The Ballad Of Jack Hammer (Concept by Jay Byrne)
=========================
Jack Hammer-Jay Byrne Black Fang Rob Sandman aka Schizophrenic.

Listen up I got a tale to tell.
About a black jack rabbit known for raisin' hell.
Jack Hammer's his name. Retribution the game.
Out on the plain with his kinfolk he did dwell.
Til that fateful day. No forgettin it.
Loss so painful. Jack was but a leveret.
While playin' out back.
Along the track came Black Fang and the Red River Pack.
And they were lookin, for blood.
Notorious outlaws up to no good.
In the low sun and The Pack started gunnin'.
So Jack started runnin'. The damage was done and it was over.
No time for goodbye. He just stood there.
Lookin' the Devil in the eye.
While his Momma bled.
The wolf walked up and this is what he said.

Are you sore that the Fang took away your Paw?
and the River Run's red with the blood o' your Maw?,
well hop away little blackjack eyes red raw,
-tell the rest o' the prairie what you done saw,
Red River is the Pack,I'm the one with the crown,
I'm the big bad wolf who blew your whole life down!
so cower and quiver little wabbit,have a cry...
you little ******* you took my **** eye!

From out me back pocket, pulled out me slingshot..
..I'm a real crack-shot when it comes to bringin' pain across lots.
Ya never saw it quicker.
Lickety-split I skedaddle into the thicket.
Then he was gone...

Spent the next few years wanderin'. Ponderin' recompense.
Lived paw to mouth honing his defense..
..and offense. Hell bent on atonement.
Twin six-guns blazin', layin' judgement.
While The Pack kept killin'.
Full split, full chisel, goin' the big figure.
Black Fang said it himself.

none bigger none badder than the Pack I'm with,
spit venom that hisses,hogleg never misses,
no-one messes with the red river,do and you die,
cry wolf-get engulfed,leave your colt lie,
whole pack'll rip lead to your head if you try,
but-one thing niggles while I sup down Rye
is to **** that rabbit that took my **** eye,
heard he built some fame,got himself a name,
Jackhammer IS MINE I STAKED MY CLAIM .


Like a freight train runnin' on collision course.
Jacks fate's been comin' like an iron horse.
Tour de force, pent up, fired up ready to blow.
On a stormy night into town he did stroll.


Jack walked into the saloon.
Black as all hell, no light from the moon.
Fang at a table playin' poker.
Soon to be Dead Mans Hand for that joker.
The pack'll pay.
I'll put the red in your river bringin' Judgement Day.
Stormbringer I'll deliver. Got an itchy trigger-finger..
..cos I'm quicker and fitter. Juiced up, not goosed up on hard liquor.
Then he catches me eye.
Takes a sip of his rye and says..

if it ain't the **** nipper that took the fang's eye,
waited all these years to come here and die,
no odds no winnin' no end to my sinnin' ,
Pack back up,fair game fangs winnin
last chance saloon,I'm too old for you,
ain't no-one ever outdrew me and old blue,
Navy Colt revolver,dead problem solver
so 'ware this wolf,you couldn't **** with silver

Black Fang, I've come to collect.
Anybody that don't wanna die better mosey outback.
But the pack can stay.
For what ya done did you're dyin' this day.

as I opened my mouth and slid my paw to old blue,
twas like the heavens opened up on my whole **** crew,
twin revolvers spitting,splittin' open my pack,
last shot ripped ripper my lieutenant in the back
cause I dragged him over me,hit the deck too,
little rabbit thinks its,over cause I  was hit too,
then I let rip,aiming straight for the head,
coulda sworn that shot left Jackhammer dead ... (but did it?)

'Twas the night before Christmas--Old Santa was ******.
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.
Miserable little brats, ungrateful little jerks.
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works!

I've busted my *** for **** near a year,
Instead of 'Thanks Santa'--what do I hear?
The old lady ******* cause I work late at night.
The elves want more money--The reindeer all fight.

Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids.
Donner is pregnant and ***** has AIDS.
And just when I thought that things would get better
Those ******* from the IRS sent me a letter,
They say I owe taxes--if that ain't **** funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus any money?

And the kids these days--they all are the pits
They want the impossible--Those mean little *****
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls...Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo's--No request for them,
They want computers and robots...they think - I'm IBM!

Flying through the air....dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I'm quitting this job there's just no enjoyment
I'll sit on my fat *** and draw unemployment.

There's no Christmas this year now you know the reason,
I found me a blonde. I'm going SOUTH for the season

My uncle is in a twilight home
for the seriously demented
and he'll never be coming back
from the place he's in
even if he could find the ******* way.

"Dear Edna" (my uncle wrote) "I am feeling low today
mainly because of the diarrheoa
I have had for the past week
although how you could get the runs
from eating pre-mashed milk pudding
is a ******* mystery to yours truly
I blame the African chef
I don't think he washes his hands
after he drops a log or two.

"It has been so long since your Auntie Linda passed
over to what may be a better place
than here because it could hardly be
worse what with the bedbugs
and the Asian nurse who keeps making me
use a bedpan in public as a punishment
for wetting the bed.

"To be frank with you though,
sometimes I can't remember
what I did yesterday or tomorrow either
but on other days everything is clear
and I think there is a Chinaman hiding
in my bedside cabinet and I am worried he might be
some sort of homosexualist after my *******
especially after my weekly bath
when it's relatively fresh.

"And, my dear niece (if that's who you are
I am not two hundred percent sure at the moment),
I don't think I got my breakfast today again
what a ****** surprise but at least
I won't have the runs again
it's because the Filipino nurses are eating it
my breakfast I mean not the other stuff.

"Your auntie my dear late wife was a truly gentle soul
and I am sure she is the only woman I have ever truly loved
the others were just a bit of spare how's-your-father
even though she could be very trying at times
and I remember once she bit someone
from the social security services
when they tried to help her up
off the kitchen floor after one of her attacks
she thought he was trying to cop a quick feel-up
below the waistline on the sly."

There's a rather nasty splodge on the paper
at this juncture, it looks like Uncle Bert
coughed up a lump of something
or other semi-terminal.

*"I've been thinking it over
about the nurse who stole my breakfast
and I might be mistaken.
I think it's quite possible she could be Romanian
now that we are in the European Union
there's a lot of funny people about
and they're taking over everything
you can't get Wagon Wheels in the tuckshop any more
only some beetroot flavoured biscuits.

"I am very worried one fine day I shall wake up
and not remember all the happy times
about my long years with my dear late wife
whose name eludes me for the moment
but I am still worried about the carpet slipper
and breakfast thieves round here.

"I fancied a nice piece of boiled salmon for lunch today
but it will be fish fingers once more this Friday
not that there's any catholics in here
and the staff are muslims in any case
and don't these people know fishes
don't have fingers, but flippers and fins
not that I'd eat a fin but that's another
country in the European Union I think
or it might be Frinton-on- Sea
where I think I once got a bit
of outdoor legover action.

"I wouldn't mind dying but I am scared to do it just yet
because I think I have lost my faith in baby Jesus
in fact I can't remember who she is even
and I hope my Linda (I remembered her name now)
will have gone to heaven in spite of biting
that health worker when he goosed her
the thought of going to heaven and she's not there
would be ******* dreadful
as I fancy a bit of the other.

"I think I can hear someone in the next ward
singing obscene songs in a wavering voice
with a la-la-la for the forgotten words
but remembering all the good bits
the bits they miss out of the Daily Mail.

"Where in God's name is my lunch
and who has got my slippers
how many times must I ask
and where is my bedpan when I need it?
Can you bring me one, Edna,
it would be nice to have a bedpan
all to myself as I hate sharing one
with Mr Ali as his son keeps sending him
cold takeaway curries which means
his motions are very strong indeed
Love from your uncle Bert.
PS I will put you back in my will
if you come up with that bedpan."

Shout

When your head's in a funk
if you smell a dead skunk
when goosed by an elephant's trunk

when your money is spent
ate cheeseburgers during lent
don't know where your life went

shout

if your lover has split
left you in a childish fit
you're so mad you could spit

you hear the same song and dance
from politicians there's not much of a chance
changes will come with that stance

just shout  

if your skin is getting wrinkled
your hair with gray is getting sprinkled
not sure when's the last time you tinkled

if you forgot where you were headed
those final exams so dam dreaded
St. Pete's approval you've so fretted

you need to shout

maybe someone will hear
before you disappear
your cries so clear

not ready to say goodbye
buy a new bottle of dye
spike your hair up real high

and shout  

Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet...

The son of a carpenter climbed a cross
And Saturnalia was lost forever…
Slaves, adorned in masters clothing
once drank out of the golden goblet and goosed the mistress
vied with paupers for King of Fools
banged pots and pans, slept with sloe-eyed boys til morning
poked, prodded, pampered, kissed, and loved again
The solemn lords of the city peered from their heavenly contemplations
and felt, like a worm in the mysticism of direct communication with    god
a bit of remorse, a hint of resentment against the marble steps,
a yearning for the dance, for the abandonment of the senses
for a pageant worthy of those ***** old gods

MITHRAS, BACHUS, DIANA, DISCORDIA.

Before Christmas pushed jostled and shoved the holiday
out of the way,
we opened our homes to all the poor
they become the masters for the day.
while we ran behind with dishcloths and wild cries of
DON”T BREAK THAT
and infused with a small perverse pleasure
took our masks down for a night -
I will play sly servant lass
while my staid husband is forced into corners
with women who struggle to keep their teeth in
And their children fed.

If there were no Jesus,
the tree would still go up for the Norse
the presents still go out for the British
the children still adored for Saturn
the feast still cooked for the old Germanic tribes –

humility, guilt and being saved, saved, saved
saved from the drunkards in the streets,
saved from the firecrackers, the happy children, the Yule log,
saved the togetherness, the topsy-turvy of this most celebrated
happy out-of-control neighborly Solstice ancient block party-

That came from Christ.

Thanks Jesus, you old scrooge.

Patrick (Lucky Stars) O'Hara set his disabled grandson up on the old horse's back. Contrary to his moniker Paddy was anything but. His luck had run out. His son had just died of leukemia, and his grandson was now fatherless. His "daughter-in-law" had run off long ago. Couldn't handle having such a disabled son, and a sick husband. Paddy had never liked her anyway.

Patty looked at the child's wizened body. The cruelty of scoliosis. The doctors said it would cost vast thousands of dollars to straighten Bobby O'Hara's spine. Money Paddy absolutely did not have.

His sad gaze shifted from the boy to the horse he was sitting upon. Oh what a magnificent creature you were, 8 Ball! His own retired racehorse. What was once a stone black coat was now mottled with white. The figure eight shaped blaze on his forehead had given him his name. Not to mention the way he took off at the Starting Gate. As if someone had goosed him with a cue stick! And he bounced off the turns in the track as if he had a spin on him that was absolutely deadly. 8 Ball loved to run! He was unbeaten in every race that he entered. A real Dark Horse. With no particular lineage whatsoever. 8 ball just had Talent. And the track owners hated it. Most races were rigged. And Paddy O'Hara didn't play the game.

So they set up a race. With a big race horse named Red Rodger. This horse was also unbeaten, and had a promising future. But Red Roger's jockey was told to lay his horse down... Right in front of 8-Ball. So lay down he did. Killing Red Rodger and severely injuring 8-Ball. There was a lot of speculation about the race. Especially how the jockey riding Red Rodger had jumped from the horse just before the accident happened. He said his foot had slipped the stirrup. No one could prove otherwise. So red Rodger was dead, and 8-ball was very effectively out of the game.

8-Ball, being a sweet natured horse, stood stolidly as a little boy patted his withers. He looked back at him with his gentle dark chocolate eyes and nickered with what Paddy could have sworn was tenderness...

He heard a frustrated whinny behind him. Looking back he saw what he expected. The F-tch was back.

Lady Genevieve Summerfield-Fitch looked down her long nose at Paddy. Astride the most magnificent jumper O'Hara had ever seen.

Gentleman Jim was an astonishing animal. The dappled grey of rainclouds on a milk white sky... and his lines were flawless. Not to mention his lineage. His dam was Proud Nelly, and his sire was none other than Seafront View. And The Gent was as good as his name. He wasn't hare- brained like some horses which became ******. This was a well-tempered, almost intellectual horse. He worked WITH his rider. Practically thinking his way through a course. And it was no surprise that Gent won more awards than you could shake a club at!

But Gentleman Jim's rider was anything but his counterpart. She owned him, but she was no lady...

All of a sudden Paddy's gaze shifted again... this time in the far distance to take in an apparition. A small blonde girl... hair the length of her knees! Running like the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her! She closed the distance between them so rapidly O'Hara was almost dumbfounded!

"I... must... buy... your horse", the child panted.

"He's not for sale..."

Suddenly Paddy saw who the youngster was running from. Back in the middle distance was an ugly bald-headed creep. The spider's web tattooed over the left side of his face was enough to change Paddy's mind... he'd give the girl TomTom, though. He was a good, swift horse....

... then, before he knew what happened, his grandson was sitting on a chair by the stables and Blondie was astride 8-Ball!

"Hey! That horse is old and LAME!

"Not anymore." The blonde girl said simply. She pressed something hard into his palm. "And he's now mine".

As 8-Ball wheeled around to go out the gate something... happened. Was it O'Hara's imagination? The Ball's coat got darker! And shiny! His "game" leg seemed to... straighten...

When he made it out to the trail with his small rider he bunched up his flanks and took off Like a bat out of HELL!

The young blonde girl's long hair streamed out behind her like a sail as she took on the seat of a hockey... PERFECT FORM!

Paddy looked down at the hard object the girl had pressed into his hand. It was a classically cut emerald, dark as the hills of Kentucky. And bigger than any Paddy had ever seen...

Dear Mother,

I know it must be hard to understand
Where you are in relation to where you
Stand since your understanding undermines
Everything everywhere and all the time.
I know it’s “unfair” that the Samson you
Wanted, the same son, was forgotten and
Left behind at the bank where the water
Children sit so silent stagnant still and
The mothers swim and drink without waiting
A good bent hour before eating. But,
Is not the rambling, running, dancing
Flowing, singing, tripping, superfluous  
River, where the congregation is born
Time and time again, then, as always, drowned
In the maw and paw of familiar
Familial distress, and disastrous
Loving waters–those siren sounding sounds:
The falling great stones, and frail bricks of
A heart that you’d ne’er build nor take apart
Not the most loved above all the rest?
Isn’t it the spirit, not the structure,
Where we find the lord’s faulty, cheap, design?
Can we not amend such vast decisions?
Can we not stop the working workmen’s work?
Halt the lord’s crane? His goosed neck, bent broke stretched,
Over and above the flowing rotting
Sewage? Lord, too much water, too much wine.
But I’ve digressed, or, perhaps, digested
Too much from my discontented plate and
Now, my distended belly will give up
Disagreeing with me on this feast day.
So mother, I’m done. I’ve spoken my peace
In this puzzling puzzle that just won’t
fit. So with adieu, I now give to you
Goodnight, goodbye, good luck–but only two.

Love,
Man Lee

You touched me with words
Whispered sweet lies
I lost my breath
You touched me with hands
Trailing tips of dancing fingers
Leaving behind goosed flesh
You touched me with rose colored glasses
Distortion at best
I fell hard
Cracked china and lace

Duck, duck, goose!|
Now I'm on the loose
Chasing you in hot pursuit
From the spot you're tryin' ta loot
Yet I fail, there's no excuse
Now round I go, Duck, Duck, Goose!

Well!! Tails or Fairytales
don't necessarily
Come to me
momentarily
Hell!! Sails or Diary-Males

Rhyming
might be
overly silly
((Goosed or Scrooged))

Or hell was bend like
a genocide
Taking Sides
Stone cold grave
There is a tree
Pretty Cherry
blossom

Well! I don't
really know
what will be me
I will live out my
lifetime near trees
Bring me back as
beautified Dogwood

Robin-hood

Oaktree Vee's for
Victory
Money doesn't grow
on trees
I Apple
Godly talk Tree
The mall shopping
I pick Cherries
She is peach
Never outreached
Papa don't preach
Trees of love disease

But tails
No gifted
Deals
Getting Meals
on wheels
suicide
Daredevil
Detective
Homicide
Sometimes what is
not real disheveled
But somehow we sense
To know what we feel
We are feeling all
rummaged so
discounted

All numbers
Deli counter
Rare find
Humanity
switch

Like a ripped
sewing stitch

Price tag $  $  $
Richly-Poor
You felt touched
Fairytale opened
another door
Someone was buying
you cut like a knife
Such a rarity steak

Every week
he bluffed
My call-
After a while
   Gamed
Puff the magic
((Red Dragon))

All Jarred
tightly in
his Treehouse
Mr. Mason
Not a person
Wagging and
he is dragging
your words

Wedding hits you
Not the fairytale sweet
Not buying his story
Chirp Twitter tweet

Chippendale Male
Dancer of hell and
glory
Doing the count
Not a smile out of
Mona Lisa
Count Dracula
Hula hoop
Robin redbreast you
know the scoop
Your hip bone
I phone

Dr. Seuss or secrets
you truly possess
I am a root
of myself
One black
number dress
Like the
Mothers womb

We were born to see the world
Teething crying but never
to understand

Congeals Fairytale of emails
Too many death suicides
What ends to begin
Uncertainty not being sure
But All or not all
It's certainly time for the call
If its a tattle tale or fairytale
I will never fall
I know I am pure
Bluest sky azure
What it conceals
when we are dying

Lampshade
Shade me Man made
Tree rare-homemade
Trees also die
But I will be sitting
around them
And smiling
about them

Spiritual Rare site
Trees are my life
They are a root
To my happiness
No tattletales
Even getting the root
of your emails
Trees are the winners
It's hard to find the
truth for what its worth
Enjoy what you have
Good earth
Or Man with stares
I will be enjoying
Who I am__
For years and years

My flesh goosed up
while my eyes
sized up
the mirror man
who was manically
laughing,
imprisoned
by our
momentary madness.

Wasted form
fitted for debasement,
consciousness
ready to face
self-denigration.

Body heat
bubbled up
like wild waves
of red fury
ready to rupture
and spew
hot lava.

Hate bled from my body
as I stared in defiance
longing to commit
depraved acts
of violence
against myself.

Pain pushed me
to escape
this reality,

as I longed for
the sick fog
of slumber
to cease
this sadness.

Canadian Goose
landed on a Moose would you
say Goosed a Moose Aye
                                               Kelly McManus

and ewe know what else...
furloughed & barred from Whitehouse

Ducks of former self proclaimed Grand Poobah
getting lined up and goosed as these words typed
after trumpeting January 6th, 2021
as violent insurrection
Mitch Mcconnell got ribbing.

Poor sign,... I ham going to pisces aghast, where
pigheaded previous president concerned
at increasing mind numbing popularity
and looming ominous shadow
witnessed by Donald Trump,
a poor loser who viciously
inexplicable resurgence against odds
despite his opprobrious person,
hence aye aerate thoughts,
how *** a nine his banal, demoniacal,
egomaniacal, fanatical,
guttural, hurtful, inimical

culling frightening insight,
where malicious, portentous,
salacious, venomous Portuguese
Man 'o War debacle
doth crowdsource, flickr,
and indeed long foster
my plenti full overactive imagination
to induce writhing expressions of fearfulness
proportionate burst of haughtiness)
while he doth stump
would animate mine rear
i.e. rather noxious flatulence

expelled from outward doppelganger of ****
pull stilts skin cuz this chap
haint noah fan, but wood vouchsafe
tub be a jimmy neutron
n spongebobsquarepants
ark n saw wing enemy
against da dull don dat does pump
swaggering bravado with fist swelling ego
analogous to his body
infected with severe case of mumps
that brazen denizen hurling
and spewing volcanic fiery spittle
with incense against others –

to him mere lumps
of protoplasm heckled as inferior to himself
boasts as proof of favoritism,
that enervating, endearing fawning,
gabbling feverish arrogant,
bombastic, chauvinistic, egotistical
mania for him jumps
higher than expected,
while he commits faux paws which bumps
his ratings higher, he gleefully endorses
pandemonium toward gloating gump
shun from the uproarious. querulous
and populous madding crowd.

Throughout relaunch of his campaign,
banally, devilishly, and fiendishly
character assassinating
those opposed to his views -
inducing me to harrumph and dump faith
in humanity, wondering what ruse
smart democratic pol mongers can conjure up
while pacing in soft shoes
woeful sentiments sans his attempt did render
(during 2020 race to White House)
competitors to drop out in ones n twos
whom he purportedly considers apostates,

and heathens cons heed
Make America Great use
all manner of
bullying, execrating, instigating
chaos, ferocious, insidious lies
determination, whose re: his occipital pupils
coalescing, hardening into searing
grape nut size wrath poisonous daggers
forcibly silencing any jeers
when necessary
plagiarizing neo **** playbook -
with a "who cares"

attitude closing in on pinteresting
for United States chess board foursquare,
which deliberate intent
to foment n wrought prostrate -
music to those hoteliers billion dollar ears
defeating apprenticing contestants
hearing sobbing tears
with vitriolic violent bilious
inducing jabs of his a will full spears
reputations of personalities
(men and women politicians

his especial flavor of
scathing, scandalous, scabrous sordidness
spewed squeamishly
to grab by the figurative crotch
the hello kitty 2024 presidential election),
whether liberal, conservative,
heterosexual or queers
thus tis find this muddling middle aged mwm
garden variety and generic guy
brandish, flourish, and nourish
psychic fractal brittle shears.

They are not concerned
as to whether it is a boy
or a child, surely, all that
matters is what *******
colour it is, because if it
be black, then Brexit don't
mean for ****, because in
just a few generations from
now, Britain will be goosed.