"bouncer" poems
By A Foreigner
I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
5.4k
The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a can of raineer beer (if he really goes there) ill never ask him.
This is how lastcall always takes place: a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager. ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers. He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach. Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home. Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies ( a red head)
He charges like arhino. Hes a animal without areason to **** But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening. Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our bull **** stories. We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.
He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair. Every one of his is angry patrons drink until the switch flickers the message ( crawl home bfore the cops fish with dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot. (Searching for fake DW'S) each of themshine a britemaglite until the last car disapears still swerving like a skunk ptetending to hide in the storm gutters.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
Just a little cheeky one thats all i said I'd have
and 4 hours on much later's
Me's dying for a drag
aint smoked for like forever
but beer head is in charge
my goggles working overtime
be jeez look at that ****
The pub did so just kick me out
but night i wasna done
me dancing shoes were ready now
its time to boogie on
I danced just like me father
and dancing all seemed fine
until the big bad bouncer said
son you've had your time
I'm wobbly to be standing
and speech a lickle off
me hiccups still aint faded on
I'm on a spinning top
I ate like just some time ago
yet fancy a kebab
with chili sauce to burn my mouth
and payback morning aft
Now lying in my bed of dreams
a world goes spinning by
my head is working over time
I think I'm gonna die
my bucket is beside me
its used and nearly full
kebab and all the trimmings
mmm a boffing here we go
Next morning was the worst of days
with smells id sooner not
a bucket full of you know where
oh god i'm gonna cough!!!!!
My head felt like it's jelly wool
my legs were all a mush
I'd only done a cheeky beer
regrets ??Don't make me laugh
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
In Silence
The English ex SAS Special Forces member went to the Ukraine to fight. He travelled light and took just a small back pack and a head full of skills. A gun was a gun and a bayonet a bayonet. He was trained to use most things as weapon especially military articles.
He decided to go to the Ukraine after the Russians invaded proper in early 2022. The Ukrainian Army took him to a holding facility where they vetted him. This took three days. Included was basic close combat skills and weapons use.
He excelled and was given a job, being sent to a forward artillery position with a dozen other foreign troops to protect it. The SAS man was in charge and most men and the single girl spoke English. All understood military commands and signals. All were veterans from either conscript or professional armies.
Each was here for their own reasons and all disliked either what Russia had done or Russians themselves. The English SAS member had killed several Muslim terrorists from Daesh and al Qaeda in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now he looked forward to fighting and killing some Russians, officers if possible. After being in the Ukraine six days he was on the front line leading his first patrol. This was better than being a bouncer in a Manchester night club!
The SAS guy ordered his men to only use bayonets as they silently crept to a Russian fox hole a mile away. He wanted blood and the rush of combat, of killing. There was the trench and a single sentry, asleep. He would knife him himself. Then his squad would ****** the rest and take back any weapons, maps or documents. He spoke four languages including Russian. Any Intel was good for his bosses though. Here we go! There’s the sleeping sentry. Gently now, he must die in silence…
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 5:33 PM UTC
21 years or older but I asked to use the bathroom first.
Then I slip in when the bouncer isn't looking.
Naked bodies hanging on poles.
Men, smoke, 90's rap music.
On the stage, they bend backwards like dogs.
Dogs staring back, mirroring the position
and her self - esteem.
A woman approaches two men at the table in front of me.
Her fishnet wrap shows she's naked.
******* grinding, tossing hair.
Some slimy guys buy us drinks from a table a distance away.
Dorena gulps next to me.
I leave mine alone.
Absorbed into this vision because I have to immerse
myself in this because I must write.
I need to tell people that her hand slapped her ******
like it did something wrong.
She made her hand do that because that man
was giving her dollars as I watched them slide off her back,
her legs; the sides of them.
She gave his friend a dance and a magic trick.
Setting fire to matchsticks she placed on her ******* and her ****
He blew the flame away.
The dollars blew to the ground
and after her performance she went on her knees,
and picked up the remains.
Her dress, the money, her composure.
Afterward, she lit up a Capri, the type of cigarette
I craved all night.
I bummed one off her and she fled out of sight.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
Lucid dreaming, I sit
in a downtown lounge,
swirling ice in my drink, listening
to tiny 'bergs creaking and cracking.
I raise the glass to my lips and
imagine the taste of Shackleton's whisky, after those
100 years in Antarctic ice, assimilating a tinge of penguin, a pinch of
blubber, the turbulence of the sea, the still of the frozen mountains across the tundra, the desolation, the tenacity of survival, the bitter numbing cold, mixed in with
the warm peaty oaken goodness of Scotland at the other end
of the world.
Through the soles of my boots I sense the
thin surface tension keeping my body, the table and chairs
from plunging into the frozen deep that
lurks somewhere beneath the Lower East Side, black and still,
waiting
waiting.
The band starts up in the
next room.
A curtain parts and a blast of brass escapes, a great honking
sound that
reverberates in a molar,
before
a female voice lifts me from my chair, drawing me toward
the source.
Pushing across the floor like Nureyev on ice, I slide deftly between amorous
couples, skirt the co-ed queue at the toilets, dodge the woman at the curtain collecting the cover charge, nod at my pal the bouncer returning to his post and finally
glide/float/fly through the velvet drapery,
focused on the rising soprano.
It's just a dream, I think. Why pay cover?
*Ode to the Living Room
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
you made some choices
maybe the only choice you made
was to let somebody else make all the choices
but you are excellent at finger pointing
and complacency
even better at keeping your mouth shut
great at getting ******
weekends don't mean the same to you as they do to others
you spent your only free time getting higher or lower than the others
pop a pill
take a shot
or burn a fatty
we're all committing suicide in some way
we're all born under the death sentence of a clock which only runs backwards
time is limited and is not something we get back in change from a cash register
or in a tip from some **** head customer who is so much more important than you
the kids are all smiling and laughing with ease
and you hate them for it
jealousy is one hell of a vice
and on those nights were you gripped the pillow tight to your chest just not wanting to be alone
you always are
and your alarm clock is always set for 6:45
in the AM
and you don't get home until 5:30
PM region
you give and give and give and wait and wait and wait
just like they told you to
because God forbid you try to take it
make it break it fake it or forsake it
just get back in line
the bouncer will let you know when you can come in
a 25 to life cover charge required,
of course,
and put your lighters and rags and spirits away
this won't be the day you crack
and burn that palace of mediocrity to the ground
paste that big plastic plaster smile on your face
grimace because it's about to come out of you
"Thank you sir. Have nice day. We appreciate you business."
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
Always some drunk ******* standing in the back of the bar who feels his life's mission is to continuously shout boisterous requests for "Freebird" during the encore.
Second hand smoke thick as English fog and deadlier than a toxic chemical spill in the middle of the driveway.
The load out and equipment set up in which the drummer inevitably excuses himself from working with any other piece of equipment besides his drums, since "there a big enough hassle on their own".
The inevitable bartering for free beer which during later years became a case of being lucky if you got your drinks at 50% off but even then sometimes you wouldn't be given a tab.
The lone dancer at the very beginning of the first set, never the most attractive lady I in the house and all too often she made it through a whole song without a dance partner. It always seemed like some kind if code, especially when an inebriated gentleman would hook up with her. But I never figured out what the jig was about.
Always a drummer in the house, the real deal or an enthusiastic amateur. They will find a way to play the drummer's kit. Don't even try to stop them, for any reason. They will play.
Likewise the older gentleman with the button up cowboyshirt, the one with the stale pack of Marlboros in the front pocket, he will try to impress you by claiming to know every song Hank Williams ever sang. The wise gambler bets that indeed he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of Hank's repertoire. Unfortunately he never claimed to have the pipes to pull one or two or three off himself...but that won't stop him from begging and soon enough he'll be under the spotlight singing "Your Cheatin' Heart" with every word and melody spot on but voice that could turn Hank's mother away. He is the anti-PR agent for Hank Williams. After people hear him butcher the songs they don't want to know what Hank sounded like singing them.
The bouncer is your friend. If such is not the case before the show begins make every effort available short of paying him your whole salary to secure his loyalty. Trust me here.
To be continued
Yep, much more to com
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
The bartender a europa server leaves me a shot of liquid propane.
He moves past every silver dollar forgetting about the meaning
of whskey and bull dogs.
I watch cody a young university of washington student sneek In a can of raineer beer (if he really goes there) ill never ask him.
This is how lastcall always takes place: a drunken masqerader our friend johnny
Drops his wallet and kills a shot of jager. ( are we drunk enouph yet)
I order a taco and gain three hundread pounds tonight.
Master of the pitchers. He still dreams of being a physical thearpist ( he failed trying to take over for Dyrile). His new tall order of a job makes my anticipated buzz weaker.
Im tired of these long dresses opening up and spilling all over the dance floor ( the dj warned her not to)
Our ladies still mention bach. Inside of her purse hides a mystery knovel.
Tueday means a victory at home. Every player utters pride of being a regular.
We sink the black eight ball knowing the bouncer gets in the way of ourdrunk enemies ( a red head)
He charges like arhino. Hes a animal without areason to kill. But the bouncer prevents his six year jail sentence from ever happening. Bexause were all forgiven like helpless bar rags trying to dry out before the mold and mildew
contaminate our bull **** stories. We all speak easily after the brooklyn dodgers turn every blue and white hat around the five head.
He wont show us how the airforce cut his hair. Every one of his is angry like drini until the switch flicker themessage ( crawl home bforetheco9s fishwith dynamite) in the ruston pqarking lot.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
Let your pride be a wall
That keeps you from the one you love
Let your anger be a noose
Just wait until the bottom falls out
Let your fear be a blanket
That covers you in that hot mess
Let your ego be the bouncer
That keeps every feeling out
Let your age be the excuse
For you to act the way that you do
Look at me like you love me
And speak to me like you hate me
I don't care...
I'm so done...
Let it go baby
Let it go
Let your rebound be a distraction
From that fact you'll always miss me
Let your words be the nails
That bury you in that dark place
Let your shallowness be your playground
That keeps you from going off the deep end
Let your regret burn like a fire
That you try to put out with my tears
Let your selfishness be the drug
That takes you away from the real world
Let your mistakes be habits
That keep playing like a hot track
Look at me like you love me
And speak to me like you hate me
I don't care...
I'm so done...
Let it go baby
Let it go
Let your secrets be your disguise
So one knows who really are
Let your past be the cage
That you spend the rest of your life in
Let your spine melt away like ice
Tell me how you can look me in the eye
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
well it was the alternative to gregory isaac’s night nurse... but then the bouncer on the catwalk with flares... skidding up on a rhyme and cooling it with an edge of the appropriately cut fashion... chased it.
innit kamikaze (rap’s shortchange in shaken pears
for martini bond and chanced cockney slang in shakespeare,
all 90’s groove though)
lyric’o gangsters
in the mollusk slush
two’s up freed
with the sly sly s.o.s. sloth
chinning up to the chariots of nero’s double for portrait:
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa,
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa
(i miscounted... didn't i?) -
where kurt cobian’s yeah yeah yeah used to be
along with r.e.m.’s cowboy astronaut.
come mike jagger with me the liszt skeleton
of b & w’s worth of crescendos tipping lazy waitresses
with a toreador’s worth of breezy napkins folded, flapped and sneezed into -
i’ll be dumping my shadow into splits for extras to boot frying it in
the hiroshima of paparazzi’s blinking.
failures are worth other people’s success when playing the lyre to a burn out of capitals:
anyway, edinburgh is the ultimate cameo in the literary bloodline
begot by paris for the 20th century ultimatum of identity scripted.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
audio me in... tell the b.t. off standards
to change the connection to lie to get to syria...
i wanted to become a butcher too...
not butchering people though...
onomatopeias of resonance of blah... blah...
you know... woollen trill...
i want the target bacon, i want to target bacon
on that **** head-banging with a pony
while blowing a sheen into a rodin marble
for the glisten of a haircut mare...
dark ivory like purple of a grenade of indigo
blotched with blood...
and spanked / spiked by kandinsky...
i told you i woz a barking gimmick, a barking cult-piece of mafia...
you’ve been warned dear bouncer allotment and semi-detached...
hey kieran - had his kidneys transplanted aged 15...
took to having a ****** aged 16 on the south park fence
when two ******* eyed us and the boys came to make cake...
oi boys r’ us you mention st. petersburg anywhere south of the thames?
i thought so...
make that spelling spaghetti for a kebab of dead meat
appealing:
it’s making headlines, people are fed fat but sugar headlines...
when fat headlines... people will be fed sugar...
salt will never compromise the use of steroids for balloon pop protein
for a mere attire of the bow tie undone with laze.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
When my poems flirts, it can find a way to get into your heart
As it ****** you my audiences it’s becomes imagery and symbolism
The bouncer of the entry way, but somehow waltzes its way into the mind of the nonbelievers: activating the rhythm and rhymes
The language of emotions felt like a prickly face, against my long neck,
Every emotion has its place: like the smell of the bourbon breath
which make my pulse leap and my body tremble
"To dream of lust is to dream of me it whispered, so ecstatic!
Effortlessly, I tried so not to give in to the poetic teaser,
*I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird,
flying even to the clouds of heaven.
I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me,
even though there is no cause for grief,
and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air. What am I?*
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
Dedicated to 'Big John' 1954-2002
It's time to prep for the nights show,
the band is already unloading at the back door.
Got to brief the new guy and rewalk the floor,
let too many in here the night before.
Use cardboard and tape to protect the ribs.
Shin guards in place for all those low hits.
Take off the jewlery and tie back the hair,
leave nothing for them to grab when you step out there.
Drink lots of water, swallow a pain pill...
it's show time for a bouncer they say is over the hill.
Crowds looking good for a Saturday night.
Plenty of women, yet somebody will fight.
Seems when not enough space and too much *****
messes up the calculation of one and one equals two!
Got two female bouncers that are a special class act.
They know how to work it and come in real fast.
Big John gives me the nod and it time to open the doors.
Lets Rock and Roll baby we are here until four!
* Big John was a bouncer that took me under his wing ( a huge wing) taught me to be polite yet forcefull. 99% of folks just come to have a good time.It's that 1% that will try to ruin it.That's where we come in.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:48 PM UTC
We wore sport bras
And smoked out of an apple
She kept handing me the temptation
After every pull from her lips
Until I opened my eyes and desire
Was inside of me
******* the **** out of me
My first time with a girl
That lion made my head swirl
White Russians hitting on me harder
Than the bouncer outside
Pouring the drinks on the bar
As I watch her roam around
in pig tails and sweatpants
As she makes me wet
Still in love with her ex
But I'm determined to be next
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
I love women who
are legitimate badasses.
The ones who can hang glide
into any night club,
belly up to the bar
and order two sets
of double tequila shots,
then flip off the bouncer,
and drive all the way
home,
backwards
with their eyes shut.
I've only met one,
she had black eyes.
Nope,
not the skin
surrounding them,
but the irises.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
this ****** thought he could toss me around
some Indian ****** with a loud mouth
I wouldn’t leave my seat and he begged like
a pooch telling me “can you move, I wanna sit there,
let me sit beside the girl man.”
He kept begging to be beside this girl
later on he tells me that I should’ve moved because he is a
bouncer
one lousy skinny bouncer
he tells me that he would’ve put me in a head lock like the others
don’t mess with him you see
I TELL him to shut the hell up
no one cares and no one wants to hear you
he doesn’t take to kindly to these words
I am never ready for a fight but if it happens
it happens
but this fight didn’t happen
he just stood there with his stupid face
trying to scare me with his little child eyes
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
He fingerprints my melanin skin
I bleed lust, i trust
Alien tongue playing a seductive touch on my **** lips,
Dropping my guard, gulping every ******
Hard pacing in and out of me, i let him an inch closer to my heart,
As i pick a scent of city life on his chest,
His skin so smooth it mends my dents and cracks, my perfect match,
My soul dances in the light with the freedom of a mad man,
Dead brain this sweet pain, whispers pleasure......
I chose him and left all behind
The lights of the city held a pride
Which i would bask in beside him
See..... I lost me
Imbeko packed and left me lonely,
Getting high in dark spaces of the street lights,
Yelling die, this was not living was just trying to survive
Gutter life, suffer i, had to sell my body away,
Stained my soul, my conscience couldn't stay,
Mr urban see had hit the cherry got his share of merry and walked away,
Finally unmasking the veil of deceit, i saw the true colours,
But i couldnt go back to ravaged community of round mud houses,
Pride was the bouncer that kept me inside,
Had to die here and i did
But no i am not that young woman
Didn't let go of this culture
Content with these village ethics, nature's majestics,
Completely free from these misguided pledges
I would rather fetch water on earth's edges,
Why try mold into world classes, african being is rare,
And i am that her, who brushes my black hair with pride,
You.. yes you, your african hair is nice,
I rap myself in colours of native love,
Catching the cries of early *****
Not waking up with a bunch of different strangers in my bed,
You might think i am misguided, i am not driven by philosophers of english communities
In which the music is within us.... In the untamed soils of mother africa
So i keep his fingerprints away from my beautiful skin
Cause i never wanna be where she has been
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 3:37 AM UTC
Broken men, whose forgotten thoughts,
Lead only to slurred words, and mistaken gestures,
Angry selfish voices, and thrown words.
Make the night scream,
With sirens, and the
Only
Flashing lights are blue.
Broken bottles, smashed glasses,
Tell tales of a thousand broken dreams,
Lost amidst the festive spirit, the fights, and the brawls.
As the song says ‘Here’s to another one’
Jostling crowds, crammed into bars,
Where there’s no place to stand, amidst,
Short skirted stiletto heeled girls,
Living out the old adage ‘Be merry!’
And
The black suited bouncer thinks
‘Give me the peace of a litter strewn street,
And the morning after,
For tomorrow is Christmas morn.’
© Nick Strong 2014
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
When I avoid your eyes
And hold a gaze with the floor,
You can't see
Where my mother forgot to strap me into the bouncer,
And the jug my forehead ricocheted off.
When I walk quickly
And apologise for the clack of my shoes,
Reminding you that I'm still here,
You can't see
Where my lace wound itself
Around the greasy chain of my cousin's new scooter,
The primary coloured vice grip it had on my ankle
As the brightly painted metal cut.
When I awkwardly cross my legs,
In an effort to seem graceful and uncaring,
You can't see
Where I fell on the cherished artwork,
That was our hopscotch grid,
Just missing the empty tin of shoe polish I threw,
And the chalked piece of gravel
That still remains in my knee.
When I **** in my stomach
In an effort to impress you
You can't see
The lines on my skin
When, exhausted from false hormones,
Gave in and swelled,
Or the four large puncture marks
Matching four large needles,
That look like dots on di
Because I couldn't take the chance
That my meosis would fail me.
When I roll down the sleeves over my palms
To comfort myself in a blisteringly awkward silence,
You can't see
The yellow hazardous plastic bucket
Full of cannulas,
Most failed, missed targets.
If only they were the suspicious trademark of other chemicals,
As then I would have faithful veins and arteries
That wouldn't collapse
As the clear plastic parasite,
Looking to feed me poison
Burrowed itself into the crook of my arm.
When I fold my arms over my torso
Plait myself around my chest
To hold myself together,
You can't see;
The permanent pinprick
On my sternum
The black dot that had to be accurate
To align a red laser
And aim for my heart.
But on the days
I hold my head up high enough
You can see
What looks like dark shadow on my collar bone,
A bright signal flare sent out as a distress call
For a scalpel to answer.
And though I hope
And knead in creams
So marks may lighten,
If this scar fades
I will take another needle,
By choice this time,
And draw it back on.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
My local is not for the faint hearted. Lovers turned~haters brawl. People get poisoned, cops are beaten and a reveller once fell and died after a nonsensical fight with a friend he had been boozing with
It is the sort of place you keep one eye open. Your wallet could be swiped from your hind pocket, carjackers could trail you and work on you right at your gate
Anyway due to all this shenanigans, security is paramount. The first line of defence are watchmen who spend the whole night preventing people who are too drunk to fight, from attempting to make a nuisance of themselves.
Then we have bouncer the clubs elite commandos. When idiots start clobbering each with broken beer bottles, it's their duty to raid that corner of the pub and fling the villains out
But you know what the bouncer does. Every morning, without fail, irrespective of whatever time he eaves the pub tired like a dog, he holds his little girls hand and walks her to the bus stop to catch the school bus
Every morning, without fail.......
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Greasy hair tied back
pink scrunchies haphazardly holding together the unbrushed strands
rosemary mint chapstick smeared between lips and lips and lips on lips
backseat bouncer, I'll leave when the dance is done
The same type of ***** this visual you get when you watch the sky turn in the AM
pink, blue, green, gold, gone
shoes off in hand, feet itch on concrete
to corner store barely open fifteen minutes
cherry coke slushies are so good at 7AM
how dare you preach to me calling me
"Honey, Baby Girl, Peach"
listen to me for a change
Im no lesser than you because I prefer to live like wind
with a here today gone tomorrow mindset
It wasn't love, this isn't love
wont answer your calls, at school a nod in the halls,
baby my motto is pitstops and pitfalls
a brief rest for restoration, then back to hopping barbed wire fences
I don't mean to be mean but this is the last you'll see of me for a long time
because Love isn't real and if it is she took it with her
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
Russel is my name. I like to hustle without the tussle. I eat Brussels..... sprouts with a fork because i like to flex my muscles. I look at fat **** Guven and think....'dayyum, that **** can be a good brothel bouncer'
KEEP IT REAL
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
I ‘kept watch’ at the Pearly Gate
While St. Peter went for his tea;
As a ‘bouncer’ I was third-rate -
One and all just slipped in for free!
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC