"patsy" poems
The Man in Black
The Silver Fox
Brad Paisley shows
That Country Rocks
Western's gone
But Country's not
Remember those
Who time's forgot
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Loretta Lynn
Dottie West
Patsy Cline
They were the best
Old time country
Tennessee tunes
Mountain Bluegrass
My favorite tunes
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
The singers change
The tunes do not
They still sing the music
That others forgot
Williams and Jones
Acuff and Dickens
Old Buck and Roy
Still Pickin' and grinnin
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
Folk with the real Scots,
guttural and glorious,
know me for the cushion-mouthed patsy I am
I can no more ape
that lyrical brilliance
than I can do a Grappeli on the fiddle
or tickle the keys Theloniously
And when I see
a lounge-room spaniel
howling feebly at the moon
frustrated wolf-blood
squirting through its scrawny veins
I know
exactly
how it feels.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 4:55 PM UTC
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
There's a little boy
crying out into the night,
His mother's arms
hold him tight,
He puts his head
on her shoulder,
Nightmare dreams,
They disappear,
With a shudder he begins to feel,
a little sanctuary
so near.
There's a homeless man
sleeping outside tonight
behind the mall,
His beard is long,
His hair is *****
He changed his clothes
in a thrift store
late last week,
the voices scream his name,
All he's looking for is
a little sanctuary.
There's a politician on
the stand
had *** with another man,
Tried methamphetamine
religion too,
Even hypocrites
are looking for
a little bit of sanctuary.
There's a woman on the road
tonight,
Two kids sleeping tight,
Johnny Walker's asleep
in front of the tv,
There's an internet
between her and her lover,
She turns up the music,
Patsy Cline's singing
Stand By Your Man,
All she's looking for, though, is a
little sanctuary.
The money's gone
the house is going,
The ***** is flowing,
The tears are rolling,
He steps outside
on the deck,
looks up at the stars,
Smokes a cigarette,
Looking for a little sanctuary.
Lover's up in a cabin loft,
twist and shout,
Grasping at straws,
Grasping each other,
Holding on tight,
For a moment of bliss,
Come on in,
Give'em a little sanctuary.
Insomniac mind,
Racing thoughts,
Won't shut off,
The days are long,
The nights are longer,
Every fear and dread,
Keeps raising their ugly head,
Quiet her thoughts,
She would if she could,
But all she can do is wait,
For a little sanctuary.
Soul survivor knocking on
the gate,
Waiting for the light,
Waiting for a world just right -
Putting away all sin and vice,
Hoping for a little sanctuary.
Garden Buddha sits on the path,
hands unfolded,
Quarter smile on his lips,
Serenity's smile,
Mastered the art of waiting
and just being,
A little sanctuary.
These poems I write tonight,
Words all tumbling
through my hand,
I don't know what I write them for,
I don't know where they go,
Where they land,
Only trying to see through
sanctuary's door,
maybe there's a little more,
A little bit left for me and you.
It can be so hard to find,
Maybe it's just a state of mind,
Sometimes so close
Sometimes so far,
We long for the day
to have the night,
We long for the night
to have the day,
But either way,
We're all just looking for
a little sanctuary.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Her hand rested slight
Upon the book she'd found
Her bag across her shoulder
She was waiting for the sound
Of the door alarm at the B & N
I mean after all it was
Fifty nine volumes
On how to build a bomb
Found none to soon
On a shelf at the B & N
Abandoned by her lover
After too many fights
That was five years ago
A lot of lonely nights
Casing the B & N
Screaming out loud
At rush hour on the train
Was not an option
Nor was *******
Snorted at the B & N
Finally people milling round
She quietly lifted the solution
To her ravaged heart
All fifty nine on revolution
S
l
i
p
p
e
d
Into her bag at the B & N
Head down and weighted down
She walked to the exit
Waiting for someone
No one to prevent it
Except security at the B & N
At last the perfect patsy
Alarm rang, the man froze
And our spurned lover
To the opportunity arose
Ran out of the B & N
Ran to the parking lot
Her VW bug
Opened the door
Threw in what she'd lugged
59 looted at the B & N
Key from the drink holder
In her shaking hand
er rhrh rhrh vah-room
Such a brazen plan
Perpetrated at the B & N
Her eyes glowed wicked
With rage and revenge
Someone would pay
All would attend
This crime hatched at the B & N
The deed was done
She clung to the wheel
The accelerator floored
The tires squealed
Away, away from the B & N
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
the place was *****
***** like only the South can be
i was drinking bud lights
drinking the daylight away
drinking the outside, and the noise, and the heat away.
i was sitting amongst several gray-haired men
and i knew i didn't belong, but
they didn't seem to know,
or care.
they had toothless sisters living in trailerparks in Alabama
they had sons they had not talked to in years
most had seen war and death and destruction.
"vietnam!" yelled a man in the corner,
and threw his prosthetic leg on the table
the men nodded their heads,
and mumbled in secret agreement.
they were all missing some body-part or another
i guess that's what made them whole.
outside, wild chickens were roaming the dusty parking lot,
pecking on cigarette-butts and empty beer-cans.
we laughed, we drank, and we hid our tears
and as the bar closed down, Patsy Cline was singing from the jukebox
or maybe that's just how i want to remember it.
"i'll be ****** if this ain't the greatest nation on the planet" i said
and they all agreed.
then we stumbled out into the night
a night filled with crickets and fire-flies
and the occasional fist-fight
all in all it was a fine night.
one for the record books.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
..[O]..
:::::::and
:::::::::::::::::shy
some moths dare
hang around a light,
dim, peeping....a lone
terra cotta lamp........not
bright enough....to guide a
journeying mind.....through
some dark paths......one....two
more lamps could help stop the
tripping..... .on life's many humps,
it makes the air....stale......with sighs,
uncomfortably moist, with cold sweat
the window curtains are a shield, a weak
wall, pregnant with longing
and apprehension.......soon
it will collapse, more moths
will fly free........the fleeing
the healing.......could make
nights longer...........the air
staler...............in this dark
conquering.............silence
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Evening rain showers merge with the
humid air.......the strong scent of the
growing pine tree...the scarce light
the aroma of chicken, simmering
in a mix of vinegar, soy sauce
...............garlic and spices
penetrate my nostrils and
infuse the atmosphere,
and.....disconcert me
i'm taken back, i gulp
i salivate...a late solo
dinner awaits...glass
of wine.......beckons
i give in....i sit by the
garden table.......raise
my wine glass.......i say
"Cheers!"...........tonight's
.................not so full moon
..........is shy............and hazy
as i hum....Patsy Cline's, "Crazy."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::Sunday moon, May 1, 2016:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright May 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
Miss America 1977, the 50th Miss America pageant,
was held at the Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City,
New Jersey on September 11, 1976 & aired on NBC Network:
Winner Dorothy Benham, Miss Minnesota,
became a singer,
on the Crystal Cathedral's
Hour of Power;
Among the other contestants in 1977
was Miss Florida,
TV actress Nancy Stafford,
&
actress Karen Kopins,
Miss Connecticut;
Another was Patsy Paugh, Miss West Virginia,
who later became the mother
& in 1996, suspected killer
of postmodernist icon Jon Benet Ramsey
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
I got my guitar
i'm sittin' here
writing songs
and drinking beer
written nothing
you'd want to hear
really...nothing...squat
no one bugs me
working hard
the kids are
playing in the yard
the dog is sleeping
keeping guard
I've nothing...bupkiss...squat
I've got the writers block blues
can't write nothing...'cept bad news
I've got the writers block blues
got nothing to lose
while I've got the writers block blues
had some words
but no melody
not a **** note
has come to me
i'm writing
a silent symphony
I've got bupkis,, nada,,,squat
last one I wrote
wasn't mine
nice and easy
in three quarter time
turned out it was
Patsy Cline's
I've got bupkiss, nada, squat
I've got the writers block blues
can't write nothing...'cept bad news
I've got the writers block blues
got nothing to lose
while I've got the writers block blues
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
PATSY’S POEM.
(Composed while in Bloomington jail)
While sitting in this silent chamber,
And nothing else to do,
I thought I would compose a song
And write it, friends, for you.
I am not much of a poet,
Though I’ll do the best I can
To try to keep my courage up
And bear it like a man.
I was born in Cincinnati
And in Ohio State—
Little did I think, my friends
I would ever meet such a fate.
I was brought up by honest parents,
Who thought the world of me.
And this is the first time I’ve been
Deprived of liberty.
It was on the fourth of August, in 1879,
From house to house the news was spread
That Aaron Goodfellow had been shot,
And soon he would be dead.
Suspicion pointed toward me;
They rushed upon their prey,
And I was forced to prison
To await my trial day.
They took me to the station-house;
From there to the county jail,
Where iron bars surrounded me,
There my troubles to bewail.
I never did the cruel deed—
God knows I’m not to blame,
Although I have been convicted
And must suffer all the shame.
A word to my old mother,
And my sisters kind and true:
Remember I’m innocent
Though I must part from you.
Any you my kind relations,
I know you wish me well;
But my feelings at this moment
No human tongue can tell.
Before I close this rhyme
I’ll not forget to mention
My good jailer,
Mr. Franks.
And now, my kind friends,
‘Tis all that I can do
In sending this, my song,
To bid you all adieu.
Patsy Devine, in a Bloomington, Illinois jail, sometime between 1880 1882
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
There he is
He is the center
Of a great big wide circle
Whenever he moves left of center
My right brain starts to hurt
Cause people get married
And he digs a grave
And she starts getting pedicures
And really should someone contain all of you
Consume every inch of you
Is this union a patsy for something better
Something more obscure
Because there he is
He is my center
Of a great wide big circle
Whenever he moves right of center
My left brain starts to hurt
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
The Steamy air Hung heavy
In the Office of the Private Eye.
Kansas City in August
The Air wants to die,
Or it only Smells that way.
Drifting up off the Riverbank.
Thelma my receptionist Waits
Filing her nails by the Silent Phone
If things Didn't Pick up soon or Late
Bills would have me Down to the Bone
Chasing Bail jumpers, something I'd Hate
Have to settle on, less some business was done
Just as I knocked back a Belt of Bourbon,
Came a Knock at the Door, in Walked
A pair of Legs from Here to there, to look on
Not sure if it was the red of her lips,
Or the red of her bright Hair,
But a Swing in her Hips Got me there.
She Laid on the tears as she told me her Fears
A Long lost sister being run by the Mob
Prostituting she said with a Gasp and a Sob
Her Silk Stocking legs crossing Sealed the deal
I'd put an ear to the street and find out the feel
A Kansas City Kingpin ran her on the street
If I staked out a Corner I'd see them Meet
Slipped my .32 from the Leather and Spun it once
Checking the chamber for a full Loaded Gun
I hunched down in the front seat of my old Chevy
It was only Minutes till he played the Heavy
I shouted out stop, as he Pulled a gun... Popped
It Seemed like Slow Motion as his body Dropped
She screams for Police, next I'm Cuffed by a Cop
Long legs says I stalked her, and am Patently Crazy
I took the Fall 'cause she set me up for the Patsy
The moral of the Story is..........
"Dames and Bourbon Don't mix".....JMF 12/11/14
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
The assassination of President John F. Kennedy
To many this has always been an unsolved Mystery
JFK was shot in Dallas, Texas on the 22 of November
We are still mourning him, and will always remember
Abraham Zapruder had no idea what he'd be filming
Would be under scrutiny by the public for viewing
Some said the shots came from the grassy knoll
Where they came from no one will ever know
Jackie Kennedy in terrible shock, crawled out onto the limousine
She could not recall doing this, when the Secret Service Intervened
Walter Cronkite reported this shocking news to us in tears
And in all his years of work, he will forever be revered
Jackie in her blood stained suit stood beside Lyndon B. Johnson
When he took the oath of office to be next president of our nation
Oswald told the world that he was a patsy
Jack Ruby shooting him on TV was ghastly
Life Magazine chronicled the events
Filling each page with all JFK contents
To this day there still are reenactments and movies
And everyone like me still feels this is newsworthy
Published in the Crawfordsville, Indiana newspaper Nov. 2024
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
Touring the cities of England and the UK
Back of a transit van, rocking up to anywhere that paid
The brothers Grimm and their trusty cohorts
Bonehead on rhythm, McCarroll on drums, Guigsy up to all sorts
That gig at the Wah Wah, King Tuts to be precise
Glasgow you beauty, **** the next show up in Fife
The man that found them, a mister Alan McGee
A Britpop revolution, all great memories
They came and most failed, that one gig on Top of The Pops
Menswear to Mansun and an array of rank haircuts where the seagulls did flock
We had the trendies in Camden all hanging around on their scooters with parka’s
Noel or Liam and that fella from Echobelly, anything to be famous and get on the telly
But then the times must end and it all turned a little sour
A few trudged on with an album or two, the Manics to Cast and the lyrics from John Power
Patsy and Liam had that cover on the front of Vanity Fair
Draped in Britannia, divorce on the cards, strange how no-one now cares
Good times they were without a worry in the world and a now gone era
Euro 96, Southgate’s miss and those goals from Teddy and Shearer
A time well remembered and days I’d love to see back
If not only for the music but for the not caring and the unforeseen great craic
Not to hate the now as times move on
But a day in the past, served at seventeen and to claim you were the one
Not to be asked I.D. and sneakily drink that Stella
laughing at the bar, king of the blaggers, not to be served again by that same fella
Before the phone and the apps, we used to meet face to face
Girl at the bar, a bit of blarney and a home number to suit, always up for the chase
Do you ring tomorrow and who’s going to answer
Her mum might be alright, but her dad could be a ******
I couldn’t imagine doing it all again now
Swipe left to say no or right to give it a go
Seems inhuman to me not to spark up a chat
But maybe that’s just me, stuck in past, I’m just old hat.
JJB
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:02 AM UTC
Love me hate me
leave me date me,
won't you ever decide?
Tease me bait me,
take me fate me
don't you any pride?
Stay me late me,
tie me gate me,
forever keep me locked inside,
I am just a willing prisoner,
shackled in these iron chains,
******* of the heart,
always kept in the dark,
a victim to your hoax,
a willing patsy to your crime,
tied eternal to your damaged and broken soul.
Ma Cherie © 2017
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
It’s polarized like a Kodak Picture
you're clicking in to all my secret desires
I slipped them to you like a patsy to a fortune teller
Am I dreaming?
Cause all this seems to be made for me
Though I hate rowing
you promised me a motorboat
a yacht with infinite wind in her sails
Soon as I toil here for a few years
you’ll let me into that life
Walking down Easy Street
with a gleam in my eye
knowing I could buy watches and bags
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
Anne came and left but I remember the sweet cider and the wood stove, the smell of her paints. She sings songs from Chicago, and brings to life the northern lights on the canvas, the wolves, the scenes. Her songs, the guitar she plays. She croons about damaged men and neglected love. Country and blues, telling me about the costume she has for her next bar song night, her singing partner will be a Patsy Cline look alike. Anne makes Saskatoon jam, tucks me in on the couch, and tells me stories.
We walk along the trails on the acridge, Anne tells me about plants we see, like the pea vine. She encourages me to climb the tallest trees. She hears me sing and sees promise, talent, a dream waiting to happen. She gets me into theater, one of the greatest gifts I've ever received.
She brings me flowers to my shows and I always find her in the big crowds.
I remember the painting, the beautiful field with billowing clouds lazily crossing the sky in the wind. It was in the apartment that she shared with her boyfriend. He had an awful temper and it took more than it should have for Anne to finally leave him.
She stayed with us for a while, a few lovely months before leaving.
It was a few years after she disappeared before I found the demo CD of Anne singing her country and blues. Sometime I just sit and play it on repeat, its a treasure, a gateway to all those memories.
Memories of a proud and beautiful woman who helped shift my life in the direction of art and creation. A woman who was there when I was an infant and when I was a child.
I love Anne and the memories she left in her wake. Anne came and left but I remember everything.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
I went down to my local bar
It was country music night
I sat and listened for a while
Then, called it a night
I didn't get the music
It was poppish, bubblegum
I finished up my beer and left
I wished I hadn't come
When did we lose Western?
When did Western cease to be?
They may call it Country music
But, it don't sound right to me
All I saw were baseball hats
On backwards I should stay
Kids were doing jello shots
And the "band" just couldn't play
They didn't sing of horses
Old Glory, or the West
They sang of drinking on a plane
And getting drunk and messed
When did we lose Western?
Where did Western go?
This isn't country music
It's something I don't know
On Tuesday I went back again
Open Mic night would be fun
I came in with my guitar
But, I didn't bring my gun
I got on stage and started out
Singing songs...all Western
I was the only one without a cap
I was wearing my old Stetson
When did we lose Western?
Where did Western cease to be?
This wasn't what I grew up on
It isn't right to me
Cowboys, farms and Johnny Cash
Willie Nelson, Patsy Cline
That is what I like to hear
That's the music that is mine
Next time I go in there
And it is Country night
I'm gonna ask "what country?"
And I'll end up in a fight
When did we lose Western?
When did Western cease to be?
This may be Country Music
But it don't sound right to me
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
Squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
I've been fed up for so long
I had to write a proper breakup song
You've got your head in a hole
And your mind in the clouds
You have no earthly idea what your talkin' about
That's why I'm squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
Squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
I've been shushed up for so long
Think it's time I head to parts unknown
In the blink of a lie
I'll be movin' out
Somewhere clear out of sight of your mealy mouth
Yeah, I'm squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
Squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
I've been pent up for so long
Ain't nobody givin' this old dog a bone
Hey, little lady
Now, can't you see
That I'll never be your patsy or your property
I'm squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
Squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
I've been couched up for so long
Feel sorta like a stranger in my own home
What a sham, what a scam
What a full-blown farce
What a bottomless pit you call your heart
That's why I'm squared up, headlong and gettin' gone
Squared up, headlong, and gettin' gone
I've been fed up for so long
I had to write a proper breakup song
I'll tell ya, I ain't your subject
And you ain't my Queen
You can go back to your village finish livin' the dream...
Me, I'm squared up, I'm headlong, and I'm-a gettin' gone
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:01 AM UTC
Why do you attack
One another without remorse
And no good intent
Caring not what you destroy
Being entropy's patsy
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
You showed me that to be an honest person with loyal friends is
better in the long run and you're right being lied to sickened me.
I had your trust and was deceived by invisible net personas role playing.
You showed me that faith in ones you grow to love isn't lost forever if
you right what lying outside forces wrong and don't wait too long.
Forgive? I was wrong about who someone was and pray you will.
Remember you were deceived by the same role playing net personas.
Learned my lesson and done with being that patsy who was gullible.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Political Planners...
Much like 4 lb. sledge hammers
That crush the skulls of
Cows brought to Slaughter
Carve up the political landscape
As the HOWL!
Of the entity for the
Condition of Humanity
Bares angst within the Night
In search of the Light
In utter Darkness
They were only the Patsy's
Hung out to dry
For another's Fraud and Profit
Having evolved from
Kneeling to Prophets, into
Kneeling to Profits
Prophets foretold of old
But Now are Sold in Paperback
Lost are the Days...
And,Wandering is the Night
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Hot summer ending
In late evening listening
To loud Patsy Cline
© 2019 Jim Davis
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC