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Prohibition began one hundred years ago in the USA.
People had their right to drink ***** taken away.
This made people unhappy and they began to whine.
And this caused Al Capone to start peddling moonshine.
Capone was evil and because of him, people were killed.
On December 5 1933, the 18th Amendment was repealed.
People were very happy because prohibition came to an end.
They were as giddy as school girls to have the right to drink again.
THIS IS A HISTORICAL POEM ABOUT PROHIBITION (1920-1933)
annh Jun 2019
Honey-flowing rivulets of jazz-beaten syncope,
Trumpets blowing smoke across the room,
‘Curveball’ Sammy hustles bass behind the bar,
Snares his songbird in a played back loop.

Harlem shufflers work the floor, breaking safe,
Clave rhythm scufflers with a New York twist,
Black keys write with borrowed brass on iv’ry walls,
Pick the lock on a swelt’ring southern riff.
‘If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know.’
- Louis Armstrong
Glory May 2018
How do you fit whole stories
in just 15 minutes?
Are we not surviving
on unpredictable?
Why attach time frames
to thoughts?
Deadlines encircling
emotions.
Is there any peace in thinking?
Can I not traverse freely in my mind?
Without a stopper in imagination?
Without a prohibition for wonder?
The world used to end only when I closed my eyes.
Now it seems to end every few minutes.
Then jump start again, just as quickly.
Not quite enough time to live life.
But just enough to miss it.
Purcy Flaherty Mar 2018
He’s got natural rhythm, a girl in a red dress, a suit of clothes, a hat and a silk vest,
A set of brogues, a packet of cigarettes, a 20 dollar bill with no regrets.
He’s got a fast mouth, a slick deck of cards, chequered blues and a V8 ford;
He’s got jazz, gospel, and ragtime too: a carpet bag and a jug for *****.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town.  
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil with a ******* snake,
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!

He’s got mojo, see him switch and walk, a winning smile, a stick of chalk,
He’s a hot shot, man about town, his skin is sweet and his eyes are brown,
He’ll strut that rooster, beat them gums, take cash or cheque before she comes.
He’s got jazz, gospel, ragtime too, a carpet bag and a jug for *****.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town,  
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil and no mistake
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!


Song Link: https://youtu.be/l5papPgYaBc
During the 1930's prohibition era: many drinkers acquired their liquor or moonshine from bootleggers; "Jake" was a popular liqueur distilled from Jamaican ginger extract containing more than 75% percent alcohol.
It  was known to caused severe damage to the nervous system and paralysis to the limbs and a common characteristic among Jake drinkers was a clumsy shuffle walk known as "Jake leg"
Nathan Raux Jun 2017
Break the chains,

The rope, the cloth,

Remove them from my body,

They're not really soft,

Erase me from your mind,

And let it all at ease,

Apparently I am dark,

I am ruthless,

I am nothing like a kind sheep,

Me, a monster,

Me, a lost, wandering soul,

Me, everything that a wolf should be,

It is I,

The one you hate,

The one you despise,

Moan not with satisfaction and pleasure,

But with an angsty, horrified and high-pitched groan

Yell not like how the waves hit the rocks,

But how a knife scratches glass,

Glass that would be broken,

Shatter me,

Yet you can't,

Because you cannot break a sword,

A sword that's already broken,

Sacred my secrets,

My secrets of my deep sadness,

It's not my darkness you see,

But the tears of my agony,

I show my catastrophe,

I don't give calamity,

Like a mirror reflects your identity,

My emotions,

My body language,

It reflects my animosity,

My life,

My well being.
Autumn Whipple Jun 2015
In my younger
and more vulnerable years
I
                  walked
                   on
I was lonely
        no longer
I was a guide
            a pathfinder
I had that familiar
                  conviction
                         that life
was beginning over
promising to unfold
that shining secret
that only
Midas
               and Morgan
                              and Maecenas knew,
that the wingless
had been overlooked
in a fashion
that rather
             took
                         your
                                  breath
                                            away.
I was fragilely bound into
a murmured apology
of moths
among
            the whispers
                                  and the champagne
                               and the stars
Bantering inconsequence
that was made of
infinitesimal
               hesitation
I repeated blankly
a surprising
shill metallic urgency
Bloomed with light
it sort of crept in on us
that I
               had truly
heard nothing at all
In the unquiet darkness
continually smoldering
with disappointment
in the solemn echoing
green light.
a dim hazy cast
lay upon my love
your love
     belongs
             to me
                 She insisted
its too late now
           he scowled
I could only stare
as
she cried
            A terrible
                        terrible
                                   Mistake!
you ask too much
she told me
I love you now.
you cant repeat the past
he said
why,
     of
            course
                        you can!
I paid a
high price
for living too long
with a
                   single
                              dream.
great Gatsby found poem I wrote in class. I got an a on it, but I need some improvement suggestions.
Meg B Dec 2014
Don't you ever
have moments
where you want to get
so high
your pain becomes funny,
so drunk
you seek company and comfort
in strangers,
so numb,
so ****** up,
so incoherent,
feelings aren't felt,
thoughts aren't thought,
pain isn't painful?

             Oh, right...

Me neither.
JLF Oct 2014
The seed of joy is now gone,
the men on top trying too hard,
just let the drink hold,
and let everyone taste the drink of gold.

The men up top have not done that,
driving the great drug away,
thinking they are doing right,
oh how they don’t posses great sight.

New distributers have come around,
the uppers oblivious to all,
basically letting the drink hold,
oh how I love the taste of gold.

I think the top believes they won,
but I hope they realize what they did,
crimes of innocence now arise,
the marvelous drink I do not despise.

The saga ends with fault,
new people come here to supply,
men living in the wretched clink,
all because of the golden drink.
A funny poem about prohibition.

— The End —