's door.

He wasn't very fussy, there wasn't anything he wouldn't do.
From mopping floors and pulling pints to cleaning people's shoes.

One day whilst riding on his bike, his luck was on the turn.
He came upon a circus and travelling merry go round.

He saw his opportunity and knocked upon the door.
Asked if the Ringmaster would let him show his trick upon the floor.

The Ringmaster agreed and found some jugglers, dancers and a lion tamer as an audience for the trick.

The Ringmaster informed everyone the show would be free and to invite anyone else they liked; the show would begin at half past three.

At half past three the lad turned up, riding on his bike.
He pulled a double bogey pike, while standing on his head.

The Ringmaster was delighted it was the best trick he had seen.
He asked the lad to return the following night to perform before the Queen.

The lad was so excited he decided to phone home to invite his Mum and Dad.

The Ringmaster supplied his family tickets and paid their fare.
He put them up at a Hotel overnight and treated them with care.

The lad was top of the Bill that night, following the jugglers and muscle men   in leopard skin tights.

His time had come and in he rode with confidence and no fright.
He took a bow and pulled his wheels back and with a roar stood on his head, turning the handles left then right, he did a 360 degrees.

The crowd were a frenzy and showed their delight.
He rode a lap of honour round the ring on his bike.

Children came up to him to ask him to sign their books and for a photograph of his good looks.

The lad was delighted, his family too, no more mopping floors or shining shoes.

Now his name is in lights atop of the big tent, his name draws in big crowds and the lad never again paid rent.

His family are very proud and again he met the Queen.
This time the Queen with a sword announced the lad was now a Lord.

The lad became a man and duly met his wife, they went on to have four children, all of them learnt at an early age how to ride a bike.

The man grew old and in time passed away but his legacy would always stay; his kids had developed the trick to now include skids.

His name would always be in lights, he would always be known as the lad who developed a double bogey pike while standing on his head.
A little bit of fun writing this. I hope you have fun reading it.
Firefly Sep 2014
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
      Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
      Over the sea to Skye.

Mull was astern, *** on the port,
      Eigg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in his soul;
      Where is that glory now?

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
      Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
      Over the sea to Skye.

Give me again all that was there,
      Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
      Give me the lad that's gone!

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
      Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
      Over the sea to Skye.

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
      Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
      All that was me is gone.
One of my favorite by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Daniel James Feb 2011
Somewhere between the age of 12 and 13
Kitty became a make up queen
Each time she turned up at the door
She’d more make up on than before
Her parents could not figure out why
She slapped it on, she piled it high
From orange ears to blue shaded eyes
From red lips to black butterflies
After a while her poor little face
Had more layers to it than a wedding cake
So she made some changes to her routine
Got up each day at four fifteen
Skipped breakfast, hopped in and out the shower
Which left, for make up, a mere three hours
This worked well for a little while
Until a teacher remarked she’d lost her smile
At which point in her heart she knew
She’d need an extra hour or two
To don her make up every day.
So she started arriving at school quite late
At nine at first, but soon midday
Light’s nice at that time anyway.

Then one day, a rather dashing lad
Offered to help her carry her bags.
Now Kitty thought he’d cussed her eyes,
So she slapped him and ran home to revise
Her make up routine, before she cried
And ruined her mascara.

Now this rather dashing handsome lad
Could not help feeling he’d been had
He stood there red as blush itself
And swore he’d fall for someone else.

Kitty meanwhile, back at home
Was swotting up on her skin tone
And trying every shade of white
To hide the scars of sleepless nights.
“I’ll teach that lad, that dashing lad –
I’ll be something he has to have
He’ll want me so much he’ll carry my bags
With weights in them that break his back!!!”
And with a slightly evil laugh,
Her plan was made, the die were cast.

We rejoin Kitty five days on
After a five day make up marathon
Her skin-tone matched, her bags are gone
Except her school bag, which weighs a tonne –
But at the school gate, something’s wrong
Hang on, where is everyone?
Oh Kitty, Kitty, oh Kitty cakes
That is an embarrassing mistake
You’re not early, they’re not late –
You’ve come to school on a Saturday!

Ablush with embarrassment and all alone
Kitty’s mascara ran all the way home
And all the foundations and eye-shadow pens
Couldn’t put Kitty together again.
But just at the corner before her own street
Outside the corner shop, who should she meet?
But the boy, not the boy, the rather dashing young lad
Who was sat on the fence by the shop looking sad
Looking sad, looking blue, looking ever so glum
Like it wasn’t that long since he last ****** his thumb.


At first as their paths crossed they were both destined
Not to look in each other’s direction
But luckily old cupid used light and reflections
To swap left and right with two moment's intersecton
The arrow was fired, the sightline was true,
Said the boy, "What a perfectly red shade are you!
Without your mascara, without those lips too -
You look even hotter than you usually do!"

"Am I bovverred?" Said Kitty, looking bothered as could be.
"Well you do look a bit bovvered if I’m honest," said he.
"Well I am a bit bovvered if I’m honest," said she.

"Why don’t we make up and then I’ll walk you home?"
"Then we can hang out and we won’t be alone"
"I’ll give you the pin to my blackberry phone"
"We’ll sync up our wardrobes and match our skin tones"
"I’ll friend you on Facebook". "I’ll call you at night".
"I’ll take you nice places." "I’ll treat you right nice."
“You will”, said Kitty? "I will," said he,
“But first let me start my repeating my offer
To carry your school bag if you can’t be bovvered.”
“My school bag said Kitty,” repeating the offer
“To carry one of my school bags if I can’t be bothered?”

Now this time, Kitty had understood right
So she took off one of her school bags, and put it down by her side
“Long story, don’t ask…” She said with a pout,
And she gave him one, of her bags, once she took the weights out.
barnoahMike Dec 2010
Pressing His  Cherub face against the window glass,   To get the * Better View.   Even as the Heat from his Breath caused the Fogging of the Glass !    Standing now on His Tip-Toes trying harder yet to get that Better  View..     The crowds around Him,  were pressing in,   Pressing in as if they  would NEVER Get a Turn.     The SIGN Clearly said ,,," ALL IN LINE ,  WILL GET THE OPPORTUNITY TO SEE ,  TO ASK  and to CHOOSE ! "    There were no Sequence numbers assigned,  SO...the Poor LAD got Shoved further back into the MASSIVE CROWD .   Instead of the Line getting smaller,   it seemed that it was GROWING even Larger...  The LAD with the CHERUB face was now pushed all the way to the OUTER-EDGES of the crowd.   Not ONE without a *DRIVING URGE AND SPIRIT,   the Lad Shouted in a Loud Voice and Pointing to the *REDDISH-BLUE morning sky.  "There HE IS !   There HE IS  ! ! "    At that moment, everyone in the Great crowd turned toward the Lad and Looked up into the SKY...   With Keen Alertness the CHERUB faced Lad Raced toward the entry door......and to HIS ASTONISHMENT,,     *THERE  HE STOOD,,       The Tears of Great JOY and Excitement Poured   down the  CHERUB Faced Lad.    The Lad had made His Choice....AND...He Saw *OPEN ARMS extended  Open to Receive HIS  Embrace ! !  The Roar of Joy from the Great Crowd  did not dilute the *TEARS OF DELIGHT     Thoughts Racing thru His Mind,, about the CROWD     WOULD THEY PRESS-ON     AS THIS  "CHERUB" HAD DONE.
Copyright  2010  by barnoahMike      Mike  Ham
Long To Sail Jan 2014
This lad right here
Will do anything to make anyone happy
This lad right here
Will make you feel special
This lad right here
Will do it all with good intentions
This lad right here
Will love you like everyone else
Make you feel loved like no one else
Don't fall for this lad right here
He only means well
But he'll break your heart
This lad. This lad.
Will love you like how you feel for him
Won't love you like how you fell for him
Pierson Pflieger Jul 2013
There once was a lad from the Lone Star State,
who dreamed of exploration and realized that just over the horizon, adventure await.

He was commissioned by the internal desire for adventure,
which burns deep inside us all, and within him grew,
so he assembled a ragtag crew to explore a land seen by few.

He set off for the ancient land- more north than he’d ever been-
whose beauty and wonder only true voyageurs and men of the wilds knew.

By air and by land, the voyageur lad traveled to his Uncle’s cabin,
nestled deep within the Harshaw Hill country.
  
This legendary cabin, was built solely by the hands of the one they call Uncle Buck-
the most amazing cabin one could ever see.

Uncle Buck is renowned and recognized throughout the land
for his merit, adventurous spirit, long grizzled beard, and skillful hand.

It was here, in the cabin’s comfort, the brave Sugar Beans (as he was fondly named)
greeted his courageous crew with a hearty, “Boozhoo!”
They were some of the finest canoeists around-
paddlers tested, tried and true.

Together they pondered, planned, and plotted the course of their adventure
for which they’d set forth;
packed their belongings, and dreamed of North.

Sugar Beans’ crew consisted of five, rugged braves-
paddlers he knew had grit and could battle the wind, rain, and waves.

Uncle Buck, a wise and grizz old guide, had seen many moons in the Northland sky.              
Respect of all living things and the song of the wild are the codes to which he ascribes.

Jonesy, a well-traveled voyageur himself and Sugar Beans’ proud dad,
had been to this land and wanted to share its magic with his brave little lad.

Joeseppi , a young blood at heart, was the lad’s loyal cousin and friend,
a trustworthy bowman, on whom all paddlers could depend.

Makwa, the newcomer- fierce as a bear and as tough as the rest-
and after day one, she gave it her best.

And last there was Pierrὲson; the lad’s other cousin and fellow adventure zealot,
who once learned his lesson and stayed away from anything that resembled an apricot.

They loaded the van, strapped on the canoes, and greeted the early morning with a boisterous “Bonjour!” and embarked North to begin The Magical Northwoods Mystery Tour.

Traversing blue highways the voyageurs meandered north, through the wilds of Wisconsin and the Land of 10,000 lakes, hoping to make the Canadian border before it was too late.

Eventually they arrived at the Magical Northwoods’ doorway- delicate and ornate.
The crew unloaded their gear and launched their canoes- confident and sure.
Each eager paddle stroke brought them closer to all the memories they would create.

And Sugar Bean and his crew created memories- some of the best.
Memories that seep into dreams and make one feel blessed.  

Memories of:

discovering a pictograph and plodding through a ****** river- just to get back on path;

stumbling upon wolf tracks and forgetting the fishing poles- but never the packs;

exploring  craggy caves and battling and paddling against the wind and waves;

hunting for ice under rock clefts out of the sun, they searched and searched but came up with none;

swimming in the warm water nearly every day and asking painted turtles if they wanted to play;

practicing the art of stalking seagulls, and on every lake, they gave greeting the glorious eagles;

dropkicking each and every single portage and of food and laughter there was no shortage.

The crew came back with fantastic tales and experienced everything a voyageur could wish.
And although his dad will try to tell you it was only by an eighth of an inch, there are pictures to prove that Sugar Beans caught the biggest fish!

So here’s a paddle rattle for you- young voyageur lad- the greatest voyageur old Quetico’s ever seen!  May your adventurous spirit continue to grow and may the waters you paddle always be serene.
betterdays  Apr 2014
potato love
betterdays Apr 2014
crinkle the chippies
wrinkle the bag
savour the salt
you're now a potato lad
buy the chippies
bag after bag
don't bother
about the belly sag
you're now a potato lad
wonderous flavours...
to be had
don't you worry
if your skin has gone bad
you're now a potato lad
cholesteral rising,
have trouble prising,
your doubled in sizing,
couch potato spread.
no, not you  
you're a potato lad
don't worry bout that,
at least, a third of the
world is morbidly fat.

besides my man,
you don't need to cry.
they went organic,
buy, only happy, free range kipfler joys.
they reduced the fat,
changed the taste.
and now your favourite
chips, are too
expensive to buy.
so my boy, you,
no longer can afford...
to be a potato lad

*here endeth
the unhealthy
potato lad
fad
napowrimo day 10
prompt; write an adverstising
jingle

as you can well see
my jingle turned
feral on me
and became
a comment
a wry look
at
the adverts
reality
enjoy
with salsa
or
dip
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
and

you think you are done with it.
but the notion potion returns with your stolen free will
taunting and tearing, sealing and then dissolving
the seals

no retirement in this world from where human means pliable
and pliable means capable of being twisted; nay, retwisted...

last we left you,
we were weeping on the concrete sidewalk of
Third Avenue, the police, giving you a move on command,
as Jean Valjean earworms one into the incapacity of movement  because of the audacity to request to bring him home

such is the sorrow of the lost child; it comes with irregularity
yet, never failing to return, the child lost, the residual, resides
within like a violin adagio reaching the punishing silence
after a crescendo that  pretense promised momentary relief

we struggle to keep any and all keepsakes,
polished and fed; rust and time, no polish in the five & time dime
that does a good enough job,
but you buy it anyway

well aware that fate will inevitably rob you, it’s so purposed

twist you, retest you and re-will you, to never forget until
you have no need for forgetting but the peace of
constant remembering when all on that day
molecules and nucleotides
collide in the atmosphere,
dog licking, cat weeping purrs, meaning hallelujah home

the endless sadness of the lost lad-ness, dimly grow the recollections of the first word, the first delight, the confidence complete
that your babe is non pareil; the violin sweeps you along and the genteel tide still too string strong to resist

the woman comes into the room;
the reddened eyes no hide
the weeping outside and in the centerpiece of a soul;
why she asks, not surprised for she’s seen it
too many **** poem-times:
my Adam, I answer;
suffices and wisely
leaves me to
compose and decompose simultaneously
weeping weeping forever weeping even when not

furious eddies rock smashing,
curious they splash me with taunts
"you want for naught!"

but naught is the only possess
that owing it makes one impoverished

perhaps he will email me, ewail me,
does he know I am at the
Wailing Wall, Jerusalem,
insert parchment prayers for his safety

oh my Absalom, oh my Adam, my favorite first born,
come sit next to me on the sidewalk so close to where you live,
comfort me as in the days of your youth,
now that we are both
so very much older

sleep well all you lads and children,
never mind these unstoppable tearings,
never mind the heaviness,
for it has passed
as the tears shed
enlighten my embodiment

7/16/18 prone and alone
for my kinship

— The End —