"butlers" poems
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
I CALL on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words,
Spoilt what old ***** have sent?
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,
I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross,
That red-headed rector in County Down,
A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man
Old William pollexfen,
The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,
Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay
In some good company,
I who have always hated work,
Smiling at the sea,
Or demonstrate in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content.
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Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.
Dawn enters with little feet
like a gilded Pavlova
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness
the hour of waking together.
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First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.
Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.
Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.
Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")
Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.
Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.
Remember me as I was.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
We are taught that we inhibit a sphere
Earth is a triangle, that is a point I would like to clear
Triple 6s attached with zeros govern the prism's corners
Infiltrating the angles we base our views on, they program us
Masters to butlers, the barcodes on our foreheads put a price on us
Never the less, Try an angle
I bet they'll confess, we are equal
Amongst other 'triangle' stories, I'd like to tell my own
Of a man's soul with a triangle embedded,chiseled like statue stone
I see that soul within us all
Culminating to reach apex by parallel lines that can let you slip and fall
And with every fall the try angle's base stretches and widens
I remember looking at a perspective drawing titled 'Life is a journey'
Shaped like a triangle was the everyday boulevard traveled by many
At the start of life, objects were big, bright and colourful
Far into life, objects become small, dull but meaningful
Never the less, a triangle has 3 sides to it
Listen! My stanzas confess and guarantee to it.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
As dreamers we are oft to make-believe,
Escaping the banality of time,
Stories of noble royals that we weave
Into the fabric of this very rhyme:
For we three do descend from kings of old
And queens who conquered all of their domain
And live our royal lives burdened with gold
And bound to royal living we remain.
Royal maidens of Portugal and France
With butlers who they keep in line with whips.
While one insists they entertain with dance
The other one decrees "Let them eat chips!"
I just observe, dream, and write what cannot be
Who says Punto's can't belong to royalty?
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 3:13 PM UTC
I have spent many years sheltered by love
Shielded from the world’s villainous beings
Beyond blessed to live a life undreamt-of
Your hands guided mine through ev’ry teaching
Unknown that greed and hatred lingered near
and that money took a devilish form.
All I knew was to put the silver spoon here,
to rise with the sun, butlers by the swarm
You told lies- hid me from reality
The sight of such a place scorches my heart
The devil struts the streets safe from chivalry
Children go unnoticed- lost in the dark
What happened to God? Where are the Angels?
All you told me has put me in danger
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
Dragona Radic hated her name for as long as she could remember. So obviously different than the Mary Butlers, and Ginny Gormans she grew up with in Flavor Town. Even Myrtle Feinstein seemed to be given a more applicable name to live in Flavor Town to Dragona’s mindset. Life was hard for Dragona in Flavor Town. Especially, when at twelve she began to grow a moustache. Living in Flavor Town wasn’t easy for anyone really, but to Dragona it was shear torture. Susie Choo became her best friend for more reasons of default than likeability. Being the only other girl with as much a non-conformable name as Dragona, Susie Choo’s distaste for her was equal. Still, Dragona Radic and Susie Choo formed an alliance, for what else were they to do living in Flavor Town. Flavor Town was a brand of the most delightful 56 flavors of ice-cream ever made, as well as the name of their hometown. You would think in Flavor Town diversity would be celebrated as much as variety. This sadly was not so. In America, you can find all 56 flavors of Flavor Town’s delectable frozen concoctions at any Buck Shops Here grocery outlets. Yet, little may you know of the atrocities occurring in Flavor Town, and what Dragona Radic and Susie Choo were about to do about it?
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
Just beyond the black iron fence
a haze settles on a parking lot
lit with the ghastly orange glow
of the old street lamps that
tower like rusted butlers.
I crack my window
and billow a gray cloud
that swirls amongst a
***** mist.
The butlers’ bulbs buzz mechanically.
The fog grows thicker.
Amidst it the parking meters
take shape of metal tombstones,
pale in the darkness
beyond the glow.
I wonder how they died—
they beneath the tombstones.
This place—this city, have you—
boils to the brim with people,
with so many recipes for tragedy;
it’s no wonder they put tombstones
in parking lots.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Old McDonald had a farm
I visited one fine day
Coerced the animals into my van
Then quickly drove away
Drove them all back to my house
To be Butlers and Maids
Now doesn't that sound much better
Than domesticated animal slaves
Feeling so good about myself
I should have done this years ago
Not realizing you can take the animal out of the farm
And that I was about to eat some crow
Cause the Cows broke more dishes than they cleaned
The Pigs were nothing but a mess
I asked the Sheep to sweep but all they did was bleat
Never understanding a single word I said
The Chickens grits were always lumpy
And they wouldn't dare fry an egg
No matter how hard it is I tried
I couldn't get breakfast through their heads
The Horse's dusting job was a disaster
Tails sweeping everything on the floor
From picture frames to books and lamp shades
Knowing I couldn't handle this anymore
I packed them all back into the van
But not to set them run wild loose
There was a certain giggling madness to my plan
As I pulled up late night to the Zoo
Let's call it a little midnight finagle
A semi slight of hand
It wasn't like I was stealing
More like a trade or a transplant
I left behind all those worthless farm animals
Since no one was considerate enough to warn me
I'm sure the Zoo keepers will be mighty surprised
When they arrive in the morning
And find roaming in all the cages
Old McDonald's farm animals, no thank you very much
While I'm at home with the Lions mowing the lawn
And the Penguins gladly making me lunch
The Giraffes out back trimming the tall shrubs that I have
With the Rhinos washing both the cars
It's only been a day but believe me when I say
This is much better by far
I think here a valuable lesson was learned
Far be it for me to do name dropping
But if your ever out and about needing help at the house
Do yourself a favor and start off with Zoo shopping
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
woman found
stabbed in the neck on butlers lane
but she wasn't a woman
she only breathed 18 years
of breath
and she only got to have 18 years
worth of smiles
laughs, tears,
aches, pains,
her future was stolen by envy
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
~
Step into the parlor
The fires spent, still burn
Painted in the faded tint
Nightmare shades to turn
Broken slabs of conscience
Rotted to the core
Splintered in a thousand words
Never heard before
Gears abide the grinding
Slapping to the beat
Shards of incandescent lights
Flavoring the meat
Slicing as you swallow
Whispering refrains
Caught like someone else's fate
Filtered through the shame
Dressed along the hallway
Mirrors shout their fear
There among the carpet stains
Distant as is near
Gasp for all you bother
Feast that final breath
Blood shall ring the butlers call
Long beyond your death
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
At St John's church in the year of 1843
The priest Father O'Day couldn't rise off of his knees
The congregation did attempt to stand the man upright
Yet he'd not be relieved of this his stuck plight
Some in the congregation checked out in the back
Hoping against all hope that it wasn't that
But the sacramental wine was filled up to the brim
Which had them wonder further as to what was wrong with him
Like the sculpture of Mary Magdalene his position was set
Of the rigid state he'd never ever forget
All the alter boys offered prayers for a solution
Being quite disturbed by O'Day's poor kneeling elocution
Was this a trance or was he deep in prayer
Given over to the circumstance did it really matter
They called up Mother Superior to ask of her advice
As it was fish Friday, she said some other time
From out of the fathers prayer book a letter it did drop
The contents in it was not news that he could readily cop
A decrease in his annual stipend had on this day been proposed
On reading about it his knees quickly became indisposed
As he wondered how he would pay for his chalet in France
Or the expensive clothes he liked to wear to the local dance
Along with his butlers and half a dozen maids
In all of his high living never once did he think to save
A litany of poor monetary decisions had brought O'Day to his knees
No divine intervention would undo his futile freeze
Coveting the high-life on a paltry priestly wage
Would awaken him to a lesson of that more like a sage
Instead of falling into all man's sinful desires
He should have first consulted with his Higher Power
We all see it so plainly there's not much you can say
Except another valuable lesson learned from Father O'day
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
'free butlers for everybody'
yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!
i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.
but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'
would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?
OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.
my god!
this, idea of
'free butlers for every one.'
is spiralling, out of control
this factotumnal conudrum,
is going to drive me insane.
JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
We've been maids.
We've been butlers.
We've been porters.
We also been called some of the very best lovers.
That's us.
We've been called this.
We've been called that.
We've been called many things.
That's us.
Until you tag us with the wrong slogan of words.
We've been preacher.
We've been teacher.
We've been part of legislatures.
That's us.
We have partake in various military wars.
Without credit sometimes been afforded to us.
We've been judged.
We've been slaves.
We've been taught several trades.
And fought many struggles along the way.
That's us.
To us , there's so much more.
Somethings, we never thought was possible.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
A tasty pastry baked by pain
Is made with bakers' stolen grain
But maids and butlers go insane
To take the tasty, not the plain
May 9, 2022
May 9, 2022 at 8:41 PM UTC
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Silence! Snow ashes.
Uncomfortable muzzle as it
Settles on Moscow.
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Clanking, chewing the fat.
Bumbling Boris huffs and puffs
As he fingers his ear and fumbles
His pants out of his mouth crack.
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Babies cry, smothered by fear.
Old Joe struggles to forsake his afternoon nap,
While old “Mac” Donald continues to quack and be a quack.
Fittingly synonymous with a sharp burst of wind.
The bombs fall over Kiev.
And yet the skies are silent.
The West whip out their dic-Boom-Boom-tionaries
And stumble and grumble over the worth of human life.
They danced this dance quite recently,
But there’s always room for cha-cha-cha
And grinding out a lower price.
The clock ticks louder – BOOM, BOOM BOOM,
But only for the powerless.
And the bombs fall over Kiev.
Pow! Bang! Bang! That small, old man
In his big red house plays with his toy soldiers,
And his toy towns,
And doesn’t half throw it all out of the pram.
Butlers and maids scramble
To make sense of the nonsense
And the egg on their faces just for you.
Incoherent ramblings of a paltry rich fool.
And yet that’s the sound of the world flying by,
The sound of the world’s greatest tool:
The grasping hands of paltry rich fools.
And the bombs fall over Kiev.
And Palestine. And Yemen.
And the dinosaurs still make a mean cocktail.
And it’s all so ****** predictable.
Exasperated gasps…
The rest of us just look goggle-eyed,
And hashtag flags, and thoughts and prayers,
And throw our paltry money wondering when
It all became so helpless, and why
We still pay for the merry-go-round
When it’s so completely broken.
We scramble to put back our fallen teeth
And kick our brothers to the curb for shelter
Under a wet, cardboard box –
(If you fold it over it provides more cover from the rain,
But the benefit of boxes, of course,
Is that they can completely fit over your head.
The noise is easier to drown out in the dark.)
And the bombs still fall over Kiev.
In broken hospitals and apartment blocks
And schools and churches
Hearts thunder,
And brave Ukrainians hear the noise
And the silence.
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 10:31 AM UTC
There's a face in the clouds
and it is poking
its tongue out at me,
cheeky blighter,
I ought to write a
poem about that.
Saturday and the butler
has the day off
which is a bit off
if you ask me,
I expect butlers go
to church on Sunday
and they'll be wanting that off too,
well, they can naff off,
I can't do all the work around here.
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 4:03 PM UTC