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We were swept up onto this rocky coast
By a storm in ’93,
There were thirteen passengers and crew
And a stowaway, that’s me!
The ship was holed on the jagged rocks
And it sits still out in the bay,
We’ve never been able to fix the hole
So it looks like here we’ll stay.

It sits forlorn when the tide is low
But is covered when it’s high,
As the breakers beat on the after decks
Though the ship is never dry.
The water pours from the cabins, and
Lies deep in the forward hold,
While the rust is eating the hull away
And the cargo’s turned to mould.

We thought that we’d soon be rescued
By a ship just passing by,
But all we saw for a month or more
Was the lonely sea and the sky,
We made our camp on the beach where we
Could watch for a passing light,
And cook our fish on the signal fires,
But the trouble came at night.

The crew of seven were restless and
The passengers were few,
For only five of us men were there
And the women, only two.
One, the wife of a clergyman
The other a girl called Gail,
And she was sweet on a man called Deet
That she’d met before we sailed.

But Deet had fought with the bosun
Over the fish he said were his,
They moved away, went around the bay
To seek their Island bliss.
That left the clergyman’s wife with us
Who was praying we’d be found,
But late one night, in another fight
The clergyman was drowned.

The bosun dragged her away from us
With Froggat, Jones and Lees,
They took the struggling woman with them
Deep into the trees,
There wasn’t a thing we could do for her
So we went out to the ship,
And armed ourselves with iron bars
While we told ourselves: ‘They’ll keep!’

We moved our camp from the other crew
For the feeling there was mean,
The three the bosun had left behind
Hid out where they’d not be seen,
But then, at just about midnight we
Were hearing an eerie wail,
For down at the beach they’d murdered Deet
And dragged off the weeping Gail.

From deep in the trees we saw that Lees
Was trying to reach our spot,
His head was covered in blood, but then
He fell from a single shot,
The bosun was dragging Marie, the wife
To the open, by her hair,
Her dress was soiled and her face was spoiled
With the tears of a deep despair.

We didn’t see Froggat and Jones again,
They’d fallen to the knife,
But I had to run from the bosun’s gun
In order to stay alive,
Then under the cover of darkness we
Went after the weeping Gail,
And beneath the stars with our iron bars
We left a bloodied trail.

We caught the bosun asleep one night
And we beat him with our bars,
He didn’t have time to wake before
We dispatched him to the stars,
That left just Jeremy Leach and I
And the women that we’d saved,
For Gordon died of a fever then
And we dug his sandy grave.

It looks as if we’ll be here for good
So I’ll sign this bloodied screed,
Place it safe in a bottle then
And commit it to the seas,
We won’t fight over the women for
Marie is now with Leach,
And Gail has a tiny stowaway
As she wanders along the beach.

David Lewis Paget
Kareena Apr 2016
For some reason the two of us were there
Facing bluntly, but I fondly focused
On your tapping fingers, your bouncing leg
And when my eyes came up to met your gaze
It felt like I was looking into my own stare
A part of myself I had condemned, tried hard to forget
But somehow, you were remembered
After time without thoughts or contact

You touched my hand and we overlapped fingers across the booth
And a familiarity spread that felt like it used to
You gave comfort that I was not alone in our memory
You talked of her and I of him, but it didn't damper
A morning of caffeine in my favorite study nook at school
Though I never recall your fondness for coffee
We drank and enjoyed each other if only for a little while
A pleasant visit with an old friend

It was a flash of smoke or prestidigiatation it seems
Because something felt whole when you were there
Like I was reunited with a lost friend
But I felt utterly wrong to be contemplating it simultaneously
Because of what you meant to me

Your sweet visit occurred when I was not able to stop it
Even if you do not often come to my woken head
Sometimes you sneak into my sleep
Jake Palacio Feb 2013
The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of Rio.
As do the blood-shot beauties themselves.
My sunburned chees and bug-bitten legs, both tell the story of Rio.
That pain in my stomach that’s equal parts hunger and hangover,
The combined smells of cheap liquor, sunscreen, and DEET,
The film in my camera, and the samba in my head, all tell the story of Rio.
Rio is trying new things, meeting new people,
Losing them to the city, and then losing yourself.
The ******* cab drivers and broken-English streetwalkers all are parts of Rio.
Rio is sleeping pills, energy drinks, and getting home at sunrise.
Rio is the place that the big man Himself watches over.
Someone needs to, because Rio is a game,
And Rio always wins.
So good my girl that she be
Be the one that made for me
She do the dish and make a meal
She lovin' good das good an' real

Nobody know how she make me feel
A stain my life leaves on her sheet
Heaving up a gunk of dweet
And rubbing all about her leek
She gonna need a new bath deet
BAM Nov 2011
Where has our honesty gone?
The world is spinning out of perspective

Individualists
More like conventionalists

Wanting to be a free soul
Instead, we’re losing control

How do we define different?

“Different
            A pseudo-polite way of saying something is unpleasantly weird or unacceptable”                      [www.urbandictionary.com]


What about individual?

“individual
         Individual's may actually conform, just to prove that they are individual from other individuals...
        There is no definition of an individual, for to define an individual is hideously oxymoronic.”                     [www.urbandictionary.com]

All of these rules and ideologies
Which become more like mythologies

Giving us a…what… purpose?
Because without one were all worthless?

How does the media propel
Drive some great minds down to hell

But wait, sometimes those scars
Are not the real person they are

What about the girl next door
Is she perfect? Or is she a *****

How come the prepped up ****
Gets a thousand girls to put his ****-
-Y  attitude towards

What about all those hipsters
“individualists” in all their glister

PROTOTYPES
We are always followed

“To be, or not to be”
Now THAT  is a real question

Why cant we all just BE

F R E E

Within our own minds
Refuse ourselves to be confined

But no matter where we go
The world will be a tv show
[scripted and masked]

Because the crazy professor who screamed in the crowd
Did a small scene from a movie out loud

And the individualist across the street
Got her haircut from Georgia O’deet

While the artist down the road
Saw his painting when it snowed

Though its obvious we refuse to admit defeat
Individual doesn’t march to its own beat
Alex McQuate May 2017
The bugs have overwhelmed my deet defence,
So I've retreated behind the screen door,
Smoking by the doorway, leaning back in a chair,
Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, and Christine McVie are haunting me with their words,
To never break the chain...
My eyes feel like there's grit in them,
I drink a glass of water to rehydrate a bit,
To counteract the cigarette's sting,
Of 2 packs smoked when I should have only smoked one.
I feel like a record player, and my table belt is just slightly off kilter,
Making me so my rounds just a little too fast,
Just fast enough to be noticeable and an annoyance.
13% battery left,
How many more can I do?
The Chain-Fleetwood Mac
“Daddy. and Daddy's **** girlfriend, where did I come from?”
“Son, you came from your Mommy's tummy.”
“How did I get there?”
“I don't know.”
As fruity fruit rots in a tree, I'm on 2 feet like a dead widow on deet
who burns twins of Siamese liars in the grey moss of Irish-bog peat
I cannot breathe in terrible industrial zones, where industrialists are
industriously industrious, because girls are calamitously calamitous
with pimply-red, skeeter-bit legs greased in oil-slick, fatal deet from
smoothly-shaven, Schick-razor-burned ******, to swollen, pink feet
Nothing is fine for hearts arrhythmical in lumpy ***** chemiatrical
after the N.C.I. floods lymphatical sytems with poisons genotoxical

— The End —