"bounder" poems
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
3.3k
I moved in with Mr McGoo , he seemed a pleasant bloke
a bit chatty for one but then beggars cant be choosers.
He gave me the guest room and a skeleton key and
a King James Bible. He left , mumbling something about an
Optometrist's appointment as he stumbled through the door.
The Flivver coughed, spat and rattled.Mcgoo was in control
and of he roared away still mumbling about pork bellies and such.
Herky jerky relic with a hurdy gurdy horn.
The winding stairs led me hither so down the rail I slid
In search of McGoo venture. To suss where the safe was hid.
Rumor has it that He struck it rich one day and promptly
sailed west and bought the House of Divine Pleasures
overlooking Frisco Bay. Who knew.
As luck would have it, he forgot to close the safe so
there it stood wide open a square hole in the southern wall.
The Standing Shiva glared at me his arms like deadly serpents
One named Beckon the next on Call. The other six arms bristled
with bronze and iron death.The Shiva winked his middle eye and
tears streamed from the other two.
The safe still hung wide open McGoo was such a bounder.
He knew me well and he could tell the weakness in my soul.
for he and I had broken bread and severed heads in youthful
days of yore. He knew I was a scoundrel and a thief.
The Shiva had a weakness for women and the drink and
him with eight arms and such became to be a bit much at the
pleasure spot in Frisco. He had to go. So
I turned and returned from the liquor cabinet a bottle of
McGoo's best bathtub Gin in tow. The Shiva came a running cross,
a smile a mile wide drooling. With arms outstretched, boy he could fetch.
Could not hold his spirits though. Never could. Out cold in no time flat.
The safe gaped open like the grave six deep.
So. I walked up slowly to it and strained to look within
There sat old McGoo's ear trumpet and spare glasses
a handful of rain checks stacked neatly in a corner.
Along with his last will and testament written out in Braille.
Just then I heard the Flivver pop. I had to stop.
close the safe. Empty the flower vase on Shiva.
Up the stairs I bounded. closed my door and started
Sleeping.
Oh McGoo , you've done it again.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:51 AM UTC
Wiggin's was a wombat
a legend in his underwear
and everywhere he went
you would hear him *** and swear
He was a very unpalatable chap
where ever he roamed, caused havoc
He had no cares for no one, not one jot
his mantra matched his favorite film, Salem's Lot
a incorrigible beast of heinous intent
a bounder, a blaggard with all truth bent
One nasty piece of work was Wiggin's
Vombatidae would hang their heads in shame
knowing this cad of a man did scare it's name
and with grief stricken tears say, oh how lame how lame
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
An Old Loner...
Let anger replace the yoke of an egg,
Chicks born in turmoil, soon left, to beg;
Shell is damaged with just one evil peck,
The Cuckoo landed,on different deck.
She placed evil eye on this christmas bird,
Made sure it kept him, away from the hurd.
He's the loner, emotional recluse,
The outward bounder, who discovered the truth.
Floundered on falsification and lies
All he needed was truth to devise,
A cup full of natural happy stings
That gifts the hope that church bells still ring.
Bay fronted windows, a mirror on life
Remembers that smile, the last from his wife.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
My darling you could keep my heart in your locker
but your Dad is a wrestler, your brothers are Dockers,
so on our hot lovin' they have put the mockers
'cause I don't have the guts to face violent cockblockers.
You like to take selfies
You sure like to ROFL
You taught me of two girls, one cup and blue waffles
Your knowledge is endless on things such as these
If only your brothers weren't so hard to please.
They think I'm a man ***** a bounder, a cad,
a love shy lothario, a bit of a "lad"
on this I won't argue, the point is well made
but I'm young (ish) and ***** and like to get laid.
They think you're an angel
but that's not the case
'cause the photos you sent me
were not of your face....
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
From the pier in that choppy sea
I could see a man in the water
I think he was waving at me
so I waved back for I thought I'd alter
and blow me the fella disappeared
I thought this was in frightfully bad taste
By gad's last time I will wave to someone
as I bathe in the midst of salty brine
Do you know,never saw the chap again
his displeasure as he sank under the waves
what nasty misgivings, confound him
by the cut of my tweed I do say, bounder I say
**** the fellow .... I came here for fresh air
now I am out of sorts and at the sea I do stare
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Western star
I set for hours in the darkness spellbound you held my gaze
The trees and night darkness completed the picture
Your mind races ever higher quiet etude the engulfing blaze
Silver light breaks all captivity you to are suspended held amidst glories brow
Within darkness you are the cloaked sojourner destination improbability
Somewhere in the mix of thoughts for a brief time you are free of all concerns
All that exists is the span of distance in all this voluminous emptiness lies compatibility
Measureless void you wash in great waves against my enthralled soul
You give abundant texture to the wall and windows that I view this indispensible wonder
Because I know you seem localized but half of the earth at least can be held in the same awe
The earth when viewed aright by going to the edge and then stepping into space unchained bounder
Do you affix your very being to channels that gird the heavens go beyond be spellbound at long last right living
You’re tenuous diminished life will catch space in the raw your life will begin at long last to thaw
Your views will startle and alarm those not yet up to the throttled speed found at every level life should be lived
Adventures have for millennia shown the way over and beyond the darkest expanses victory without flaw
Table your defeated hand speak with dignified power as you break the common tide thou conquer who envisions stars as friends
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
AN INCOMPLETE HISTORY OF WW2
the doodlebug cuts
its silence deadlier than its whine
a baby crying
where there was a house
there was a house no more
a rocking horse survives the blast
the neighbours
across the road
move to a place called Death
"The road had a ruddy big hole
with a bus sticking out of it!"
Death always only a heartbeat away
"1939 & I
were such good friends
only time Love walked in my door!"
"Such a card he was
but he turned out
to be a cad!"
"Oh he was cad but
he was my cad
but I loved the bounder!"
"Yes, dear...the War
the War got him...
...he never came back!"
on the middle of mantlepiece
a black & white slice
of 1939
Spring is late...again
"Where have you been!"
shyly it smiles at me in flowers
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
I prefer my actors live on stage:
Living, breathing, running around.
But sometimes you need a stiff;
I like them to be, metaphorically speaking, upstanding
With a military bearing and patriotic moustache,
Ideally tricked, or seduced, by cunning foreigners.
Once they are dead, I want them face down,
Fully clothed, shot in the back,
Being studied by a stooping policeman,
Or better still, an upper class pre-war sleuth
With a cravat and a monocle;
No need for ceremony with them.
A doctor arrives.
‘What seems to be trouble?’ he asks.
‘He’s dead, you idiot!’ cries the sleuth;
‘Make yourself useful. Get Lady Bounder here a cup of tea.
She’s fainted. Two sugars.’
Enter Inspector Dummy.
‘It looks like ****** he announces.
‘Give the boy a medal,’ comes the witty reply.
‘Oh, sorry, your Lordship. Shall I shine your shoes?’
Then there’s a sub-plot, a side issue:
The bones of a victim
Of a botched bank robbery
Forty years before
And the stiff was his grandson.
It’s a hard job, being dead on stage,
Or so I’m told, I’ve never tried it.
I once saw a ****** victim sneeze, twice,
Under a table in the library.
He deserved that kick; nothing like a good laugh.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
All about the geometry,
getting tangled in
her sorcery when the
Angels
want you too.
Muse.
And I use Chanel to attract,
my lips are dry and cracked so
I ladle on some balm,
calm?
nope,
but
I live in hope as most of us do.
The low down on the cosine is a
sign for me to come up and see her
sometime and I've heard that one
before.
These are the searchlights.
Flares that bring night down
and candles to warm Saki.
Back at the Inn
Ingrid
deigns to let me enter and
pin my colours to her mast,
happiness.
That's all a man can ask
unless he's an absolute cad
and although I'm a bounder
I've
never been that bad.
At Andrews,
we are back to the base
counting to ten with
mud on my face,
flying to
Dallas
and all of us
laugh wildly at the child that's
inside of me, but I know he
left years ago and
is still on the
way.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:03 PM UTC
Oh he the wounded wounder,
With wounds that bled on us all,
His Daughters and Sons,
Now bounder to the flogger,
Cursed to always follow that whip's call.
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 2:11 PM UTC
.
if YE step in something and then YE start smelling like ****
:::
YE probably stepped in some ****
•
Don't vote for a politician who smells like ****
( though then you might not get to vote at all )
)(
There's nothing wrong with not voting
It's not taking responsibility what matters
::
Americans have become ****** people
Violent , gross ,
**** !
****** people !
//
Don't step in yourself
)(
my mother was a street cleaner in the slums of London
my father was soldier for the Raj
•
My brother was a bounder and a thief
Me ?
I come to AMERICA !
)(
AMERICA !
Where people in reality
DON'T EVEN HAVE A GOVERNMENT
still
They hate it !!!!
;;;;;;
Stupid ***** of AMERICA !!!
)(
( actually
Some are quite nice )
"""
In this frozen hour where death dwells
Oh yeah baby I'm a counting on you !
.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC