"mick" poems
bae is sick
his name isn't ****
this sounds like a rap
but it isn't a map
he pronounces stuff strangely
he can say "aluminum" barely
he has the flu I think
he needs to see dr dake
we have shows to go to
but he still has the flu
so I'm lonely as heck
for bae who isn't named beck
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
How dare you treat me like this?
You must be taking the ****
Have you no respect to pay?
Will you just send me
On my way?
The problem’s Yours my friend.
With you I can’t contend.
You are just me, me, me.
You’ve left me totally free.
I’m better off alone,
With no-one in my zone.
You’re such a bigot and a snob
And nothing but a ****
Who fobs me off
With drivel
From your gob.
Your haughty arrogance makes me mad
As you are nothing but a cad.
Okay so you have all the power,
And over me you sure do tower.
But don’t be thinking that I’ll cower:
I glower waiting for my hour,
For my dog’s day
When You I shall devour!
Paul Butters
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Sometimes, when you listen to their enounciation.
You realize, just how beautiful they speak in their British accent.
Every word expressively spoken.
That you're mermorized by each vocal.
Maggie Smith, the lady of class.
Cary Grant, the man of taste.
Oh, that British voice.
That you might chose , if had you that choice.
Or seek ways to adapt them to yours.
Michael Redgrave/Michael Rennie/Vanessa Regraves
All of them had that lovable voice.
Then you notice the beautiful Julie Andrew.
Words spoke so you see the greatness of the phase.
Which we notice too in Richard Attenborough.
Who reminds many of Richard Burton?
Yes, the British accent.
You just got to love it
Similar to loving Honor Blackman when she speaks.
A great difference from Jacqueline Bissett.
Except written about them with great respect.
Who can't admire the British Accent?
Yes, there's the French.
And I'm not kicking it.
Then , there's Spanish.
Which has more trying to learn it.
But this is about the English and the various style of vocals.
Colin Barker and Prince Williams the Royals speaks so wonderful.
Just like, the man called Michael Caine.
I just have to mention Deborah Kerr.
That also goes for Joan Collin.
It's something about their style of speaking.
Maybe because you understand every spoken word.
Which is level toward the great Timothy Dalton.
And Samantha Eggar and **** Jagger.
Plus, the late David Niven.
And honorable mention to Julie Christie.
Jane Asher, Hugh Grant and several more.
Have you wishing to make their voices be yours.
Yes, the British Accent just so lovable.
And the greatest things about it.
You don't have to be famous to be adored.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
One each end of a shelf
Victorian figurines
A boy and girl
Like crystalline
With stiff edged lace.
Never fell in love
But still precious
Bought by a Godmother
Who did not have children.
Then the plaster dancers
Spied in a box of my father’s
Given by a poor grandmother
Loved these two
With their net “tutus”
Such graceful arms
Long pointed legs
Felt their life twirling.
The difference between
Two worlds
The rich and stiff
Poor but beautiful.
My bedroom shelf,
With a poster of
**** Jagger,
in the middle,
smiling.
Love Mary x
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
hey donald trump, why are you thinking people w2ho get wounded in battle aren’t heroes
cause if you think your a hero, your a hero of nothing
because **** fanning battled a shark, mate, and he deserves a reward
but you donald trump deserve nothing, nothing nothing
i have fought tooth and nail to prove that poor people have rights
and i ain’t into the army, but i know they are brave now here is we’re not going to take crap from trump anymore
ya know, when i first heard of him, i8 thought of professor plum or professor plunket
and you will never win my vote, if i was an American, no way hoi zei
i think i might spew, i think i might spew, i think i might spew on you trump, yeah
i disagree with your comment trump, nothing against you, just your comment
you sound so right wing, only allowing rich people honours
i ain’t into john mcCain either, but that is his views, and i hate your views even more
it makes people think you are crazy, a real crazy ************
people fight for the good of the nation , what do you do
i am designing homeless shelters, would you do that trumpet
i will party with all the poor people while rich snobs like trump wrecks the world with his selfish opinions
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
bae decided that he wouldn't go
to the show just because he feels low
the flu is about him, he has aches
but that doesn't mean he has to be late
I'm sad as heck for bae being sick
he's annoying, my bae not named ****
he won't stop txting me weird things
I wish he could have normal thinks
stop turning minnows into whales
stop telling such outlandish tales
I told him to please not go to bed
but he decides to be sick instead
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
God
I know you provide in this life of mine
This path
I don't know if you're name's Abraham
Whether you're black white green yellow or blue
But it's true
**** said, not everything you want
But what you need
I believe
Thankyou
Thankyou for my life too
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 3:16 AM UTC
I'm goin sideways when I perish;
want to end up, in a rock pool
in the sand.
I'll have a shiny shell,
that I can cherish,
with two claws, fer my chores;
not a hand.
sharing my abode with thirteen rag worm;
who'll confirm,
that it's sunny,
by the sea,
we can wish **** the fish a happy birthday,
n the weather,
we can also,
guarantee,
yes I’m goin sideways when I perish,
to cherish, my rock pool by the sea,
to squirm with the worm n embellish
another lifetime - as liddle lobster me.
Alan nettleton.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 8:12 AM UTC
Where is it ye Scallywag?
Have ye hidden in it ye bag?
Don't ye look at me as brass as bold
Give me back me *** o' gold
I will put a curse on ye, no surprise
Make ye eat spiders and flies
I always make ye feel sick
Ye thieving little Shabby ****
I want it back! It's all mine!
I know ye got it, I saw the sign
So I will grind your bones for me tea
I will make ye live in eternal misery
Don't ye run! Don't ye dare!
I will hunt ye down, track ye everywhere
Bury ye under this earth filled clump
I will snap ye spine when I jump
Well! Blow me down with a wee feather
Look at that! Well I never!
I must have moved me crock only yesterday
So ye canna steal it away
I placed it safe and sound
Buried it there, hidden in the ground
So I now will be on me way
Doth me hat, wish ye a good day
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
--slightly out of tune
Am I right to hedge my bets on being famous, ply my arts all day alone,
silence, no tv? Mark said, the difference is people are actually listening
to **** Jagger, but I thought that’s not so big a difference.
When Dad died it only reinforced the futility of our daily efforts
notwithstanding my hopeful eulogy about our responsibilities to each
other.
People listened then, and closely, searching for an echo
from the abyss. What is this abyss and how do I know
it’s there?
Jul 18, 2023
Jul 18, 2023 at 7:29 AM UTC
.
Mickey
Mickey ****
ey Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey M icky Mickey Mic
Mickey Mickey Mickey Mickey
Mickey Mickey
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
What exactly would you get
if writers changed the things they wrote
If painters changed their style
And singers butchered every note
Romance books by Stephen King
Horrors told by Suess
Comedic plays by E.A. Poe
And **** by Mother Goose
Dali paints like Monet
Monet paints like Degas
Van gogh would hang his brushes up
And go and detail cars
Michael Buble singing screamo
Operatic stuff by ****
Yoko Ono would seem right in tune
It's enough to make one sick
I hope it never happens
It would change things quite a lot
But you know, I think that **** by
Mother Goose could be quite hot!
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
The Gifted ones we turn into
The "Wild Ones" to be
The Chosen-Ones of the
Golden- Gods*
Wild Oats organically
are grown into
your younger heart
Like (Cheer)ios
Mysterious Honey O's
Uniquely-- tied-- unknown
Does everybody become __?
The Joker playing poker
Too many "Billygoats"
Wild card players
Playing jeopardy in
(January)
To be his chosen one
Miss (February)*
True gifts the big ones
(March) in wild ones
The Emerald-Green door
planet
Poems on earth sonnet
(April) no fools I'm cool
Orangutans wild dolphins
Italian vineyards
Wildlife Fruit surgeons
(May) I click to tease you
Shark bay will bite you
Getting burned with a
flat iron
Walk the talk Sea lions
Sea Cortez smartphones
Married in (June) candy Pez
So personal in (July)
What awaits through___ the___ door*
Mom brightens my August day
I pod imaginary dreamscape
Cat got your tongue
Darkness like Grunge
Amazon Jungle-book in
the lounge
Got Scrooged no gifts
To Google the camel got
your back move to the
frontline with her "Big Cats"
On the Jet gifts and magical hats
It pays to be wild
"The Man's Pleasure" he is
The most wanted list
Oh! Christ
The last gift watch out
The Brittish are coming
to brighten up your
bucket list
Saint Nick canary slippery
hands tight fist protest
The wild ones "Readers Digest"
Trees and eyes don't lie
Knocking on heavens door
Don't be the swagger
**** Jaeger
White snow sugar dance the
Warm maple brown sugar
* * * *
I hear the Godly caller
Writers, all doors welcome
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 7:32 AM UTC
*Walt and ****
always squeaky
never sneaky
always fun
never glum
funny mouse
kinda skinny
squeaky girlfriend
name of Minnie
always happy
though the years
always funny
never tears
all his cartoons
filled the house
Walt's favorite buddy
Mickey Mouse
At Disneyland it was always
Walt and Mickey holding hands
a friendship
that never ends
Walt and Mickey
always friends
He left us all in sixty six
but Mickey keeps
on playing his tricks
Walt said I have to leave you ****
it’s just not my fault
Mickey said
I Know
I will always
love you Walt*
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Eulogising was a challenge
under constant bombardment
from falling masonry.
But the gathered crowd deserved the effort.
There was Honest Bob,
whose cut-price bricks
had won the tender
and built the edifice behind us.
Slick **** the concrete king
fresh from an industrial tribunal
and ready to pay tribute.
Fat Larry, the glass magnate,
dodging the shrapnel
from his wind-shattered panes,
just like the rest of us.
I raised my voice
amidst the crash and crumble
to praise the architect.
There were those who had forgotten
the terrible designs
that had been *******
by her dogged determination,
Her clarity of vision
(here, I was interrupted
by three roof-tiles in succession,
smashing at my feet),
her strength of purpose
(nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering)
and her shining conviction.
But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass,
we could all acknowledge
her unforgettable legacy
with pride and gratitude.
Champagne, truffles,
and off we all went,
helicoptered to who knew where
happily leaving others
to clear up the mess.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
Crazy am I driven by the idea,
the possibility,
of another's kiss on your collarbone.
I recall St Valentine's Day,
when your **** Jagger lips told me
'I'm yours'
with such sincerity
and that I could hold you to it.
And I will.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Mickey was a murderer
Malevolent and heartless
Likely killed a courier
Tempted by his progress
Made to feel inferior
Delivering the knowledge
His emptied eyed exterior
Empowering the bosses
Always had an an opened ear
Could reinact the process
Always tried to keep it clear
He filtered out the nonsense
Always had a deagle near
Mickeys thoughts were loss less
Always ordered steak and beer
As he slithered from the charges
Always knew the ends as cure
But begginings were the hardest
The waters ever murkier
And fogging up his goggles
Never feared what's lurking there
The details were his doctorate
He knew who was what
And what was where
The devils were his hostages
Only hostile to his care
As he spelled it out with markers
Only rich to others fare
He was cleaning out their closets
As only those who know who dared
Know how they finally lost him
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
She sailed across in 1882,
From a town in Cork called Skibbereen.
To work and save was all she knew;
Just a lass she was, only eighteen.
She wed a fellow **** a charming sort,
He sired three children, then he left.
She had no lawyer had no resort;
He left her broke, marooned, bereft.
My mother told me stories of her Irish Gran;
She said the woman had a brogue;
When she got old her hair was white as sand;
The no-good husband was a rogue.
My mother asked her many times about her life;
“What was your childhood like in Skibbereen?”
“Ach, it was nothing but hardship and strife;
The times were harsh, and meals were lean.”
She never went back across the sea;
Never set foot in her country again;
Lost touch with the whole of her family;
Was penniless at her life’s end.
And now my mother too is gone;
She died with one regret;
She never got to see the place;
The house where her grandmother slept.
My mother, I did what you could not,
I made this trip for you.
I touch the stone in the very spot
Where the root of our family grew.
It’s nothing much to look at, a ruin in a field;
But I take a moment and grieve;
This is where our fate was sealed;
When that girl decided to leave.
She left her homeland, all she knew;
Sailed off to the great beyond;
The one thing she could never undo
Was the rupturing of the family bond.
My mother, you made us hold our family dear,
To promise our love so strong;
Was it because you saw so clear
Your grandmother’s pain so long?
I bow my head and say a prayer,
And ask for a portion of grace;
For you and her, travelers over there,
In a foreign, mysterious place.
I hope you’ve met her in that land,
And maybe now you understand.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
buried among
other favorites
you sing to me
about the girl
I used to be
beautiful
yet
reckless
oblivious
preoccupied with
my own
pain or gain
so naive
I dreamed then
I was naked
I dream now
I'm behind the
steering wheel
but the car's
driving me
out of control
out to sea
I hear your voice
and I want you
to come over
and wrap your
arms around me
I've grown older now
I'd never let you down
but then, too soon
the music changes
**** ******* jagger
reminds me
I've already
found what
I need
but instead of
being comforting
the choir, that chorus
it mocks me
and
it taunts me
maybe I will blow
a 50-amp fuse
I'm tired of
the self-abuse
I already have
what I need
but I think
you're what
I want
you're what
I feel
but it's
not real
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:38 PM UTC
I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.
Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?
I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.
Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.
I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.
Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.
I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.
He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.
He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****
His boon companion smiled.
I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.
Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.
As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.
His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"
" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."
So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.
After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.
I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 7:08 AM UTC
i became the jumpin' jack flash in november '77.
there was slush in new york city and the bums at the piers
still burned trash in metal barrels you could see from over on coney island even.
just like kerouac said.
in the daytime foolish kids picked weeds in central park
and called them flowers. they got laid by stringing charming words together as they gave them
to the thousand daughters of manhattan's old monied men,
the wall street hacks hanging from the teats of the
great & frenzied cash cow of capitalist interest. the milk
came slow that winter.
one week, early december when the slush gave way to furtive snowfalls
i took a bus to patterson, NJ
for a few days, drank a lot of awful coffee writing obscenities in my journal but speaking
them aloud in the restaurants and bars and so
was deemed just like everybody else in patterson, NJ.
drunk & high, helicopter tours, stuffed with bread and half-truths.
and when shortly my irish luck ran out i raced back to the big smoke
in a drop-top mercedes driven by a man whose thick accent i couldn't quite place.
whose only serious question was whether i knew anyone
who had good coke.
in the city it rained for three weeks straight and
david byrne, in some bowery apartment wrote a song called 'flood'
which was never released on any talking head's album
but lingered in his brain as a reminder of the three weeks
he spent cooped up, eating saltines and dancing to the rhythms of the thunder and rain outside.
totally alone with his mind & a bass guitar. tina weymouth, naturally, was furious.
the bass was the last thing she had left in a band she half-started. and david had stolen even that.
but that was tina weymouth, that was new york.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When pirate ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
Captain **** stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
First Mate **** went to the **** deck,
His willie at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For trainee pirate Freddy.
"Thtwap him o'er that cannon, ladth!"
Roared the hirsute lisper,
"Gag hith mouth thecurely, ladth,
Thilenth hith evewy whithper."
The pirates did as he had bid -
Refuse and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
Once First Mate **** had finished.
The lisping brute went up the poor young lad
And soon was pumping away;
Poor little Fred looked rather pained -
As he wasn't really gay.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they joined in with a will;
Little Freddy could not say "no"
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our pirates had,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And the skipper wore silk *******
The pirates' frigates ruled the waves -
Good sailors feared them coming;
If captured, they'd be condemned
To a life of seaborne bumming.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
His uncle **** asked Benedict
if he would mow the lawn
of the old lady at the cottage,
which he did, then clean out
the cowsheds at the farm,
which he did, then take some eggs
to the local shop, which he did.
It was a hot day, he felt a thirst
so went to pub called the Battleaxe
and ordered a pint and sat and drank
it slow outside in the sun. He thought
of the clarinet he'd brought with him,
the jazz he played in the front lounge,
which his aunt Eileen said was very good.
Do you still have and play your accordion?
he asked her. No, she said not now;
I've not played for years. He remembered
her playing and singing Goodnight Irene
on it when he had stayed as a kid.
Long ago now, he thought, finishing his pint.
He also mused on his recent visited
to see the MJQ in the City and afterwards
he met the band on the coach at the back.
Asked questions, got autographs.
Then another visit to the City with his
two cousins to watch them do their martial arts
and afterwards showed them judo moves
he and his friends had done a few years before.
He took his empty glass to the counter
of the pub and walked out in the sunshine
wondering what his uncle **** would have
lined up for him next. There was talk of
digging trenches in the churchyard some
evening to lay pipes to the church and there
was that mowing of the grass he'd been
shown the other day. Yes, he'd do that now,
he thought, while the sun was out, the grass dry.
The mower was in a shed at the back, one
of those modern jobs, less work, less elbow grease,
less sweat. But also, those peas to pick
and shuck for his aunt. He wasn't done with his
chores for his keep, for six weeks, least not yet.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
little **** the mole he was history bound
looking out for relics if any could be found
he dug through the fields digging very deep
to try to find some treasure that the mole could keep
looking for some coins from the roman days
maybe he could learn there habits and there ways
after quite a while an hour maybe more
he came across an object buried in the floor
mole he started digging till he dug it up
cleaned of all the soil he had found a cup
it was from the vikings that had once lived there
he had found a treasure that was very rare
he put in his sack and moved along once more
digging once again on his tunnel floor
then he found a ring it was made of gold
belonging to the saxons it was very old
mole he was so happy at the treasure he had found
hidden in his tunnel buried underground
he was very happy as happy as can be
now its on display for all the world to see
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC