"moll" poems
Lights off, ma bad-ass homies are juz drank,
buh then I saw ya dancing in da club.
Ma head was blown, let's kick it!
Cuz ya could be ma tight moll,
o' let's juz put a bullet
on the clock in these tight walls.
If I'm wit ya,
ma heart could fly so high like a G6,
Imma be glad if ya be mine
tho I ain't da niftiest sheik.
And if loving ya could take ma life
to da street, cuz of a set trippin,
then ya could be a flower
on ma Chicago Overcoat on ma big sleep.
Miss me wit dat! Ma bad,
buh I ain't gonna take ma words back,
I ain't no good, buh Imma gangsta poet
juz a poet wit rhyming words as AK,
so Imma put sum shizzle down
and write what it means.
To me love is gangsta, family is gangsta,
loyal is gangsta, if that's not gangsta,
I don't wanna be gangsta.
O' ma sheba, wazzup!
Let's show 'em what is real luv.
Then luv me less, until ya luv me more
and let's live as gangsta poets
in this gangsta world.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
I’ll never be a king, so you’ll never be my queen,
We’ll never be two cogs in the same big machine,
We’ll never be a cliché, but I tell you something, doll,
I can be a gangster, and you can be my moll.
Walking through the means streets, my hand in yours,
And a Tommy gun in the other, between my sweaty claws,
As my seniors die, I’ll climb to the top of the pole,
I can be a gangster, and you can be my moll.
There’s a certain premonition floating in the air,
That I’m a hardened criminal, far beyond repair,
But I’m just doing what my upbringing makes me know,
Because I can be a gangster, and you can be my moll.
And you can have me forever or ‘till I’m locked up in jail,
And we run out of money, and the mansion goes up for sale,
But even if we’re broke and poor, my love will never lull,
I’ll always be a gangster, and you’ll always be my moll.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
I
Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV
This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the ****
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
3.7k
I never said I loved you, John:
Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
With always "do" and "pray"?
You know I never loved you, John;
No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
As shows an hour-old ghost?
I dare say Meg or Moll would take
Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
Who can't perform that task.
I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not;
But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
Use your own common sense.
Let bygones be bygones:
Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
Than answer "Yes" to you.
Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at today, forget the days before:
I'll wink at your untruth.
Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
No more, no less; and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
And points not understood
In open treaty. Rise above
Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,
No, thank you, John.
3.1k
COME round me, little childer;
There, don't fling stones at me
Because I mutter as I go;
But pity Moll Magee.
My man was a poor fisher
With shore lines in the say;
My work was saltin' herrings
The whole of the long day.
And sometimes from the Saltin' shed
I scarce could drag my feet,
Under the blessed moonlight,
Along thc pebbly street.
I'd always been but weakly,
And my baby was just born;
A neighbour minded her by day,
I minded her till morn.
I lay upon my baby;
Ye little childer dear,
I looked on my cold baby
When the morn grew frosty and clear.
A weary woman sleeps so hard!
My man grew red and pale,
And gave me money, and bade me go
To my own place, Kinsale.
He drove me out and shut the door.
And gave his curse to me;
I went away in silence,
No neighbour could I see.
The windows and the doors were shut,
One star shone faint and green,
The little straws were turnin round
Across the bare boreen.
I went away in silence:
Beyond old Martin's byre
I saw a kindly neighbour
Blowin' her mornin' fire.
She drew from me my story --
My money's all used up,
And still, with pityin', scornin' eye,
She gives me bite and sup.
She says my man will surely come
And fetch me home agin;
But always, as I'm movin' round,
Without doors or within,
Pilin' the wood or pilin' the turf,
Or goin' to the well,
I'm thinkin' of my baby
And keenin' to mysel'.
And Sometimes I am sure she knows
When, openin' wide His door,
God lights the stats, His candles,
And looks upon the poor.
So now, ye little childer,
Ye won't fling stones at me;
But gather with your shinin' looks
And pity Moll Magee.
2.3k
Miss Maitland went
to the fancy dress party
dressed as a nun
Benedict went clothed
as a priest(Church
of England kind)
which made her
even more inaccessible
than before he thought
seeing her enter the hall
in her black and white habit
and that face
which echoed purity
her small slim fingers
raised as if to bless
those present
which included the host
dressed as the Devil in red
Miss Maitland walked
to the bar and ordered
a lemonade and gin
is that wise?
said the barman with a grin
she laughed
and he poured anyway
Benedict nodded
and she smiled
then talked to another
clothed as a monk
and laughed
and Benedict's hopes
(whatever they
may have been)
were he concluded
sunk
he sipped his beer
and walked and sat down
gazing at her
standing there
all her best bits
covered up
her tight ****
and delightful behind
gone from sight
now the Devil
was chatting her up
his tail hanging
from behind
his fingers holding
a red wine
Benedict sipped more
of his beer
saw her wander off
to talk with some girl
dressed
as a gangster's moll
right down to the 1920s
cloth of dress
and cut of hat
Benedict didn't fancy her
and that was that
he just wanted
Miss Maitland
sans her habit
of black and white
he liked her in her
tight jeans and top
with her fair hair
flowing free
or held back
in a pony tail
walking up and down
the aisle of the shop
serving customers
wiggling her behind
as she went talking
in her middle class prose
giving Benedict
a studious stare
and he studying her
thinking of his bed
at home
with him and her
lying there.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
Here comes Santa Claus,
Here comes Santa Claus,
He's coming here in bad girls' lane!
Santa's on the moll again!
Over there in bad girls' lane,
Too much gimme from Santa, he's a pain,
Can you hear Santa Claus complain?
NO! On Boxing Day, Santa's off to bad girls' lane,
"Oh no!" Say the ho's, "Santa's coming again,
Here comes Santa Claus,
Here comes Santa Claus,
He's coming again in bad girls' lane!
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar moll: You dare say you're going to organise a petition to evict us, aha, who do you think the ******
country belongs to?
ME : you are a bare-faced thief, how can you steep so low as to burgle your neighbour, after all we've done for you and your lot. From you
moed in over three years ago, there's been over twenty burglaries on the Estate. Police always at your door, your husband always in prison. I don't understand what you mean by Country belonging,
what do you mean.
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll: I know I am not black and
you can't do anything to evict us. Just watch yourself, you're going to be taught a lesson, you wait and see.
ME : Yeah! you're going to send your hoods round to beat me up or
maybe steal my four wheels like you did before, what are you gonna do, **** me! I have done nothing wrong, I am not a ****** thief!
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Ah! just you wait, just you wait and see. We are going to do your head in, chuck mud at you, you ****** fool. we will hound you even into the hole of any woman, we will put ants in your head, we will drive you paranoid, you black man!
ME : I am not scared of you, let me tell you that, a thief, a drunkard, a scrounger and a Racist, what a lovely human being you are. I am going to report you.
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Haha..and I am going to steal the match on you, you don't know what you and your wife are in for, we are sorting you out, sunshine!
ME : You don't need to steal a match, I'll gladly give you matches to light yourself up, I hope you and your thieving gang go up in flames!
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar : Say goodbye to your life man,
nothing is ever going to be the same anymore. You will never be able to trust anyone again from now on..haha!
ME : How rich, a bare-faced crook talking about trust, what do you know about trust, I am not a thief and as you ****** know I live a lawful and blameless life, so carry your ****** threats and go stuff it. You do not frighten me one bit, you're a mean and racist crook!
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Somebody is in for the jump and its not me. Soon, somebody will wish they were dead and it's not me either, that's all I'm saying, man!
ME : Yeah, go get your gang, come and **** me, you can see I am shaking and trembling already. Hopefully, we all on this Estate will be rid of you and all the undesirables you bring here, we are fed up of you all!
Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Ha..! all I'm saying is, Bye bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....haha, Gangster departs singing,
Bye-bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....hahaha...hahaha,,bye-bye
Blackbird....!!!
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 3:27 PM UTC
I am a holder of dolls,
said Monica,
I keep them in my arms
in light and dark,
I sleep with one
in my bed at night,
her fuzzy hair
tickles my face,
my dreams are of
my mother's cries,
her anguish over
the men who come.
I am the bearer
of her smacks,
her voice vibrates
in my ears,
her hand marks
colour my skin.
My window looks out
on fish shop below,
the baker's shop
on the left,
on narrow
Meadow Row,
the bomb sites
on either side.
My mother's men
come and go,
they make her
laugh or cry,
they sleep beside her
in her double bed,
I hear their voices
in the dark,
the sounds of giggles
or weeping,
the slapping of hands
on flesh,
the darkness brings me
bogeymen and shadows.
One of the men,
crept to my bed,
removed my doll,
touched my leg,
lifted my nightdress,
our little secret
he whispered to me,
the darkness swallowed him
up, the dirtiness left
in his wake.
I am the sleeper
of light sleep,
I listen for the sound
of creeping feet,
for the door **** to move ,
for the door to open,
for the hands to touch,
for the secrets kept.
From my window I see
the children at play
on the grass below,
with toy guns,
bows and arrows,
dolls and prams,
they look for me
to join in,
to enter their games,
the boys seek me
as their cowgirl moll,
they ride their invisible
horses across the plains,
shooting out
their cowboy dreams.
I watch the sky darken,
the moon a silver coin,
the clouds
puffs of smoke,
my mother
calls me to meals,
the table and chairs,
old and stained,
her man friend
drinks and smokes,
makes silly remarks,
***** jokes,
me he pinches
(under the table)
or secretly pokes.
I am the holder of dolls,
they are my true companions,
they never complain,
they share my dreams,
they share my pains.
From my window
I see Benedict play,
he alone knows
of my plight,
he my knight
in cowboy shirt
and jeans,
my teller of tales,
my listener of woes,
he buys me
sweets or chips
after our games,
walks me home
with his 6 shooter gun
resting in the holster
by the side of his leg,
his cowboy hat
slanted to one side.
He keeps my secrets,
holds my hand
over busy roads,
eyes the men
my mother brings home,
guns them down
in our shared dreams.
I kiss his cheek
as a kind of thanks,
he blows me a kiss
from his open palm
as he rides
the bomb site plains,
he knows my fears
of the men
and my mother's smacks
and the pains,
he stares at my mother
with his hazel eyes,
his steady stare,
he alone likes me,
he alone is there.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
Chocolate...
"O' my cup of chocolate, oh my moll,
Come here & nourish my soul,
Lift me up from this crazy World,
Take me to the place where beauty lies unfurled,
Your beauty dazzles my vision
Your aroma a sweet seclusion,
That sweet touch on my lips,
As I imbibe you in relishing sips.
Ah every sip that I devour
Sends a feeling of sweet surrender,
O my cup of chocolate, oh my moll..
Come here & nourish my soul..
Lift me up from this crazy World..
Take me to the place where beauty lies unfurled.
(by: Khan, BA)
This was for Anne Nechita who likes chocolate
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
Appeared to be a normal day,
At our University of the Third Age,
Grannies and grandads writing epic lit.,
Forgot our hearing aids and blankets...
We walked away from the class,
Drank our coffees on the grass....
One old moll began this thing,
We cast off inhibitions and wedding rings,
Decided to have a greys' love-in,
One last winter's love fling,
Before hearses the morticians bring,
We were all senile, obese and ga-ga,
Our grey scrawny ***** made us ha-ha,
We gave those grandpas some thrills,
We all forgot our cardiac pills,
The old boys were gasping for breath,
Moribundi, close to death....
So, appeared to be a normal day,
On the grass, after class, at U3A,
Love-in amongst the greys,
It was grey liberation day!!!!
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
Miss Shaped
With that hourglass figure
shifting sand from one orb to the other
She knew her time
was ripe.
Walking into the alleyways of wilderness swamps
where lurked men of all contortions of mind and body
She met her match
in mister muscle.
Not a nerve twitched in her entire
body when he flexed his biceps
and wooed her with no words.
The years of steroids had tied his tongue
into strips of knots
and crosses unable to stop
pumping iron.
Miss Shaped loved this muscular
feast of a man.
The years rolled by
for misshaped
mr muscle had no iron in his heart
only triceps biceps
he left when too many wildebeest
chased his moll.
Author Notes
Just a crafty play on words with several different meanings. The poem will dull you into deception. Say what you will to break it apart.
It took time to assemble
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Ernie’s big sister
was a *****
or so
your old man said
although
he didn’t say
what she did
or what
she was for
you often saw her
go out
in the evenings
from the downstairs
lower flat
on the corner
dressed in a short
red skirt with
a slit at the back
and high heel shoes
and her hair
up high
in a beehive style
or you’d see her
by the entrance
to the Square
standing there
talking to some guy
with that
come **** me look
in her eye
but no one told you
what a ***** was
or did that part
of the action
your old man hid
you thought
she was a small time
actress like the ones
you saw on
the big screen
who stood in saloons
when the cowboys
came in or was a moll
who hung on to some
gangster’s arm in those
black and white films
you saw on winter
afternoons
but when you went
by her standing there
or she spotted you
up on the balcony
of the flats
she’d wave or smile
but seldom spoke
other than to say
hi there kid
or how’s your old man
and off she’d go
with her tight skirt
with the slit
at the back
and her wiggling ***
and high heel shoes
and her hair piled high
with that
come have me later
look in her eye.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.
This is my translation of a Latin epigram by the English poet Thomas Campion. In Campion’s era some English poets continued to write poems in Latin and/or Greek. For instance, John Milton and Andrew Marvell wrote poems in Latin, while Shakespeare was criticized by Ben Jonson, if I remember things correctly, for having “little” Greek and Latin.
Not being “versed” in the senior languages was seen as a deficiency in literary circles back then. Shakespeare was called an “upstart crow” for daring to write “litter-chure” without a proper university degree. How could he properly quote the ancients if he couldn’t read them in their original languages? The Bard of Avon was doomed to failure and obscurity … or perhaps not, since the English language was finally in vogue in England (where for centuries English kings had been unable to read, write or even speak the mother tongue, preferring French, Latin and Greek).
My title is a bit of a pun, because novels were new to the world when they first arrived, and were thus considered by the literary elites to be “novelties” not on par with more serious verse plays. Some of the more popular early novels were “subversive” (pardon the pun) explorations of ****** naughtiness, through characters like Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, et al.
Campion probably didn’t have such campy (enough with the puns, already!) novels in mind when he wrote his epigram, since the more titillating (cease! desist!) ones had yet to arrive. But perhaps he would prove to be a “profit” (I’m udderly hopeless!).
Keywords/Tags: Campion, Latin, translation, epigram, novels, novelties, booksellers, publishers, authors, pimps, ****** prostitutes, prostitution, exotic, positions
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 4:25 PM UTC
On the one and only
Bright day she attempted
To escape from the locked
Ward of the small mental
Hospital in her short
Black dress and red slippers,
With her dull black hair, long,
Untidy and unbrushed,
She was roughly wrestled
To the ground of the long
Brightly lit corridor
Outside, by some burly
Hunk of a male nurse who
Smelt of **** and as he
Pinned her down, she gazed up
Into his big brown eyes,
And saw the images
Of herself reflected
Like some broken doll or
Some beat up gangster’s moll.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
When a woman footy player explodes,
Read about it in this little ode,
She is so 'over' the antediluvian,
She knows what to do, some man,
Cleats to his groin,
End of his sirloins,
Off to the pub she went,
His supper was a non event,
A loud, proud f....ing moll,
No antediluvian's little doll,
A woman footballer explodes...
Thus concludes this little ode......
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
Yes, it's International Women's Day,
Let's all celebrate our own day,
I didn't hear that, what did you say?
Oh, yes, I'm an f.....ing moll again,
Yes, in Oz, it's f....ing Molls' Day!
With our philosophies of molls,
Molls' non-participation protocols,
You know what great-grandma said?
"Bullies don't get!" get that in your head,
Yes, Molls' management rules, I say,
Let's celebrate International Women's Day,
Now in Oz, it's f.....ing Molls' day,
With a smile, of course, that's the way,
Smile, babes, this could be you one day!!!!
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC