"codger" poems
I know from my past, gym class
From locker rooms, I learned fast
That lots of guys have winners
But my sausage is from Vienna.
I got a little bump, a tiny little lump,
Like a hamster has taken a dump.
Nothing bulges my shorts at the crotch.
Not much there for anyone to watch.
But our society puts the emphasis
On just how big your business is.
If you have a tiny peter, my friend
Many kinds of applause will end.
Go read the writing on the walls,
Because you will inherit the catcalls
And no matter how much you moan
They come through no fault of your own.
Regarded as less than a man; sick
Or perverted to have a small ****
As too often I have been told
Since as a kid and not very old
Amid laughter and cruel jests
I have learned a big **** is best.
No matter it’s something I can’t change,
Apparently a small ***** is strange.
In time I left behind those taunts
As I left behind adolescent haunts.
The pain has become only a taint;
The scars of bullies with no restraint,
But I am sure I never will fully be
Free of their thoughtless bigotry
As I reach the age of an old codger
Dealing with life with a not so jolly roger.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Fresh innocence,
Power aflower,
Baby experience
Your first hour.
Unaware, curious,
Shine 'n shower,
Child experience
Your second hour.
Optimistic,
Visionary mystic,
Youth experience
Your third hour.
Tired 'n bitter,
Lemon-sour,
Man experience
Your fourth hour.
Body bent o'er,
Spirit aflutter,
Codger experience
Your fifth hour.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
I feel like a small frightened child, one who has become lost in the deep dark woods of every child’s nightmares, cold, alone, well past “losing one’s cool” and just precious inches away from “flipping one’s **** the only things that I possess a flashlight that I cannot figure out how to switch on, a compass that only points backwards and a magical, wish granting genie that only speaks in a language that I have never heard and therefor do not understand while at the same time am not understood, whose only option to improve his situation is to sit in one spot and wait for help to arrive but what if it doesn’t so I am forced to action to fashion crude tools and build a shelter and hunt and cook and survive because no one is going to find me and I am not going to find my way out, so I must live in the forest of nightmares and darkness...
...and then I begin to wonder if that small child is not a child at all, but an aging man in a worn bathrobe, alone in a darkened room in an asylum, sitting under a table with a bed sheet hanging over the sides like a makeshift tent, trying desperately to find the “ON” button of an empty pill bottle while I wait for a wound out, wind up clock to find North during the stock market numbers on the local Hispanic radio station, forever stuck in the nightmare forest created by his own mind, which is somehow less terrifying than the reality of his unreality...
...because it is beginning to become very muddled in both of those places and I am beginning to lose track of his self so here looks like a good place to sit down and wait for help to not arrive and over there a good spot to build a temporary cemetery plot to rest my weary hours and while away the bones because unless I figure out a way to sort his self out, I will forget to send for help that I am tired of waiting for and the seconds in the dark that were not there a moment ago and may not be here now will be gone forever when the clock strikes South-East and I am left alone again with only a snot nosed codger and a loony old brat, looking out a window that directly faces a brick wall, watching and praying for the sun to rise on its horizon.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
The city tosses, turns, and finally rises,
Surrendering to daylight and giving itself over
to the bustling movements of its citizens.
At the crosswalk, an old codger in rags holds a panhandling sign,
And nearby a bearded hippy plays guitar.
The sound of beggars, musicians, bored businessmen,
And all the teaming masses drift through back alleys,
And float through the air like the heady perfume of car exhaust.
Each street, each block, each break in the never-ending flow of man’s own personal jungle.
Brings to mind stepping into a whole other world.
Here, in one such strange nexus, a building likened to a castle,
Stares across a narrow stretch of road at an abandoned building,
Cracked broken and peeling, tattooed with graffiti from a hundred vagabond artists.
It conjoins directly to a new building,
the fresh, well maintained walls of which offer striking contrast.
The confused, confounding nature of the true jungle is in this manmade facsimile
More well reflected than anywhere else in the world.
The muggy air rings with life, the heat is stifling,
And for all that it has a strong allure.
This city, and all cities.
For in every corner, at every street, life bleeds from a city.
It grows from the crack like a flowering ****
And in truth,
Is a flower born in the streets of a city, atop the stem of a dandelion
Any less a flower than a rose from the heart in the woodland?
To me, that a flower could be so brazen, so proudly out of place,
Makes it all the more a thing of beauty.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.
We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.
Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.
The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.
After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.
At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.
We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.
If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.
December, 2006
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
Said the Codger in the corner
Of the pub at Avonlea
“There’s a missus, who I’d kisses
If she’d sit upon me knee”.
“But I’m eighty, like me matey
And I’m too inclined to ***
So I’ll leave her to another
And keep my faithful Tennessee!”
Said the barman to the Codger
“Well you see here my old friend!
You’ve been sitting in the corner
Since ya leg would no more bend”.
“You’ve been drinkin all me whisky
Yep your love from Tennessee!
Don’t ya know ya have a misses
And she’s looking out for ye.”
Said the Codger to the barman
“Mate now you just let me be
I’ve paid ya all good money
For me love from Tennessee!”.
“And me misses whom I kisses
Who is waiting home for me
Is all weathered, worn and weary
And she naggeth poor old me.”
Said the lady at the counter
Who’d not sit upon his knee.
“Mister if you loved and kissed her
She’d no longer naggeth ye!”
Said the Codger to the lady
“Well Ok! Now let me see
I’d go home to see me misses
But will not leave my Tennessee!”
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 1:00 AM UTC
A bored old codger from the East
One day ate a barrel of yeast
He began to perspire
The prelude to expire
But he rose quite well, at least!
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
I'm a graying aged gunfighter
Time to get out of the game
I can not see to shoot my gun
I can not see to aim
I used to be the best there was
The top of every list
Now I can't hit a **** barn door
I shot at one and missed
I could out draw anyone
Who faced me on the street
Now, I'm more than likely
To put a bullet 'tween my feet
I play a little poker now
Spend my days just passing time
I break even mostly
The way I play, well, that's a crime
No one round here knows me
They don't know about my past
To them I'm just a codger
I don't do one **** thing fast
I noticed things were changing
Ten years back I'd say
I had a gun fight in Dodge City
And it didn't go my way
I threw down with some punk kid
He was drunk and really ******
I got my gun stuck in my holster
He fell down, he shot, he missed
I walked to him now laying
In the street, out cold, not dead
I took his gun and holster
And then went home to bed
A gunfighter of substance
Would have killed me where I stood
Was I lucky he was drunk then?
Or was I losing it for good?
I packed my stuff up in the morning
I left the town later that night
The next fighter might be sober
And I'd not survive that fight
I took off for the desert
Made plans just where I would go
A state where I could hide out
Where my past, no one would know
On the way I stopped and practiced
Shot some cactus and some trees
I was shooting though at rabbits
I can't survive here eating these
One day, a rogue coyote
Came and took me by surprise
I shot a tree, it fell on him
I aimed between his eyes
The sooner I got settled
The safer I would feel
Too much longer in the desert
I'd end up some varmints tasty meal
I rode on in to where I am
I can't tell you just what town
I've got to keep it secret
Or I may just get shot down
I have a small room at the hotel
I play cards to pay the rent
I speak with a slightly muddled accent
I try to be a southern gent
I've been here now for near six months
The town is growing fast
So, my time here might be cut short
With the future, comes my past
For now I just play poker
An old gunfighter at heart
One day I know they'll find me
I'll go to boot hill in a cart
I'm an aged old gunfighter
There's not many still around
I'm hiding now from my last gunfight
That will put me six feet in the ground.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC
You understand what suits you,
Choosing from tailors present or past,
Preferring not the uniform.
Whose robes to **** this trip?
Adding their layers to the shadow below.
Fashion a style, accordingly-
Another fearless, determined Oxford man
In a pink suit.
Style a fashion, apathetically-
A filthy, disheveled codger, trudging
From one unmanageable apartment to another,
Writing music in his mind, never hearing it,
Changing the world forever.
Or,
Owning only a pair of each-
Black shoes, tights, and tops,
And seventeen brightly colored scarves,
Wear your heart on your sleeve.
The most priceless accessory for spending
Retirement in Somalia with the children.
Being choosy in dress and shadows,
Remember seasons None too original,
Choose fear or love.
Suit yourself.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
The old priest sat
in the dark of the
confessional. A girl
had entered on the
other side and knelt.
A rustle of clothing,
breathing, a cough.
He was prepared for
the list of sins, the
the soft voice verbal
sprouting, the usual
schoolgirl misdemeanours.
Yes my child? He said.
Mary on the other
side stared at the grille,
tried to make out which
was the priest. Bless me
Father she began, then
the list ran. The priest
placed his hands over
his ears. The list was long,
indelicate, touching on
the obscene. He fumbled
with his beads, tried to
make out the voice,
the owner, which girl?
He thought, peering into
the grille, his eyes searching
through the semi dark.
Mary pushed her knees
together; she sensed the
need to *** She knelt holding
herself in, pushed her hands
between thighs. How long
was the old codger going to be?
She mused. The priest coughed.
Sniffed, tried to discover the
scent. He said the usual words,
about trying to avoid the occasion
of sin, have faith, and so forth
uttered in a strained voice.
He peered hard. The outlined
figure fidgeted, moved from side
to side. Never in his born days
had he. He uttered the absolution,
made a sign of the cross. Then
she was gone. The light there
then not there. A smell of sin?
What was it? No, not *****
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 4:38 AM UTC
Martha had this thing
about the Crucified.
The image, the cross,
the stretched out arms.
The one in the convent
school along by the chapel
always caught her eye.
Stood there staring.
Get a move on Martha,
the nun said. Don’t gape so.
Or the image in the dining
room stuck up on the wall
above the abbess’s table.
Painted on she thought.
Not the same. Her mother
had the one her mother
gave her on her deathbed.
Old wood and plaster.
The plaster peeling from
the hands of the Crucified.
Martha gaped at Him,
at His wounds, at the wound
in His side where the spear
went in. Forgive them for
they know not. They did so,
the ******** she muttered,
putting her fingers on the wound
in the side. She had an ebony
rosary in her skirt pocket. Black
Christ on the small ebony cross.
She fingered in her pocket, said
the prayers, felt the stiff body
on the cross. Sometimes she
took it out and kissed it; the ebony
body, the head, the arms. Once
she had a cross around her neck,
silver, small, given by some old
codger. She felt it warm between
her small ******* Lost it when she
took it off to wash and it slipped
down the plughole in the convent bog.
She knew her mother had this wooden
crucifix on her chest of drawers.
A dark wood, a fleshy plastered Christ,
nails through and hands and feet.
She kissed the hands when her mother
was out, her lips touching the smooth
plaster, the eyes closed, the feel of
smoothness on flesh. Not the real
Christ of course. Least not yet.
She’d wait her turn. The real thing.
See what death and Heaven bring.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 7:44 AM UTC
Wanna see how empty I can get.
I can leak out all feeling.
No nerves left.
I taste and stiff every person I see.
I cringe crunch the cartilage of every baby I meet.
Heartless and artless old codger.
No posture.
Cramming damming the spam filled sandwich,
of ancient architects.
The tall statue of an empty shell, old malt glass,
unfilled.
Spewed upon the face of mother earth leaving acid mildew.
Shower of rain with a pH of less than 7,
maybe to the negatives, raising havoc on the crop lands.
If my plants would be watered.
I would whole.
I could stand upon the ground lain staked like a scarecrow.
I wish the emptiness protected all that I loved.
I could forever be the watering can providing my molecules with spirits'
Dust.
The aluminum in my body.
Will calcify or solidify (whichever's easiest)
Spontaneously, to create the fluids of osmosifiying mechanical dilution,
Into greater things.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
Martha Maguire sits
in the back pew of the church
cigarette between fingers,
smoke drifting slowly
to the high beams and tiled roof,
her blue eyes focusing on the Crucified
His arms stretched wide
His head lowered
His eyes shut
the skimpy cloth
about His midriff
nails in hands and feet
and wound in the side
a slit of red paint revealed,
she takes a drag on the cigarette,
inhales deeply holds the cigarette
just away from her lips and
with no effort releases
the smoke in a steady stream
over the pew in front,
the Crucified's skin
has a yellowy sheen to it,
the crown of thorns have
acquired cobwebs and dust,
only her in the church
silence except for distant traffic,
Magdalene had talked
of the priest and one
of the nuns and some
kind of thing going on,
Martha muses
watching the smoke rise,
the young priest not the old codger,
which nun was it?
not St Agnes that's for sure
she'd only *** out of
her thingamajig,
as would most of the sisters
no doubt,
Sister Lucy was it?
maybe can't recall the gossip,
she inhales deeply again
scratches an itch
on her thigh,
Mary Moran and her ways
with the boys
and she only fourteen too
as am I,
she smiles recalling
what Mary said of Brian Brady
and what he tried to do
put your hand in some other
girl's private place not mine
she said she said,
the Crucified hangs in silence
not a word
not a judgement,
some days she's sure His head
lifts and He gazes at her
with an awkward smile,
His eyes half open
the **** thorns pushing
His hair over His eyes,
the door at the far end opens
and the young priest enters
in his black garb
like a young rook
on the prowl,
he genuflects
and makes the sign of the cross,
then peers down towards Martha
who hides her cigarette
out of sight,
the smoke drifting less so
but under the lower pews,
he looks away
goes to the altar
fiddles with things
goes to the tabernacle
and opens the door
and fiddles inside,
she looks at her cigarette,
lowers her head
and takes a swift inhalation,
then sits back up
gazes at the priest
**** arsing about,
the cigarette between fingers
out of sight,
and she thinking
if it was the priest and Sister Luke
and the carrying ons
and what and where if so,
anyway she muses
letting the smoke drift
from her lips
what do they know?
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
Here in my middle ages, I look at the young men, as they court
and the young girls, as they are courted
they are so full of life, and so empty of wisdom
and yet, so full of life
I feel my life waning
I feel the life draining, out of the pond, and into the river
But the old codger on the street-corner
craggy, dried man, drained and empty
He cheers the young men on
with a toothy grin and a wink he nods at the boys as they follow
that girl down the street with their eyes, and their hearts.
the old flower-seller lady urges the young man
and she watches the young girl, and sighs
remembering her own first rose, brought to her by a young man, perhaps just like this one
brought with a stumbling shyness, by a boy who knew she loved flowers
but didn't know why
and didn't care why
except, that something about that flower
might make her think of him, and feel happy when she did
because while he wanted her to think of him, he wanted her to be happy too
it would be another 47 years before he would understand that he really just
wanted her to be happy
and said so, with his last breath
She sighs, knowing this is how it is
and knows how to be happy watching another boy
making a fool of himself without knowing why
because he will know why, when it becomes important, and in the meantime
will do what he can without knowing why
And I, here in my middle ages, still worry about what I don't know
I worry about what I can no longer do
I feel, here in my middle ages, stuck in the middle
neither wise, nor full of youthful vigor
but I watch the codger winking
and the flower-lady sighing her sighs
and watching them wink and sigh, I lose my fear
Time will pass me by, and in its passing
will teach me to wink, and sigh, and to not miss being young
and stupid
and so full of life that there was no room for knowing
why the happiness that sits by my side
sipping her coffee with me, watching me, watching them,
knowing that I watch, and think, happy with the show of things she cannot see, going on in my mind
knowing why her happiness is so important to me.
I hope I tell her in a breath sooner than my last
I hope to tell her with a wink, that her happiness is more important than mine
I want to hear her sigh, before it means she misses me
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 11:16 PM UTC
'Where are all the rough men?'
Said the codger to the son
'For it's time we were home again
And daylight's almost done
For though this park is fair
To look upon in light
The shadows truly fill the air
With goons who long to fight
Where are all the rough men
Who used to walk this park?
For it's time we were home again
Before it grows to dark
They're gone, i tell you lad,
And we'll never get them back
And you should be remorseful
And mournful for our lack
For now we're watched by half-men
They're eunuchs one and all
How can these skinny jeans stand
When the blows begin to fall?
Show me the thugs of yester-year,
Those bold and brawny men
Who'd hear the war drums pounding
And come running glen to glen
Bring me back my brothers,
And these villains one and all
Would run back to their mothers
And seek no other brawl
But my eyesight now forsakes me
And my hand forgets its wrench
And my legs will not allow me
To go far beyond this bench
Were that i was sprier
And still retained my brawn
But now I simply tire
And the last rough man is gone'
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
All this...
O, this shall be his.
He who in well-leaned doorways
And oft-learned corners
Hath resigned any byways
To dream: “A tall order
To rove in the mud
And muck up one's soles”
Says he who would trod
Upon painless goals.
Him safe in his womb,
His wont wooden beams.
Neglect to his comb and
Plume and dusty seeds.
“Who would fret in the rain?”
He asks. “And why suffer venture?”
“I've a cubby! Where's the shame
In my hearth and decanter?”
“I tell you all!” he says
One night, in a fit. “Them's fools!
They that count on the coldness and chance
Of a bleak, backwards world
In despotic hands. Come time,
Come the end- You'll see what I have!”
O, the mites and the mice
And the crumbs and the cracks
And the creaks in the night
And the stock-still plants
And the angles all learned
And the steps all a measure
And every walking turn
And every processed pleasure
And the patterns and ease
With his paper and naps
What is good on the knees
And light on the back
And the age and the greys
And the frustrating lust
And the well-worn ways
And the old codger's fuss
And the twilight come
And the shadows of scythes
And a final look back
Through wondering eyes
And the what-if's and why's
Of the best girl in Eire
And the laughter of kids
In a moistening eye...
And the plain wooden box
And the standard rites
And the empty expanse
Of the graveyard night.
And no crowd and no cries
Just a man and *****
And pile of dirt
Where ol' whats-his-name lays
All this-
O, This shall be his.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:32 PM UTC
A creaking, crotchety, crooked old man
walked down a wide, winding path.
He saw a poor pig poised high in a tree,
so he let out a cackling laugh.
“You sweet, silly swine.
How did you get there?
My old puzzled mind must know”.
The plump, pink pig
from his roost in the tree,
raised his head and started to crow.
The old, crafty codger clapped with delight.
“What a weird wild wonder is this!”
“To see such sights at this time in my life
is surely a cause for bliss.”
“Maybe a wicked wind whisked you there.”
He laughed as he spun round and round.
“Or might Mama eagle, on her way home,
dropped you where you are now?”
The poor pig peered down at the thin, old man
bent in the bold, bright sunlight.
When he heard the man laugh,
the pig got mad,
flew up and popped out of sight.
© 2000 Guy Workman
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
raw April morn,
daffodils be looking
prematurely silly,
now a May morn,
daffodils no more,
irises blooming
though May itself
a hybrid of twixt
and cousin tween,
coldish morns,
summer afternoons,
evening gusts
winter reminders
yesterday, walked
50 blocks in 80+
Farenhot, sweaty much
and hypocrisy
now reigning,
oh my summer man
you your self,
selfishly forgot,
forgot the other side
of the coin, thinking
hot hot hot Not,
cranky old codger man,
yup, yup, yup.
Jun 6, 2024
Jun 6, 2024 at 2:44 PM UTC
tookie winfeild was a friend of mine
from way on back down the way
back in my river days
mean old man with a heart of gold
ugly old geezer with a silver tongue
ole tookie could talk a mile a second say nothin at all
ole tookie was as crazy as a jackrabbit in heat and twice as slick
used to see that ole codger strolling on the avenue
with some young honey on his arm
carefree as sin and twice in its debt
yes sir...ole tookie was a friend of mine
back in the day we ran that river
like it was our private playground
mean old man with a heart of gold
ugly old geezer with a silver tongue
both barrels for the lookers
and a bottle of shine for the sippers
yes sir back when i was young that river was ours
they found old tookie winfeild up on the river
frozen to death in the dead of night
took to drinking up there by his lonesome
and shouting at the moon
aint no good ever come from no crazy man
least thats what they say
but old tookie was allright
in his own crazy way
mean old man with a heart of gold
ugly old geezer with a silver tongue
he was a friend to many a poor boy
down the old river way
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
The old priest
toddles up the side aisle,
sways slightly side to side,
goes past Mary's chapel.
You watch him
from the pews
waiting for confession.
Old Mrs O'Connor's
next in line;
bet she'll be there
for a week or so.
You kneel down
on the knee rest
gaze at your knees.
The priest enters
the confessional,
closes the door;
silence.
Mrs O'Connor
lifts herself
from the pew,
wanders into
the confessional
closes the door
after her.
You sit back
on the pew.
The young priest
is down at the altar,
a nun helps him
fiddle with stuff.
Magdalene hasn't come.
What to say?
What not to say?
Bless me Father
I've been having it off
with Magdalene Murphy.
An old codger comes
into the pew,
kneels down
closes his eyes.
You sigh,
kneel down,
close your eyes,
put in a Pater Noster
and an Ave.
The door
of the confessional
opens,
the O'Connor bag
comes out.
It is you next,
so rise up,
go in, ready
to spill the beans
of sin.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
When you’re old and you’ve stuffed yourself silly
On everyone’s chocolates and nice things to eat.
Give me a nudge if you please, on your way out
In case I fall asleep and knock myself off the seat,
When you have spent all day in the garden
Cutting lawns and trimming back the odd hedge.
Give me a nudge on the way out please
Amd leave the keys on the ledge
On Saturday night, the musuc beckons you
Your hips pivot like Elvis and you have feet like Rogers
Give me a nudge on the way out
To prove I am not like an old codger
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Remember back, yes it was a long time ago
When England and its minions lost their one and only,
Lizzy the Busy, she did get about for an older kind of crow
Flying to her outposts and then in her nineties
Still dragging that old codger about, Philip the Greek
Insulting the natives, well he is a kind of royalty
His odd quip on the colour of somebodies skin,
Never mind how are, what a lovely child and how have you been
She married a corker there, no messing
The lands that carried her name all bowing to her superiority
Many of them just peasants not knowing of her really
From Gibraltar through to Hong Kong where they made her royal tea
Man landed on the moon, remembered for a thousand years
If real or made in a Universal studio
The passing of our Queen so real, some still holding back their tears
Reality strikes when you see what she has left of this once great land
Down to her kids to run this Island of such history
And not left it drift to the sea as if built on sinking sand
Monarchy and Royalty march hand in hand from the times of history
Lets not forget the power that we once held
To be banished away by the politically correct to leave us as a sad story
As she would turn in her grave if this once great power dissolved and died
She may not have said it but her wit and allegiance were British through and through
Grow a backbone and be proud again, and show them at least we tried to be true
JJB
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
There once was a codger from Sydney
who said, 'That bloke stole my sheep, didn' 'e!'
He chased him to Illawong,
pushed him in a billabong,
and stabbed him twelve times in the kidney.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
I have waited
with breath baited
far too long for you
to tell me a lie
emotional high
oh, my soul it will soothe
to feel just for once
that I was the one
feel like the hand
that fits in the glove
to be the one
that lights up your night
being the sun
burn away your night
yet again I can see
this will not be
just a lonely old codger
not a gull on the sea
chasing a dream
can never attain
a dance with an angel
to feel young again
a walk through the valley
never hurt any one
can only become stronger
when this day is done.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC