"lassie" poems
Lassie, sweetheart, love
That's not my name
Calling loudly, feel like I'm dying
Embarrassed, school skirt flying
Pet, darlin', hottie
That's not my name
Followed up the street, feeling scared
Don't know how to get help, if I dared
***** **** ****
That's not my name
Cop a feel when you go by, want to be sick
I'd never see you again, if only I could pick
Girl, gorgeous, lovely
That's not my name
Mind blanks on procedure, sheer panic as you come
Pushed up to a wall, you grab my ***
Beautiful, star, babe
That's not my name
I cried when you came home with me
After dinner, you claimed your fee
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Grandma had a clever dog;
She raised him from a pup.
And when he learned that he could talk
You couldn't shut him up.
His tail was just a nubbin
And he had a flattened mug.
He looked like a short boxer
So grandma named him pug.
Grandma told us what he looked like
For we never saw the cuss.
Her walking, talking, Pug Dog
Was invisible to us.
She said he'd always been around,
As far as she recalled.
Her mother told Pug stories
Before grandma even crawled.
Every family has traditions
And I guess I'd have to say,
Pug tales have been our custom
Right down to this very day.
When grandma gives a long deep sigh
And says, "Now, one day Pug. . ."
We know a story's coming
So we sit down on the rug.
We nestle up beside her
For a tale we've never heard.
And everyone gets quiet
So that we won't miss a word.
The stories grandma tells us
Of the things that dog can do
Can hold any child's attention,
Even fill a book or two.
Grandma's Pug tales outdo Rin-Tin-Tin
And even Scooby-Doo.
He's a smarter dog than Snoopy;
Smarter than Lassie too.
Pug has traveled far, to distant lands,
And even outer space.
He's done every thing there is to do
And he's been every place.
He always gets in trouble
For there's nothing he won't try.
He has traveled in a sub-marine,
Flown airplanes in the sky.
He has even been arrested,
More than once broke out of Jail.
But the family loves him dearly
And we always pay his bail.
Where grandma gets her stories from
I guess I'll never know.
But even down through all these years
Her Pug tales grow and grow.
I know someday when grandma sleeps,
And her life on earth is gone,
The Angels all will gather
To hear Pug tales all day long
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There ’s not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There ’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.
3.1k
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me, believe me,
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me.
He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
And vow’d for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
The Lord forgie me for liein!
A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken’d it, or car’d,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what *** ye think? in a fortnight or less,
(The deil tak his taste to *** near her!)
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a’ the niest week I fretted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.
But owre my left shoulder I *** him a blink,
Lest neibors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.
I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin.
He begg’d, for gudesake, I *** be his wife,
Or else I *** **** him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
3k
Tall men think of robust ladies
Shorter ladies dream of length,
Toothless people fantasize
Of mandibles of white, bright strength.
Porcine women lust for thinness
Breast less girlies long for *****
Dissatisfaction fills the air
It's greener grass or down the tubes.
Black man hopes for pale complexion
White girls bake to raise a tan,
Brown eyed lassie's envy blue-ness,
***** lesbian's, a man.
The wealthy want the easy life
Beggars yearn for cash,
Dissatisfaction's in the air
And mirrors are so trash.
Across the human spectrum far
Mankind wants for more,
The grass is always greener
Looking through another door.
It's bigger, better, brighter, best
The quest is always there
Relentlessly pursued with glee,
Bright eyes and bushy hair.
Results are mixed and varied here
Some reach the holy grail
To watch it slip beyond their grasp
Then founder, fall and fail.
Some teeter on a platform,
Some grasp the prize and run,
Some hit their stride at bounding pace
To see the contest won.
But by and large there's misery
Few climb the road to joy,
Frustration be my brother
Dissatisfaction be my ploy.
Limitation is our lot in life.
Our secret to success
Is to love the mirror warts and all
All other **** ...repress !!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 December 2009
www.worthyofpublishing.com
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:15 PM UTC
Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine,
An’ fill it in a silver tassie,
That I may drink, before I go,
A service to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith,
Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankèd ready;
The shouts o’ war are heard afar,
The battle closes thick and ******
But it ’s no the roar o’ sea or shore
Wad mak me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o’ war that ’s heard afar—
It ’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!
2.7k
love between poets: “who will be between the sheets next week
when I’m gone,” she lets sigh-escape,
as she watches the backyard paradise parading landscape
of animals before the bay, perfect day sure to come,
her new pets obeying the early morn sunrising awakening call
to rise, everyone playing~parading, before her royal summons,
no coincidence, finger-of-god, two by two
this while I’m kissing her neck,
my arm around her *******
and the he-intent on slip sliding down
to the small of her back,
obeying his innate,
worship worshiping and giving up,
all he’s got intense intently contentedly
unfazed, unphased,
non-nonplussed,
he’s been interrogated before,
heart is pure he answers:
next weekend when you are back in situ,
thousands of miles away, airplane housed for hours,
writing poems of love from the lost and found,
recalling this exact moment,
how I worshipped your presence,
and these words:
You will be with me in every breath,
our sheets will radioactively emit
ions and molecules of our scent combined,
and present as present your perfume can be,
elicited, elixir, you and me combinant
she turns from the bay-view,
the animals who now mutually
worship her adoration,
watching, focused on us as observers,
she lifts me up and smiles,
replying*
“oh my lover you’re the cad of cads,
king of the baddest poet-lads,
the gist of what is wrong with the best of men,
her, pressing me hard to her chestnut hair chest,
she, falling down into my eyes
take me back to bed, liar,
let me add to my aroma,
to ensue, to ensure you will miss
the best love
you had partly, insufficiently, and unhinged
completely
I’m your lassie, you my lad,
my king of cads, my lover poet,
thief of my poems and my secret speech spells,
escalating senses of one’s imaginings”*
and,
along came the rest
of what was freely given,
for love between poets
man and
a woman,
is a someone, somewhere,
sometime summertime
thing
*I will still smell you in my
heart, and send to you ballistic missives,
words to explode your tear ducts
when you rest in sheets that met me,
when you’ll know me by my odors,
cry out loud so that you’ll scare our animals,
no matter how many tides wash away our residue,
you will never unknow and be forever unprepared
for my return,*
even though we will be each, a thousand unwritten poems away...
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
There were no blacks
In our part of town
No Asians, no Latinos
None of them around.
There were Italians,
They were treated well.
But anyone of color
Might run into hell.
Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.
I was raised on TV shows
Like Lassie and ******
And there were no blacks
Living near the Cleavers.
There was no understanding
Of life for any non-whites.
When I grew up I saw
That little I learned was right.
Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.
There were radio stations then
Where black music could not play.
They had to get around that
Some other sneaky way.
That’s how we got Elvis,
To fill that gaping lack.
He got his first opportunity
Because he sounded black.
Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Maybe it will change someday
When we all celebrate
The diversity of humanity.
Wouldn’t that be great?
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
Sapiosexuals^
she quoted Shakespeare most appropriately when needed,
her fevered fervor scientific was the non-fossil fueled engine that STEMed her quantum analytics of NFL football,
as an intellectual amuse bouche, that was uncannily correct,
on FIFa she passed it was just too corrupt, but Wimbledon was”fun”
we all bet her predictions for her error rate was insignificant
she claimed her knowledge of a cure for Alzheimer’s was done,
but bio-pharma suppressed, and a single pill existed taken once, could cease and desist the brain for craving ******* but the politics were too complicated and really boring to explain
instead she preferred to wile the hours hanging with
lesser poets, to see if taking them at their word
was an accurate indicative of their professed prowess in bed
but when she sampled my wares regularly,
I called her study statistically biased,
to which she replied,
“ain’t you the lucky one,
that my standards are lowly rigorous,
and you possess a mighty cute bi-assymetry“
in Croatian or Mandarin (unsure)
smart lassie indeed
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
Ah wuz lookin oot o' mah winder and ah saw this lad
wi' a barry wee lassie gaun' up the hill.
-Wair the **** d'ye think you're gaun tae? ah yells oot.
But the daft ***** didnae answer at aww,
must've been oot o' thir ****** heids wi' E's or summat,
d'ye ken what ah'm tellin' ye,ye daft radge?
-Wair ye're ******* going? ah yells a couple mair times
and finally the gadge yells back to ays,
-Up the ******* hill tae fetch a pail o' ******* watter,
me Ma's hud her fuckin' taps turned oaf by the fuckin' Corporation,
which is a ******* pain in the erse ah had ter agree.
I realised ah knew the wee **** Jack but,
eh wuz an auld classmate of ays and eh's hung oot wi' ma brar n me,
when we wuz bairns oan the Scheme,eh?
-That's a bonny wee lassie ye've goat wi' ye, there Jack, ah yelled,
thinking ah'd nae kick her oot o' mah scratcher
withoot gi'ing her a guid ride.
Ah huvtae sey ah recognised hir as a wee ****
called Jill from the Scheme, a right tidy wee ride
in mah opinion wi' a guid little ***** on hir, as ah recall.
-Mind ye're own fuckin' business, the **** yells back at ays,
takin' the pail in yin hand and the hoor's wee hand in the other yin.
Ah can tell ye ah totally pished meself wi' laughter
when the pair o' they wide ***** fell doon,
Jack breakin' his fuckin' croon n the groond,
ah'm sure he nivver meant it tae happen,
'n eh mustae squashed his ******* bawws
as eh fell doon n aww from the wey he screamed oot,
but the wee lassie cam tumbling doon the ****** hill n aww,
heid n **** oor her fuckin' erse
'n ah could see she wasnae wearin' any ****** *******
'n her ***** was on display under her skirt.
Ah wouldnae expect anything else from a wee hoor,eh?
-Dinnae worry, ah'll com and help ye, ah called oot,
but when ah goat thir, both o them wis deid,
ah thoat o' gittin mah hole wi' the deid lassie n aww,
but you shouldnae dae that, it's no respectful tae wimmin,
'n eywis, the polis might trace me through the DNA,
those ***** are clivvir 'n aw, ye ken.
So ah contented mesel' wi' rummidging through the poakits
o' the lad's jaykit tae see if eh hud ehs payment from the Joab Centre,
but the daft **** mustae spent it aww on a boatil or two o Grants,
ah ken ah'd hae done the same mahsel'.
And there wasnae a penny in the lassie's purse,
so ah thoat ah'd jus' **** oaf doon the ******
'n ask some **** tae call the hoaspital and the ****** polis.
Eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
From sixteen to sixty
And all the days in between
From a lassie then a lady
To the woman in my dream
From sketch book to painting
From wondering and waiting
To building and creating
With fireworks and gold plating
From all that you mean
To being my queen
From nowhere to forever
And all the days in between.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
In the rain in the sun,
One smile stood out,
A giggle a laugh,
A face softer than a puppies pout
One colour many looks,
Lilac was the lassie’s heart,
Her meekness in her passion and books,
This lilac lassie was small in size, but big in heart.
She knew that one day her tears of joy and sadness,
Would be her part in the world,
She would pray, never fight, and in her gladness,
The Little Lilac Lassie would always be a special girl.
“I love I love!”
She would chant in her little garden, her own special place,
But what do these words really mean? “I love I love!”
Can you imagine the enchanted look on her white, yet marry face.
She leaped she danced she sang in the rain,
It was her most beloved place in the world,
For rain you cannot hold in your hand to your own advantage, keep on yourself for pride, or make from your arrogance,
That is why rain is special, all on its own.
This told her that The Abba Father was just as the same as the rain could ever be, but for now shall she pray, hope, and have faith, The Little Lilac Lassie.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Eh like playin fitba wee meh Dad,
It's so funny and a wee bit sad
'Cause when eh beat him he gets mad.
Eh like playin fitba wee meh wee lassie,
She plays fitba like Shirley Bassey,
Meh Dad canny tackle, he's so mince.
He devs in and taks awa meh pins.
Meh lassie heiders the ba wee the back o her heid,
Like a fish oot o water
Just before it's deid.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
I quite like plastic sandals;
**** shaped candles;
and big assed women in my bed,
I like artistic folks n artichokes;
n piccalilli on rye bread,
I like big gay men n Tony Benn:
loud mouthed scousers and Steven Fry,
I like The small faces whisky chasers;
n come home Lassie - makes me cry
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 10:54 AM UTC
The North calls her.
Siren song echoing across baron fen.
Pulls at the tartan,
Begs her home again.
That Highland jig,
She remembers with a whistle,
Longs her to return,
To the land of the thistle.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Gothic on the sidewalk
lying in Graffiti
girl in a suntan
leaning 'gainst a tree
in Bikini
girl in blue jeans
dancing down the steps
pretty blue bikini
lying on the beach
***** on a railtrack
Making kissie-fish face
evening moods abound in leather
and in shades of tiffany [red]
a seaworthy lassie
Warning ***** words
looks like it's bedtime
six point five of her
girl on a bear rug
Who is behind the mask?
Posing for perfection
Eyes that smile back
Serious posing
Oh No! Modeling
runaway train strong
fairy-tale Queen
Babe on the beach
Looking so sweet
Look at her at sunset
What a treat
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
boys are taught not to hit girls
but they will cause
even more damage
emotionally.
it’s like you’re saying
that boys are punching bags
& that girls are dart boards
to fire words at
& to **** & poke.
teach our young equally.
teach them how to love,
not who not to fight.
teach them how to speak
truth & kindness,
not what not to say.
teach them to pour
sweet nurturing nectar
from their souls.
& the next time
you shame a man
for defending himself
against a woman
who attacks him,
or let a man get away
with his pride of
not harming a woman
with his hands
when you see he does it
with his tongue
or mind instead,
remind yourself
of your duty to
lead the next generation.
remind yourself of
how everyone should be
treated.
& loved.
& cared for.
& protected.
if i have children
i will teach them
that violence
is damaging
& not becoming
of a human being.
it doesn't matter
whether it's physical
or emotional,
whether they are
a boy or a girl.
it is never okay
to hurt someone.
not all bruises are purple;
not all words are audible.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 6:31 PM UTC
See her,
skinny lassie -
so aware,
stood there
at the counter.
The eyes
lifted from papers,
hooded and guilty,
leering
under sunglasses.
She knows nothing,
thinks
she's in charge.
Bless her.
Whatever's going to break her
hasn't happened yet.
Makes me shudder,
the thought.
The painful innocence.
"Just a fruit smoothie, please!"
she sparkles
at the man.
Thinks his approval
is unloaded,
worth seeking.
No eyes on me.
Glances fall off me.
If I catch a look,
I see it turn
to embarrassment,
pity
or scorn.
Firing blanks, guys.
I'll take those
over possessiveness,
lust,
crawling promises.
Over saccharine
strychnine
strangler smiles,
over violence, veiled
as love.
Your attention is toxic.
Better show it as such.
"Chips and cheese, please,"
I wheeze,
and his sneer
is a klaxon
of cruel jokes
he'll share with colleagues later.
Those
are the tiny victories
of victimhood,
as the twirling girl inside
stays protected,
unsuspected.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
I'm comin' home Maggie, fightin' no longer!
They're sendin' me home from that hell of a war.
I've given me best, now I'm done with the fightin'.
There's nothin' can take me away anymore.
It seems like forever that I've been a-travelin',
by air and by boat and by train and by car,
Me heart has been achin' to be here beside ye,
to see ye and kiss ye and hold ye once more.
'Twas once we went laughin' and once we went runnin',
up to the high hills, and down to the shore,
oh do ye remember, we used to go dancin'!
Everyone watched as we burned up the floor!
I'm home again, Maggie, home at last, Maggie!
Wi' only a stump where me leg was before,
I'm home again, Maggie, oh my sweet lassie,
Death's all that can take me-- I'll wander no more.
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 4:25 PM UTC
Lambent lassie, how I needeth thee today,
I wilt be thy loving man, doing all that I canst;
To make ourn contour's swirl in a dance-
As we pass betwixt the seraphic
Trace. Chaperoned my darling,
Head resting upon head, inner-
Being in rapt, none feeling
Of dread. Mine pinkie do
I giveth thee, lock onto it-
And hold, rest thy fret inside mine chest,
Taketh a breath, inside this soul.
Kindred spirits way back from old, living young,
Homeward bound; igniparous by ourn kindling sound's.
O' fortitude wilt I hath when the time is not yet for meet,
Yet verily mine lass, tis one stroke of an hour we wilt greet.
If I hath to crawl the pit's of the abyss, slithering through the deep, if I hath to waken to a strange cosmic minute, or dieth a death of sleep. If I must endure the second's away from thee, only but for a lifetime, I'll patently awaiteth mine Jane, an eternity with thee by mine side. To glance in thy eye's and to hold thy hourglass waist, to kiss thine honey like a bee to a bloom, to maketh ourn bed upon white roses wherein spirituality is in tune. A bride and groom of times afore, we entered in by the portal of Yahweh's door, never to turn back; ahead we look on. Planting ourn pip's to what lieth ahead, happiness up upon the hill of ourn homestead. None alas expressions, for this place we art meant, together to be, mine baby, mine treat; of the patience we built up, ourn amour shant be in rent, as with the finest of spices I shalt lather thy feet.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
They thought she'd be Sassy,
You'll read she's no Lassie;
So they chose an Isle,
For kin and kith,
Meaning more than breadth and width;
Henceforth she's called Skye.
She's a dimunitive terrier,
She'll not be a harrier;
She'd fall down the holes
Chasing rabbits and voles,
And never be heard of again.
Too quiet for a guard dog,
In the pack, she's no lead dog;
If she tried herding sheep,
They'd bleat in their sleep,
And the sheep would lay down
For the wolves.
She's no sledder like Buck,
She can't carry a duck,
And certainly no fighter like Fang.
She's no Rin Tin Tin,
Can't run fast like him,
And she's not sleek like Roy Rogers' Bullet.
She won't find a body
Buried under the snow,
And she won't win blue ribbons
At any dog show.
But I'm convinced
By her snuffles
She's well worth the trouuble,
I'll take her out hunting
In the woods
For my truffles.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
Thin she looks, like stippled wheat
With anxious eyes and crippled feet
Flaxen hair and halting way
But Jesus baby.. Can she play?
A siren song on notes of gold
Floats out and lets the dark enfold
The lovers as they dance & sway
And kiss & smooch the night away.
She bends way back and holds the note
That muted trumpet starts to float
You’l never hear a better sound
From any jazz man in this town.
Exquisite is the word I’d use
Enticing is her favourite ruse
Alluring now in shades of gray
Her silky sequence soars away.
The song entwines your heart & soul
The moment stops, your pulse on hold
Fantastic senses start to reel
Hot n sexy’s how you feel.
You glide your way around the floor
Feel the rhythm, seek for more
That lady makes the music move
She’s making magic, in the groove
Swinging at the local hop
You’ll never want this night to stop
Thin girly with her magic horn
Convinces us we’re all reborn
You wake up in the light of day
Haggard, spent, bereft of hay
But Jesus boy.. You had a ball
You grooved that ladies trumpet call.
So count your blessings, share a smile
You’re winning by a country mile
When you did hear that lassie play
You stretched your life another day.
Thin she looks, like stippled wheat
Anxious eyes and crippled feet
Flaxen hair and halting way,
But Jesus brother….can she play!
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
29th. September 2007
Dec 3, 2009
Dec 3, 2009 at 10:48 PM UTC
Tall men think of robust ladies
Shorter ladies dream of length,
Toothless people fantasize
Of mandibles of white, bright strength.
Porcine women lust for thinness
Breast less girlies long for *****
Dissatisfaction fills the air
It's greener grass or down the tubes.
Black man hopes for pale complexion
White girls bake to raise a tan,
Brown eyed lassie's envy blue-ness,
***** lesbian's, a man.
The wealthy want the easy life
Beggars yearn for cash,
Dissatisfaction's in the air
And mirrors are so trash.
Across the human spectrum far
Mankind wants for more,
The grass is always greener
Looking through another door.
It's bigger, better, brighter, best
The quest is always there
Relentlessly pursued with glee,
Bright eyes and bushy hair.
Results are mixed and varied here
Some reach the holy grail
To watch it slip beyond their grasp
Then founder, fall and fail.
Some teeter on a platform,
Some grasp the prize and run,
Some hit their stride at bounding pace
To see the contest won.
But by and large there's misery
Few climb the road to joy,
Frustration be my brother
Dissatisfaction be my ploy.
Limitation is our lot in life.
Our secret to success
Is to love the mirror warts and all
All other **** ...suppress !!
M.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
I quite like plastic sandals,
**** shaped candles,
and big assed women in my bed,
I like artistic folks and ***** jokes
and piccalilli on rye bread,
I like big gay men and Tony Benn,
loud mouthed scousers and Steven Fry,
I like The small faces whisky chasers
and come home Lassie - made me cry.
I like the upturned curl
of ******** dog lip
the hurl and swirl
of big girl hip.
I like Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC