"bookie" poems
My Uncle Dec
was really a ***** old man
and I loved him for it
Overweight, but you'd better believe
he ate whatever the hell he wanted
bad liver bad kidneys
but he really loved drinking
almost as much as he loved the horse racing
putting pennies on the ponies
and it didn't matter if he won
he just liked going to the bookie's
a lover of beautiful women
but a loving faithful husband
He died in the shower
and I was sad at first
but I realized he loved his life
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
If I saw your handwriting
would I know
whether you were taught
cursive by nuns
or a teacher
on the public's payroll?
Does your hand calligraphically flow,
from a favorite Mount Blanc pen,
or do you print
using a bookie's pencil
made by the millions
by Chinamen?
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:54 AM UTC
You wouldn't welsh on a bet with your ******
And you wouldn't go to bed with the mob.
You wouldn't mess with a street gang ****
No matter if he's crab, or slob.
You wouldn't backstab a man on death row,
Cause you know he just might **** ya.
If you've got the gumption.
You wouldn't have it long,
If you cross Evil Nurse Sheila.
You shouldn't be like the fool who tried
To play games with her heart.
She left him a crushed, empty man.
Well, he was doomed from the start.
Sheila isn't a ******
And you'd better not let her hear
You snickering about her at the social club.
You might not have time to fear.
Sheila's makes the headlines
Each time she tries to settle down.
She plans to live a carefree life,
But soon she has to leave town.
Everything she does
Is warped, but in the name of love.
Except when she hates your guts,
When it's Sheila you've run afoul of.
If you've never heard her story.
You'd best take this advise.
If you cross her path just keep walking,
You best not look back twice.
Evil Nurse Sheila's got a heart of stone
That looks like a heart of gold.
If you are responsible for it's tarnish,
There's no hope to which you can hold.
Sheila takes no prisoners.
She don't take any guff.
If she thinks to give you a warning,
You'd better not call her bluff.
You wouldn't want to rouse her wrath,
Because her fury won't be tamed.
She's restless, bold and beautiful.
She cannot be contained.
It seems things have been quiet.
She's been off the grid some time.
If she thinks that you might suspect her,
You may be her next crime.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
It was late into the night
When Bert Ernie and I
Were traveling across the plans of Nebraska
Much to my surprise
Bert looks me straight in the eyes
And says Mike, I gotta question to ask ya
With Big Bird wrapped up in the trunk
You'd think that he'd already thunk
About this night long before it already happened
When we took Oscar the Grouches can lid
And whacked Big Bird smack dab in the head
Then tied him up tight while he was napping
We rolled him out to curb
Believe me it looked quite absurd
Ernie grunting with Bert complaining as feathers went flying
But as would be our fate
Able to make our planed escape
When Count Von Count took time out to do some feather counting
So this is now where we are
Bert, Ernie, Me, and Big Bird in the trunk of our car
Not really knowing where it is we are heading
Our thinking went only as far
As nabbing Big Bird and the get away car
Putting Ernie in charge wasn't such a good idea is what I am betting
Ernie says he's figured it all out
Bert says we need this, but still has his doubts
Cause Bert owes back pay alimony and Ernie his ******
We head to Ernie's planed drop off spot
And of course it's swarming with cops
While our inside man " The Monster " gave us up for Cookies
They let Big Bird out of the trunk
Who proceeded to slap us punch drunk
Then straight to the judge to pay for this hideous crime
I can't think of any worse fate
I now know this was a fatal mistake
The sentence...
Banished to Sesame Street for life, now that is hard time
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
why do i have to be a dog for my cats?
the male one is teasing my
neighbour's dog...
the dog starts barking,
doesn't stop...
so i start barking...
a dismembered word
rough with a range of
neared onomatopoeias...
i hate barking, it never sounds
like a dog... more like a
dinosaur... Ra! (a name for a roar),
a tongue's trill at the bookie's in-between...
i hate barking...
or like at the chemists, an old man and me,
i had the seat, asked if he wanted it,
he said no,
we were both waiting for a prescription...
'well, if you're not taking it
i'll stand with you in show of solidarity'
my arms folded like a pigeon or a crow
strutting... well, if he ain't going to sit
i'm not going to sit either....
there you go, solidarity, **** Wałensa...
mushy mushy overgrown moustache nozzle...
brr brr... do the motorboat of oral ***
like you're expressing shrivelling watching
the northern lights! yep, got you...
selfie taken... now make a pose for
Lactose Falls of the waterfalls from your
eyeing ******* yep... that's a happy couple...
take two! no, you ******* go off and wait
in the tourists' queue
like the other 100 ******* did politely.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
I once wondered what the Devil reads before he goes to sleep in Prada sheets
I found he wears white but feeds the least hungry
Go ahead and eat he told me, it’s food for thought food for death
I can’t catch my breath or brain they brought me here
One dance with the Devil done by 12 I feel so lucky
My bet with Judas just jarred the line call the ******
He stabbed the Devil’s back too but this time for a quid
We left to ***** and loot like teens with stolen credit cards
Maxed out and blacked out murderers with no trust
**** I must be Satan’s rebellious son.
Now reigning in the fire I bring the flames higher
Than they’ve ever been but my back wont be stabbed like his.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:48 PM UTC
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.
Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.
Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -
True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.
£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
It's as easy as life, this
chronic rebuttal and no
matter how right you are
you're always wrong placing
bets with your own ******
It's as easy as life, but
who's to say life is easy?
certainly not those who have left
and gone on to bigger things; they'd
like to believe in all this in retrospect
but things should be simpler.
It's as easy
as easy as life
guessing is not easy.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Stress sneaked up on me
Like a ninja out of the blues
Like a saxophone player
Weaving an intricate melody
To my internal noir monologue
Like a tax collector striking at night
Or a deadly case of the Creditors flu
Like a group of cut-throat dames
Like fog in the rain
Like a secretary named Velema.
Stress sneaked up on me
When the detective came a-knocking.
He wanted his cigarette back.
I told him I didn't have it
Then the ****** walked in
Quick-finger Teddy
Butcher Saint Merry
Leg-breaker Lenny
Mobster Ricco
Snake Bently
And Marcini of the incredibly gifted hands
Too.
Lead makes a different sound when fired
Glass shatters into tinkling tear drops
Like the heavens weeping.
Plaster breaks.
Stress sneaked up on me
Like a kiss goodbye...
It's all
Smoke through the city...
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
Three children, clean and roundly fed,
**** time scraping frost from the bookie’s window.
Inside betting slips are torn in half.
Neglect isn't always obvious.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:42 PM UTC
Tom Thumb got caught peeping
Now his life is on the run
Little Bo Peep lost her sheep
On a gambling junket she was on
Little Miss Muffet is having to tuff it
Out these days in jail
Selling ecstasy to undercover police
And now can't pay her bail
Little Jack Horner took him a corner
Of the Mafia drug trade
Once you are hooked on the **** that he cooks
There's no way of escape
You think that's bad you ain't seen nothing yet
That even comes this close
Since Mother Goose started hitting the juice
And ended up down on skid row
Humpty Dumpty's more than broke
But not from any fall
He couldn't pay his ******
And his legs were first to go
Baa Baa Black Sheep
Where forced to sell their wool
To pay for all the damages
While they were in school
Jack pushed Jill down the hill
When he caught her cheating with Little Boy Blue
Now he's paying her doctor bills
Which has left Jack blue too
You think that's bad you ain't seen nothing yet
That even comes this close
Since Mother Goose started hitting the juice
And ended up down on skid row
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
if you spot any spelling mistakes, it's due to the html.
first match, kick-off 12.30, woke at eleven, door-knock
hangover, whole body, not the amateurish headache
off the binge on a friday disco, sun shining, god almighty
sun shining - eyes like a vampire's,
itch upon itch from the sunlight,
turn it off! turn it off! turn it off!
placed the 5 quid bets on three forms,
spotted all the metaphysical ****** addicts
of anger in the bookie's shop, felt odd watching them
addicted to the futility of the monetary system.
went back home, overcast came and my eyes were
very much pleased, took to drinking
the best bet odds i could ever get,
8-9 of a bottle of whiskey, started reading
articles about david bowie, and realised,
artist? maybe. entertainer? predictably yes.
the comparison? entertainers attract critics,
artists don't - entertainers attract idol worshippers
centre stage, cult gimmicks, artists pulverise
those heathens with fear, remorse, repulsion,
a one-man show attracts one-man passers-by;
where art flows freely criticism does not follow,
where are flows freely criticism does not follow,
why would it? giving the majority of people
treat art in a debasing way, keeping it a pastime,
a hobby, a way to unwind, a way to test their "creativity,"
to be less boring than the average paper-pusher
pencil-sharpener suit... look, you chose the ease life,
deal with it! i don't want your creative crap in my mailbox;
the last thing i want is a person with roughly 20 poems
to their name, and that lovely phraseology of:
i love languge... i'm sure you do, esp. telling me to be
conscious of metaphors and other techniques,
and a vocabulary so rigid that i'd get more fancy from
the range of onomatopoeias not noted from the animal
kingdom... go on... write the adequate lion's roar.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
Billy's gone to meet his ******
The odds aren't in his favor.
The Omniscient will ask the questions:
*Where's the money, Billy.
The pennies from the multitudes
That built your mansions,
Clothed and fed you,
Lavished yours in comfort and light,
While my children around the world
Died from hunger, disease and war.
Open the ledgers, Billy.
This is your final accounting*.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC