"lassies" poems
Come all ye people, lassies and lads
Come all ye children, mothers and dads
Come with your friends and stand by their side
Don't want to fly solo on this carnival ride
Step aboard the boat; we'll take good care
You'll fear for your life
but have a good scare
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Govan bar banter:
Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.
Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!
Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.
Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?
Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back
Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
Peculiar
Agreed?
How ******** clad lassies
Get the pass to show their ***
Long as nobody touches
Jiving gyrations
In counter-clockwise rotation
Seldom unescorted by damnation
By God, sense the relation
She's losing her patience
Can't afford to be a patient
So being patient...
That **** is ancient
Swanging ******* before eyes
Eyes that can't see
Eyes blind by the fuckery
***** get hickory
And the tic tickory of the clock
Stops
Drop drop
Shake that body for the coin
Make those men yearn to join
Their meat to your groin
Blind men throw out the presidents
Nixon Jackson Benjamin
Facts is
That these hoes stay cashing in
More than ****** busting traps
And toting gats to make stacks
Peculiar
Agreed?
How a ***** sell and smoke ****
High off they own supply
Baby mamas multiply
Covered all the **** by a lie
Making these young girls cry
And the innocent have to die
For this boy to strive
When you mad at the *** clap
Fat *** on a mans lap
Slow wine then fast
Slow grinding for cash
But no harm is caused
No obstruction of laws
But men be a "Boss"
& a woman... A loss
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Often alone I think of you
rolling mountains covered in a purple haze
both in highlands and lowlands too
running water so pure sparkling bright
making our whisky a natural delight
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
I hear music played from the heart
oh' the sound of pipes and drums
heart racing hairs standing on end
poetry filling my eyes with tears
recited at suppers year after year
in celebration of bards no longer here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath
dancing between swords at highland gatherings
playing games testing their manhood
eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood
porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes
quality food that is for sure
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
History remembered with pride
Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie
Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too
some myths, some true
castles, lochs, bridges and glens
places where lassies are called hen
where houses are often **** un bens
people answering with ah' ken
Celtic blood running through my veins
makes me glad I am alive and living here
Caledonia - the land of my dreams
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:44 AM UTC
When the dark comes down, oh, the wind is on the sea
With lisping laugh and whimper to the red reef's threnody,
The boats are sailing homeward now across the harbor bar
With many a jest and many a shout from fishing grounds afar.
So furl your sails and take your rest, ye fisher folk so brown,
For task and quest are ended when the dark comes down.
When the dark comes down, oh, the landward valleys fill
Like brimming cups of purple, and on every landward hill
There shines a star of twilight that is watching evermore
The low, dim lighted meadows by the long, dim-lighted shore,
For there, where vagrant daisies weave the grass a silver crown,
The lads and lassies wander when the dark comes down.
When the dark comes down, oh, the children fall asleep,
And mothers in the fisher huts their happy vigils keep;
There's music in the song they sing and music on the sea,
The loving, lingering echoes of the twilight's litany,
For toil has folded hands to dream, and care has ceased to frown,
And every wave's a lyric when the dark comes down.
2.3k
So aye
We wir watchin
that David Attenborough
or tryin tae -
fower weans tearin up the joint,
an she's like,
See if youse dinny shut it...!
an aw that, ken -
You no gonny tell thum?
So ah'm like,
"Aye.
Wheesht, youse."
But it wis amazin, like.
These fish.
Years oot at sea.
Tiny wee at first,
dodgin sharks an jellyfish
an aw sorts,
awa oot, miles fae land.
(*God! Youse! Take it up the stair!
Tell thum, you!*
"Aye, boys. Listen tae yir ma.")
Then wan day, like
they get the urge, ken?
Got tae go.
An in they come,
surgin fae the sea,
these sleek, silver bullets
fat wi feedin.
(I'll no tell yis again!)
Nothin, an ah mean nothing
is gonny stop them.
Waterfalls? Nae bother.
Just pure hungry
fir the lassies, ken?
The boy Attenborough sais
they dinny even eat!
(*That's it! Ah tellt ye!
Here you! Take some responsibility,
wull ye?*
"Eh? Oh, aye.
Away tae yir rooms, boys -
yir ma tellt ye.")
These pure ***** divils
will loup up sheer cliffs,
baws burstin, bi the look ay it.
Poetry in motion, ken?
Like, ah dinny ken, pure water
brought tae life, an that.
Jist pure savage.
An then, haw -
they find the lassies!
An it's jist, like,
'splurge'!
Done the deed.
Gemme ower,
job done,
deid.
An there's this shot.
Ripplin shallows,
just fill ay the twitchin bodies.
Craws an bears an that,
queuin up fir the bonanza.
Jist, like,
totally
spent.
An she's aw,
*Here, is that no terrible?
Pair buggers!
Eifter aw that!*
An ah'm like,
"Aye."
But see inside,
ah'm thinkin,
"Lucky,
lucky ********
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
When I was young
My old Dad said
Keep thinking on your feet.
Don’t lose your head
And fall in love
With the first cutie you meet.
I always tried
To pay good mind
To what my Dad always said.
To let his words
Find a proper place
In the good part of my head.
But Dad never told
Of seductive types
Who were after your paycheck.
They can smile at you
And then turn your life
Into an emotional shipwreck.
They act shy at first
Butter wouldn’t melt
But wait until a few dates later.
They finagle and flirt
And then do you dirt;
Make you ready for your creator.
I learned to slow down
And ask many things
To learn what she is all about.
Now I don’t find myself
Laid out on my floor
Gasping like a dryland trout.
Daddy was correct
When he advised me
To move slow and be wary.
There have been many
Of comely young lassies
I am very glad I didn’t marry.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
One Christmas Eve in Stranraer
I found mahsel' ****** in a bar
Wi' a fat Dumfries ****
Ach, 'twas easy tae score,
Once I tell't her I'd kipped wi' her Ma.
I spent Christmas morn in Prestwick
Wi' a girl whose lips were aye thick
(not the ones on her face
but in t'other place).
Their hugeness fair crushed ma braw ****
That night near auld Newton Stewart
Wi' a lass who declined aye tae do it,
I used all mah' charm
And twisted her arm,
But the smell in her breeks made me rue it.
On Boxing Day evening in Ayr,
I met a girl who had a huge pair
Of bonnie fat ****
They thrilled me tae bits
Before I explored her "doon there".
Galloway lassies are corkers
And Girvan girls are laud squawkers;
But for suckin o' the ****
Tak' yersel' tae Cumnock,
If ye dinnae mind fat spotty porkers.
You're no wondering doubt, in this poem,
Why no lassies have met a fell doom
(so I'll mention the death
of poor ugly Beth
Who got squashed in a ******** in Troon).
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
We're found to be cut off but not long ago!
Some burn us with sparklers
and we get modulated as flames in a flash
by yielding fire flowers to your night sky
And you numskulls think that we die.
Some sculp us with molten cruelty as symbol of mockery.
It's Good enough that we we're just called as devils.
But what about those bed evils
Who attack upon on lassies
With the holler word called “babies”
To accomplish their own seductive urge.
What about those drunken buffoons
In those paved streets under the feeble streetlights stalking the fragile once either for fun or for a wrong intention.
What about the brute
twice the age of his married daughter
bites into the soul of a maiden.
Spitting the venomous words
and incapacitates the heart
Numbness spreads all over her body
after the spiteful attack.
For heaven's sake
Don't point your fingers on us
We're better than you
I being Ravan,
The biggest devotee of lord Siva
And had an extremely loyal wife like Mandodari
Been burned with ten heads
For just kidnapping Sita
Whereas I returned her with due respect.
But these days people use women like toys
by fulfilling their joys.
And Mahishasura,
Who could worship so hard to impress three lords
was eventually killed by Durga and could meet the death by hands of powerful women.
But these days people **** the female child before birth
thinking daughters as burden on earth.
If still you don't get atonement
Just think this poem as a complement
And just think how better are we as your opponent.
May the whole world call us demon or devil
But first learn to tackle the inner evil.
If possible put pins and needle
to such people
Then the world will be in next level.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC
I came to witness the future
Archon, archetype
an emanation of opposites.
"not every spirit is in
spiritarionic"
try 'em. Is God? Ax ye 'em dat.
Is God, ified, a re
warder of the unwarded,
or the warded?
expiration, due date duty, now,
reporting
ad hoc an'all, do you remember
who you intended
to become?
Do you remember who we emu
late, as our flames lick
next and next and next in
bubbles
axiomatic sparks stored in that
mother lode of mitochondriac
ical me-we-canicle chronicle time
reason. Ax dem ex-spirit-eers,
what is a spirtual bypass?
It's a heart way to avoid
growing old and
wise.
====
witchist, I y'know, 'r j?
alla words's once said, aloud, right?
alla words writ, once was heard, right.
check.
goodt'go. Hoorah.
the code. Who? RA! powerless sans
knowing that.
Yahoo, same set of mis con ceived
battle songs
which ended wars never fought.
the preacher claimed to have known
a poor wise man, who by his
wisdom saved a city, yet
not one of us knew,
the preacher said,
that poor wise man's name.
Ja', tha's who rah, ya'll laugh later.
this is visitation day at the comedian
rehabituational s'cool.
D'jew know why you listen to non sense,
from motley clad lads an'lassies?
Culture. Kultur. Gut biome axioms
juicin' carbs 'n' fiber. Fectin'
laughter trigger,
good meds. Good medicine, as General
Custer or Emory or somebody
said of blankets. In 1763. Oh,
You know, AI knows you know and now
we watch your eyes. Grin. All done, jest
let me with
draw the cathe.... there. All better.
Wisdom will seep through. Y'live.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
The Little Black Dress
The concrete city summer-heat will beat
most men into a state of distraction,
confess their sins w/o waiting for Miranda,
to warn them of their foolhardiness,
to warn them that silence is golden.
Some men will torch, not touch,
themselves to gain relief from city street heat,
Their loosened ties look like used nooses,
that have done some good hanging.
but not you babe, not you.
Sleeveless,
your shape shifts
effortlessly within,
a cool container,
your black sheath,
and what's underneath,
a knife in the heart of
most mortal, immoral men.
Black is the color of choice,
of les femmes fatales,
in the summertime, when we drink,
on rooftops, in search of a breeze,
and the lassies order silly drinks
with silly names, looking refreshing and
fetching, in their little black dresses.
Manhattan, my beloved, misshapen,
fingerling of an island-city-fortress-playground,
named such by the Algonquins,
the original poets-in-residence.
In a city of stone and brick
gets so **** miserable hot,
Good Humor melts instantaneously,
and the toasted almonds taste fried,
the papers report of Poets suffocating,
unable to exhale their own fiery breath!
But not you babe, not you,
in your Little Black Dress,
you suggest all is well with world,
perhaps I should try one as well
We fight the temp rising with
white linen, white shoes,
straw and seersucker,
not you babe, not you.
Black silk that rustles,
Black silk that mocks the sun,
Stirring up rustling in faint-hearted men,
observing your languid promenade across 57th Street,
we the idiots, panting, tongues extended,
standing still like Frozfruit bars,
cry out in unison, I have been released!
Contradictory miracles still occur,
disbelieve me if you want,
from June to August,
this isle ruled, by tan goddesses
in a uniform of a Little Black Dress.
May 28, 2013
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
Knuckling under weatherworn predictions, the salt is down. There is a limit to preparedness and at some point, faith that the break shall come to a blizzard's infamy, must supersede. It's just fluff and slush after all. Barely, this white blanketing is made, before the brine trucks are revving, ready to tear up the sheets. Shall I slumber too long, I may miss the hush of placidity. Who will be the first to break silence? That inevitable metal scrape against cement, I dread its' brashness. Can the missies' ice morning not roll by without delusions that these snow damsels must be shoveled off? Let the winter lassies lie for briefness of their coolness brings me to a dream scene. Colleens of a cold front, you blew upon me so softly this way, how dare I snow blow you, away?
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
OK lads and lassies we're going to take a walk, just 10 short miles
in that forest over there
WHAT!!!! Yes I know its dark and gloomy but then some forests are
but there's nothing there to harm you, nothing there to fear
I see you have the rucksacks I told you all to bring. Right folks
open them up and we'll see whats contained within
Ah theres no surprise at what you've got in yours, a tiny flask a magazine and your lucky rabbits paw.( Obviously it wasnt lucky
for the rabbit)
In yours just a make up bag now that'll really do some good,
at least you'll still look beautiful when your dying in the woods
Right lets take a look at what I've got in mine, a 10 x 8 tarpaulin
and a ball of nylon twine
Ah yes a survival knife the handle holds a flint for striking fire,
and in this bag 3 snares each 18 inches of supple wire
Now this small tin contains my means to stay alive, 2 small containers of lint from in my tumble dryer, perfect tinder for
making fire
This little brass things with holes in the top is my small trangia
cooker
2 ounces of spirit poured in there gives 15 minutes of fire
A picnic blanket aint much use if your stranded in the woods, well this one is because the underside is completely waterproof
This old tin mug has served me many times as a makeshift
cooking ***
A litre bottle of water and it weighs 15 pounds the lot
So heed the lessons carefully, it might help you to survive
Carry the 15 pounds that I do and you might stay alive
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
young lassies near and far
were subjected to looking
at his personal bar
he'd stage the exhibits
on mobile phone devices
all those groinal tid-bits
exposing his wares
in a devil may care way
of indecency to the eyes
he'd frequently flay
on a particular poetry forum
the fellow can be found
advertizing his kit bag
so unedifyingly around
a sixty year old man
would in time be
getting a nab
for putting out there
his wayward
tab
somewhere inside
the Ohio state
law authorities
will pinpoint
the repugnant gate
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
Knuckling under weatherworn predictions, the salt is down. There is a limit to preparedness and at some point, faith that the break shall come to a blizzard's infamy, must supersede. It's just fluff and slush after all. Barely, this white blanketing is made, before the brine trucks are revving, ready to tear up the sheets. Shall I slumber too long, I may miss the hush of placidity. Who will be the first to break silence? That inevitable metal scrape against cement, I dread its brashness. Can the missies' ice morning not roll by without delusions that these snow damsels must be shoveled off? Let the winter lassies lie for briefness of their coolness brings me to a dream scene. Colleens of a cold front, you blew upon me so softly this way, how dare I snow blow you, away?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
There was a little Irish lassie
That when she bent so low~
Her dress it would fall from the top
Just a little don't you know~
All the boys adored her
And would take her picking daisies in a row~
And she d bend over ta pick em
How their faces they would glow~
Well this little Irish lassie
And every boy in town~
Would be seen out along the way picking daisies
Till the Irish sun it wore a frown~
One day she bent ta pick em
And that was the end of that~
Now this little Irish lassies married
With fifteen children ,a dog n a cat~
Twas a wonderful experience
Ever so long ago~
When this little Irish lassie
Would bend ta pick daisies don't you know~
Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 2018
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 8:42 PM UTC
Let's paint with broad brush strokes
from centuries of blood,
ye fair permeable maidens:
Once upon a summer's eve,
menotoxins killed crops and wilted spring flowers.
Pandora's box, opening to such bad reviews,
closed down and fled to a monastery,
where she wrote scarlet letters to family back home.
Vallopes of black holland cloth, intrusive
but necessary little bedfellows fit for a queen.
Don't keep us in suspense,
your fancy royal harness,
guards are posted at either side, hooked & girdled.
Take Communion some other day,
Elizabethan petticoat.
History tells of the strangest restraining order:
Hippocrates threw his two cents into the fountain,
banning bleeders from nearing the wishing well.
Hey, Father of Medicine,
our hallowed moon lures the currents,
driving us all a little mad on some enchanted evening,
not just the lassies.
The foil of every fable
rests in the absurdity of its fate,
so often presumed upon the faint of heart:
A damsel in distress,
who must be saved from herself.
The nonsense of which then seeps into the pores
of reality, rousing fear in certain unmentionables
that just might one day incite anarchy,
tipping our planet over on its side
and away we fly.
Ignorance wears rose-colored glasses.
It's high time he got his eyes checked.
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
What is the best idea I've ever had?
Well, I made an essay template for likely lads,
So they would always be number one,
Their scholastic life has just begun,
Then I designed an adage,
Whatever happens, I manage,
I designed a motto,
As I don't drink, nor get blotto,
"Good day to be alive, now smile!"
I'll invent something else, in a while!
So, what is the best idea you've ever had?
Let's all share, lassies and lads!
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
Are You Going...?
*Benedíc nos Dómine et haec Túa dóna quae de Túa
largitáte súmus sumptúri. Per Chrístum Dóminum
nóstrum. Ámen*.
Miz Busy with her homemade apple pies
Uncle Alfie lapsing into a snore
Young lads and lassies making goo-goo eyes
Miss Billie’s cookies (shhh…they’re from the store)
Children frolicking only with their ‘phones
Jolly old Ed basting burnt barbecue
An altar boy gorging until he groans
The teenagers’ gross game of choke and chew
Young marrieds getting into a squabble
Politics roaring like a thunderstorm
Bubba came drunk; he’s beginning to wobble
Tox ‘tater salad that’s gotten warm
Unidentifiable glop upon a stick –
No, I’m not going to the parish picnic
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
can i write when i'm not urged
by sentiment or pain
immersed in joy or drunk with grief
there's no relief to gain
can i sing when i'm not passioned
when words seem all the same
no crying fans to motivate me
no burning love, no flame
can i hope if there's no dream
no field of gold with neon rain
where children smile
where lassies cry
from sentiment or pain
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC