"bleedy" poems
Miss Nisa impetuous young lady!
In Bangkok I met her at OTOP She was impetuous
I loved her
She spit on me
I love her
Anyway!
Her dad was fantastic her mom was so nice to me...
Her uncle tried to **** me with a bash to my bleedy head.
I ran down the street to go hospital
Then deported to Japan
What the ****
...did I do wrong?
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
she's the reason my knees are bleedy
she makes it easy to be so needy
she kisses on my achy feet
and ***** the coffee off my teeth
she makes me be a very good girl
she makes every one of my toes curl
i want to smell the way she breathes
i want to make her flower wreaths
she's prettier than pity pink
she laughs like teeth hitting sink
she has a really mean right hook
i love when she makes that look
she only bites me when i plead
she's all i'll ever really need
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
Who bowls without being too speedy?
Who'd bowl 'til his fingers were bleedy?
For England he should
But selection no good
Lancashire's leftie, Gary Keedy.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:38 PM UTC
I WILL NOT CEASE FROM MENTAL FIGHT
"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush
us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"
"Snipers!"
"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.
"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.
Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.
( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).
Or the *** in
the garden shed
which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.
"The bleedy blighter
got away!"
They had followed him
home from Flanders.
Or just...
never went away.
Mother said he'd
lost his....
but he'd play
marbles with us
kids
all day.
Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce
"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.
"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.
We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.
"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.
He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"
but only when he be-
-came squiffy
which was more
than often!
Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"
But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.
A chorus of us kids
belting out:
"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary
but now I know how!"
"War is all about
saving your skin!"
Most of his mates
lost theirs.
He still calls them
by their names
as if they are
just...there.
"The ghosts of the sofa!"
They sit and watch
the radio with him.
"Manchester Utd 2 -"
He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.
Left his left leg
in a trench
but still loves
to dance.
"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before
no less...no more!"
More and more
often he hides
under the stairs
eating raspberry jam
or marmalade
in the dark
crying now
in English.
Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.
He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"
And loudly the cupboard
it sings.
"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face
is..."
(Fred lost his...)
I always remember him
coming out to salute
surrender to us
as he recites
in a little child's voice.
"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta
you'll never get yer ********
in a corn beef can."
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
He slapped her
She was on the floor
Bleedy and teary
Wiped and then she stood up
Once more harder this time.
She said
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC