"constabulary" poems
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egoing
Enumerator.
Constabulary District.
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Certify**, as required by the Act 63 Via, c. 6, s. 6 (1), that the for
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John Pane:
I hereby
runcuula or nluunsn nouaaa.
Registrar-General,
T. J. Bsmrxeam B#####Y,
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FORM B. 1.——HOUSE AND BUILDING RETURN --continued.
BOBERT E. M.aT£n;s0:~.',
Commas loner.»
"f the Heads of Families so occupying it shculd. be bracketted together in C01. 13, thus :-
2 lst December, 1900.
##### Castle,
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
Quick! Call the poetic constabulary
I'm mincing words about my vocabulary
Help! I'm drowning in my thesaurus
evidence that i'm merely a brontosaurus
Listen up to my Greek chorus:
"Such silly word play should place her in poem prison
a ponderous place from which few have risen
Locked in the cell, losing her sense
consequence of writing with no poetic license"
Writing on with no reason or rhyme
just doing my poetic time
iambic meters bite me in the ****
trying to force me out of my sonnetic rut
stumbling on ideas most trite
all the pitfalls of making the choice to write
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
I have been in Pennsylvania,
In the Monongahela and Hocking Valleys.
In the blue Susquehanna
On a Saturday morning
I saw a mounted constabulary go by,
I saw boys playing marbles.
Spring and the hills laughed.
And in places
Along the Appalachian chain,
I saw steel arms handling coal and iron,
And I saw the white-cauliflower faces
Of miner's wives waiting for the men to come home from the day's work.
I made color studies in crimson and violet
Over the dust and domes of culm at sunset.
2k
Thunderbolt was a bush-ranger
And a gentleman at that
He rode The New England Ranges
In a broad brimmed hat
From Tenterfield to Uralla
His exploits were well know
Stealing the best of horse flesh
The ones with pace in their bones
He was a cunning fellow
Avoiding the constabulary
Hiding in farm houses
With his friends and family
On the way to Tamworth
He was cornered at a rocky outcrop
And met his fatal end
In the form of a gun shot
Outside Uralla
On The New England highway
The rock where he was shot
Bears his name to-day
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Scarpered for the siren liquor
Shame-seared claret cheeks
Lost to time and regulation
Found by terrified relation
Taught that gravity was quicker
Supine in the streets
Too pie-eyed for interventions
Fuddled buccaneer
Too aware for rectifiers
No relief with pacifiers
Banished now for contraventions
No more welcome here
Therein lies the contradiction
Tricksy elbow-bender
You designed this cunning passport
Teamed constabulary transport
Speedy coveted eviction
Purposeful offender
Now we nurse the convalescent
Scarring quips ignore
Dodging pleading, wounding protest
Culpable without an inquest
Feeling without feel-depressant
Pain-drink tug-of-war
Where to put our damaged kindred
Languishing in grief
Ductile truth in glass distended
Remedies are not extended
Therapies are judgement-tinted
Distanced from relief
Imminent familiar wipeout
Nowhere safe to be
Don’t do as the doc suggested
Cede to being bottle-bested
Bottle-lock in private hideout
Throw away the key
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 12:56 AM UTC
Making excuses
With hundreds of uses
All kinds of ruses
To cover up abuses
By venal national leaders
Upscale liars and cheaters
And well-armed bush-beaters
Feeding the meat-eaters.
The uptight Right
With its narrow eyesight
Calls daytime night
And loves a grudge fight
So, they create enemies
With deceitful homilies
And live up to the parodies
That leave us on our knees.
They ignore the Constitution
And make new resolutions
To offer no real solutions.
To our national destitution.
All that matters is monetary
So, they bribe the constabulary;
Call civil rights revolutionary
And laugh at those they bury.
The point is, make no mistake
These reprobates always take
They never take a break.
They cut nobody a break.
They steal and call it rights
And love it when the poor fight.
And while we sleep at night
They steal even the street lights.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
They said he was always a hothead,
As a kid he’d scream and shout,
He got so bad, made his mother mad
That his father locked him out.
He couldn’t get in at the windows,
So wandered all night round the farm,
And by the time that his folks were fine
The kid had set fire to the barn.
On the day he got out of Borstal
He was just turned seventeen,
And the Warder James said, ‘Listen Ames,
Better keep your fingers clean!
There isn’t a future in anger,
And less of a future in crime,
So keep your head, though your hair is red
Or you’ll be back, doing time!’
But any advice flew over his head
And headed on out to the stars,
For soon young Ames was making his name
Hanging in clubs and bars.
He never went home to his parents
For which they would say, ‘Thank God!
He got his genes from his Grandma Steenes,
And she was distinctly odd!’
He had a passion for fire, would sit
For hours, and stare at the flames,
They said his eyes would be hypnotised
When playing his thermal games.
He’d light a match in a pile of thatch,
In a wood or a field of gorse,
Then watch the firemen put it out,
Well hidden away, of course.
They wouldn’t take him as a fireman,
They said he was up to his tricks
When they saw him next to the fire house
Lighting up piles of sticks,
Then Sheriff Bruce said he had no use
For a hothead in his town,
And put the word on the street; he heard
They were going to hunt him down.
So he hid in the Church’s belfry,
And up in the Town Hall clock,
Then sit and fume in that tiny room
Til he finally ran amok,
He broke in just about midnight
According to Fireman Tuck,
Who’d come from his farm, and raised the alarm
‘He’s stolen the Fire Truck!’
Then fires broke out in the woodlands,
And fires sprang up in the town,
While the chief said, ‘Look for a big red truck,
It must be somewhere around.’
They called out the local constabulary,
They called out the National Guard,
And orders came from the top to say,
‘Go out, and hit him hard!’
They cornered Ames in a one-way street
Where he couldn’t turn it around,
So he climbed on up to the top of the truck
And they finally gunned him down.
The coroner ordered an autopsy
On the body of Hothead Ames,
As the circular saw dropped his skull to the floor,
His brain burst into flames!
David Lewis Paget
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
You cannot rely on the one who would spy on you,
governments lie to you,
the state tries to stifle you,
you've got to break free.
There are them and there's me,
if
I look
I can see that they're looking to be the
spies spying on me.
The constabulary,
uniformity with a limited vocabulary and
unlimited power, look to arrest me,
to contain and refrain me from speaking my piece,
I expect nothing less than to be
under duress in a state run by police.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC