"pensioners" poems
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
7.9k
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
all these european
charities are insulting
africa; i've been to kenya
(yeah, talked with one bartender
about the import of timber from ghana),
i've seen a fat person,
a fat woman to be exact:
all these charities are
killing pensioners by harassing
them to give money...
all the money invested in
charity companies goes
for bureaucracy,
these western charities are
insulting african nations...
they have a civilisation you
know... i'd rather ****
on a ten quid banknote
and eat it than give it to
those vultures.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.
There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.
There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.
The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.
There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.
There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.
There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.
There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.
But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
.*last time i heard... the time difference between Bach and say... a Gershwin was... 187 years... what' the difference between a... say... Joshua Redman (1969) and a Cedric Brooks (1943) - a difference of... a grand total of? 26 years! short attention span or something? too much ***** too many drugs?! why did acid jazz take over?! tell me... i'm not black enough to understand the classical music equivalent in the black community, that is jazz... beat poets?! they cursed the whole affair, yes, no, maybe? just when i thought i might escape the opera, or the tux, or the orchestral hall filled with pensioners... when jazz made the living room everything other than a family communal space... just then... these ******* stopped making decent music, and turned to rap... **** call me what you like, a racist... whatever... i'm an aesthete... which is not an athlete... ******* should have stuck to their guns... sure... you'll out-run us... but sure as **** you won't out-swim us.*
white privilege?
seriously?
so...
the ******
(sorry, emphasis)
in the gospel choir
at church,
or the one on the dance
floor busting all
the: applying
gymnastics
to a dance
moves...
he... she... they weren't
born with a
black, "privilege"?
no? not any...
seems kinda unfair
to presuppose
i come from
a privileged household
of ethnicity;
**** if you want it...
you can have...
the box...
**** inherit my
successes in abstraction...
have your genesis
in ancient Greece...
have it!
it's yours!
now show me something...
******* spectacular!
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
a friend posed the question
there is a first world
and there is a second world,
but where do you find the
second world?
and sadly i think i know the answer.
the second world lives is
the hidden shadows of the
first.
and is populated by....
.....those who live in the shells
of architect designed houses, with no power running
water,
..or worse live in cars or
couchsurf.
....it is those pensioners who
exsist on tinned cat food
and teabags re-used
seven times.
....old people who wear their entire wardrobe in the winter
cold.
....children with bad teeth and chronic health issues
un-attended because they
can't afford a doctor
...it is the man,
who died the other day.
hit by a train,
while his children watched,
retrieving some dropped groceries,
he got from,
a food drive van.
...it was the first food
they would have had in 48hrs,
the child stated for reporters.
this .....
is the second world!!!
right here ....
mostly hidden from sight
not even reminded by sad
tv ads
only when abject utter tragedy
happens
do we see a glimpse
of the second worlder's
desperate plight.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Deep weather
Rough chopped rocks sunk in the sand
Of St.Ives.
Hostile invitations for a childhood party
Where Joshua so loved
then missed his grandad.
Rock and rain pools
December **** in August limpid.
An adolescent's stomping ground of
Skunk and cider
Where first Lucy kissed,
And felt age inside her.
And a Pensioners painting,
Anna remembered a figure
On those black rocks
All those years before,
That could help her across no more.
The town on the hill.
Bewitching, twitching, still,
Windows hammered on to cold homes -
Bridesmaids, Flings, exiles,
Remembered, loved in the married bed
back home.
And the girl that I love so much,
Sits across the beach
Sinked in to my sand like
The alba washing coal on the beach
After all these years.
And the girl I worry about so much.
Sits across the room sinked in sand,
Hammering love in my chest.
Rocks, coal and home.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
The Towering Inferno was burning bright In the London sky at the dead of night. Voices Ignored for raising concerns people helpless as the fire burns.
The Towering Inferno was an absolute shame, someone somewhere is definitely to blame. People scream as they burn to death Or choking on smoke taking their final breath.
The Towering Inferno was an absolute disgrace they were told they'd be safe if they stayed in their place. Children, Pensioners from different races horrified looks on terrified Faces.
The Towering Inferno was burning bright In the London sky at the dead of night Burning flesh of people alive how did people manage to survive?
The Towering inferno was burning bright in the London sky at the dead of night. The screams of people filled the air the Politicians didn't really care.
The Towering Inferno was burning bright in the London sky at the dead of night. Innocent People aware of the threat beautiful people that we will never ever forget.
The Towering Inferno was burning bright in the London sky at the dead of night. The emergency services arrive on the scene. So does Prince William And her Majesty the Queen.
The Towering Inferno was burning bright in the London sky at the dead of night. Teresa May was an arrogant old cow people don't know what the future holds now. The Towering Inferno was burning bright. now they have managed to extinguish its light.
RIP
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
The sun it rose in monochrome it slowley dipped to grey
The TVs going digital and all of us will pay
Its not the way the BBC was set to run it seems
But now the bloke who holds the reigns has come from ITV
So what of all the lower class the plebs with CRT
They never asked for digital or freeview if you please
But now in Tonys golden age I sit in dark despair
The poor old sods who put him there for them he never cared
He's taken every penny the pensioners ever got
And to thank them for their every vote hes turned their tellys OFF!
Bye Bye Tony and mind the door doesnt hit you on the **** on the way out.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
what i understand as a definition of
the word complex,
it requires a hyphen as a
pseudo conjunction, in that it
coordinates words in opposition,
which is why freud's right on the
money with the madonna-whore
complex, but completely bonkers
with his oedipal fetishes,
because oedipus is a complex in itself
that cannot be excavated
and theorised for the sake of a
analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism
that might plagiarise awry,
for all orthodox necessities:
a complex is aqua- -marine
aquamarine... but in terms of theory
it's evident that the hyphen usage
is still retained, before everything
goes **** up perfect *** **** of
compounding the two words like a german:
Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication),
der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!'
'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.'
'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go:
fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.'
the operation was a success, apart from
the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body;
and i never understood why people
expect you to talk to them face-to-face
like you're reading autocue, the minute
you talk imagining off empty space
to invent a new language of comfort
they equate you with autism...
i once had a glance at psychiatric notes
sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general
practitioner)... psst... they only care
about whether:
a. you're able to keep eye contact
b. you're / you're not biting your nails...
but that's what you get, the welfare state
policy of funding distribution of the infamous
n.h.s. (national health service)...
****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting
mind from body like the brain is some
gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for
thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into
psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into
prescriptions for pensioners demanding ******
i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic,
hence their appeal to autistic children,
or just anyone not really into leashes, being
tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come
7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes
that they blend in will flowers, and when awake,
yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's
extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called...
ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck
a million swans with broken necks.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
My kids, they prophecy daily,
young men recount their visions,
pensioners dream their dreams,
fired up for holy mission.
I wonder about those like me
caught in our middle ages.
What did Joel have in mind
for men in mid-life crises?
God tells me I'm still chosen,
I still do qualify
to bear ripe fruit, to share good gifts,
to live without compromise.
So as the last days come much nearer,
as our mission nears completion,
you'll find I pray more readily
to herald his coming kingdom.
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 1:12 PM UTC
Flight of Rococo
The marina was quiet this Sunday afternoon
The horde had gone back to their offices and factories
The pensioners who take vacation in September
And October walks slowly about and eat well they are
Not going dancing, the women will be tiddly and feel
As they did forty years ago, perhaps tonight the hubby
Will be frisky, but having drunk wine he will fall asleep
She has been going in and out of shops I'm outside
Pretending to be elsewhere I think of Goya's women.
Ah, this slimming craze why do so many women think
It is **** to look like freed concentration camp victims
She is tired now sits on a bench I walk around and look
At boats, I could never afford, except for a few ocean
Ship made of wood polished by rough hands by men who
Are not politically correct calling the ship a she that have
Or possess what men like about women
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC
Looking up to one another
Protecting each other
Standing strong together
Always and forever
Our words often deep
inside we both felt weak
Finding comfort in each other
My best friend and my brother
He recently spoke of a light
After singing loudly and bright
In gods holy place
Where a group of pensioners gave him faith
God bless my darling Sam
A most wonderful man
I’ll fight through this pain
Till I see you again
Xxxx
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
so have you seen the middle-aged men coerced by pensioners
having to switch from bertolli butter (olive oil inc.)
to benecol (olive oil inc. also)? no? i have.
so i have this for those scheming pensioners:
i’m gonna crash and burn baby, yeah, crash and... insert
chicken clucking onomatopoeia (i will not mutilate
such a fine 26 diadem thing as the alphabet on childish
notation... or censor f f c u c n k t) - i intended
the chicken clucking for middle-aged men.
but perhaps you managed to spot that night dervish,
extending his hand to the ceiling, and spinning round and round
and round to a song with his middle finger touching the ceiling
for the added balance? hmm... that’s a tough one...
i think i did... although the sole eyewitness was drunk,
so there might be a problem deciphering the account he gave:
‘i’m on a carousel! i’m on a carousel! i’m on a ******* carousel
with jeremy cricket and stephen hawking! ha ha!’
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
We grew into adults together
And there were so many days
Filled with love and laughter
Held in our sunshines rays
We grew into parents together
Not knowing the joy it would
Bring to our young baby selves
To give them everything we could
We grew into pensioners together
After all the long and lovely years
Still the light we needed and loved
Forever there through our fears
We grew to know each other together
Understanding with just one look
Always putting the other one first
We gave much more than we ever took
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
The city was laid like a wasteland
Like a rusting, crumbling sore,
Half of the houses were boarded up
Along a neglected shore,
The spirit had long gone out of it
That had made the city great,
Men fifty miles to the south of it
Were determining its fate.
Way up on the Presidential floor
Was a group of greedy men,
The czars of the old industrial core
Who had bled the town back then,
‘The real estate’s a disaster,’ said
A man who had been the Mayor,
‘The auto plants are a rusting heap,’
Said the man who held the Chair.
‘We’ve got more pensioners on the funds
Than workers in the plants,
There’s crime and violence in every street
And the Unions make demands.
So what’s the conclusion, gentlemen,
Do we give this plan its head?’
‘Whatever we do, it’s much too late,
The city’s as good as dead!’
And that’s how they came to build ‘The Tower’
To illuminate the sky,
‘There’s plenty of work for everyone
At a hundred storeys high!’
Nobody knew just what it did
Or what they were building for,
They only knew that they had a wage,
Could hold up their heads once more.
A central lift in The Tower went up
And down ten times a day,
Taking tools and materials
To restrict the Tower’s sway,
‘They say we’re going to go High-Tech
And they’re closing down the Plants,
The days of auto’s have gone for good
But they won’t tell us their plans.’
The Tower was built within the year
With a gaping hole up top,
A semi drove through the streets one day
And by The Tower, it stopped.
It carried a massive box-like thing
With a mass of flashing lights,
Was loaded into the lift, and sent
Up on its maiden flight.
They took it up and it crowned The Tower
While the people watched in awe,
There hadn’t been people in the streets
Like this since the Second War.
A massive counter was counting down
As the people stood and cheered,
‘I hope it’s not what I think it is,’
Said a man with a long, white beard.
While down in the Presidential Suite
Just fifty miles away,
A group of men put their sunnies on
And stood by the window bay,
‘Well how do you clear a festering slum,’
Said one, as he watched the clock,
While back at The Tower a sign lit up
And the word was ‘Ragnarok!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
Kissing her old style
recapturing youth's smile,
in the move back in time where the
lines of age dissipate,and touching
where the joy of memories hesitate,
we still date as if we're teenagers,and
not pensioners.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Old age pensioners
settled in their comfortable home.
Protected, safe and happy.
Joan, our Joan
Butter would not melt in her mouth.
All week she has been flustered
swapping her jelly and custard
for a private stash
of shiny ready cash.
For the end of the week treat.
They all pull out their rollers and meet
at the green card table.
Some that are not so able
are wheeled in.
You can feel the tension
the stake - their pension.
But then that is alright
It is just a friendly fight.
The cards are shuffled, well rearranged
some go on the floor
some sneak under the door.
Cheating begins.
First for black jack, they all know
as they sit in a gentle row
Watching their backs,
their bony hands gripping tight
winking, leading up the garden path.
Suggesting they have the ace
such a lovely pace
Then the joker is played
and a four of spades
greets with dismay and a sigh
The draw was low the ace was high
Nothing to grab your fancy
Just a game of cards.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
why do i keep questioning
thorough the shadow and the hollow
are we talking about the orbs?
the nocturnal things in the welkin?
the radiance we see in the night while we're looking up?
what are all these about?
no
don't stare at me
don't you dare narrowed your eyes at me
these are pensioners
after those briers and numbers;
of prickly snatching shrubs upon the wanderers
(belly laugh)
yes
the shore laps
and that river banks
were once grilling to burst the blue,
to make me sue
as the sandpiper repursue
to eat the crumbs of Swiss cheese fondue
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
in the midst of brexit i advise that britain continues to trade as normal if there was a previous trade in place.
the treasury advises £190 billion at present so we are not bankcrupt. france looking to supply wine in britain i have agreed on 1%per unit import and export. please continue to buy and sell and please dont refuse to deliver if something is sent.
the money is in the english admin from my fwoah account for eternity account. i put 1thousand thousand thousand trillion into the account so everyone who qualifies should get this including students on top of grants and living funding.
pensioners should get extra £400 a month all unemployed and universal credit with also £200 to each child under 18.
in the next few days we will set up a call centre for people in britain to call. i’m sorry not everyone has received theres but its difficult with whitehall virtually closed due to emdemic. i would add the oxford vaccine looks safe.
fwoah dream boleyn also advises funding for 400 new jobs for policeman at request of george scott of scotland yard.
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 12:34 PM UTC
It would make you smile
glitter and pretty
no mumbo-jumbo
but it would be costly-
the dental implant
with components three-
the crown, the abutment (bridge)
and the screw-like implant-post---the trinity!
poor old-age pensioners
already plagued by rising utility
costs are struggling from
every town and county-
Aussie Government budget is in deficit
sinking in billion-dollars debts---not interest-fee
its announcement to the public recently:
'No funding for faulty teeth---just brush them properly!'
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
Why do dictators like to finger the globe?
Shoot the ******* dead, before they become world known.
Should we strangle the gangster and forget about a police probe?
Now in Ferguson, it's happening daily and getting full blown.
Do you think about how others live?
Or look away from others in society your with.
What sort of human can make another's jaw drop and body flop?
Get in the ring, put on your gloves and see who comes out on top.
Will the man on the moon ever show us his dark side?
Maybe the little green men have got something to hide.
Do you think about how others live?
Or look away from others in society your with.
Do clowns sometimes cry and does their eyeliner run?
Maybe there black or white and some might even carry a gun.
Do prison girls like the jail uniform stripe?
Surely they wish for a pink blouse, but never gripe.
Do you think about how others live?
Or look away from others in society your with.
Why do banks, shareholders and politicians always have money in reserve?
While the workers, pensioners and babies don't get what they deserve.
Since when should new immigrants be able to paddle to shore?
When skilled workers from afar and new brides are drowned in red tape, for sure.
So just think about how others live?
Also look at all others in society and give.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 5:57 PM UTC
She wore a coat of paint and thin blue line around each eye
A doll's eye
A toy for someone else's game.
Painted lids to hide her shame.
Oh what a shame!
A 'pretty woman'.
Soft mousey curls
Straight now and brittle as her voice
And yellowed , like her finger nails,
Painted and gnawed.
Sallow pitted skin
And thin - so thin!
Cheap flimsy dress
Her hair's a mess
Her smile too ready and
Her voice too hard,too gravelly and shrill.
A cloud has covered all she is
And taken all the shine, has chilled and numbed
Our Sharon.
On the pavement, on the street in Las Americas
She offers cards to pensioners who never win
Who talk to her because she's thin
And someone's girl.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Preparing for a cataclysm
Not for the faint of heart
Tornadoes are tempestuous
Tsunamis, quick to start
A lethal strain of chicken-pox
Can wander on the breeze
And flu attacks acutely
With an uninvited sneeze
But no historic incident
Disaster or decline
Can match that of the Wobbling
Of nineteen fifty nine
It started over breakfast
With a rippling in the juice
The spoons were jiggled savagely
And dentures rattled loose
The condiments were quivering
The sauces sat and twitched
Cookies cracked and crumbled
And couples came unhitched
Horses bolted randomly
And ran around in squares
The pensioners reverberated
Rocking in their chairs
The birdies in their downy nests
Were bounced about the trees
The cars rebounded in the street
And stacked themselves in threes
Eyeballs turned alarmingly
The clouds flipped upside down
The church bells all played chopsticks
And the fish began to drown
The roads became entangled
And bunched up into knots
The pencils slipped their cases
Leaving tiny lines of dots
The cities were in uproar
The noise like solid thunder
As puddings toppled needlessly
And Jelly fell asunder
Furniture was undulating
Hats abandoned stand
Sailors found their sailing legs
A hundred miles inland
But just as it had started
The tremble shook no more
And one again, humanity
Could start to trust the floor
The roads were combed and straightened
And nestled back in place
The spoons were fastened safely
And eyeballs turned to face
The parrots were sedated
And locked up in their cages
Books were shelved and sorted out
With bookmarks in their pages
The world returned to normalcy
And soon, no single sign
Was left to tell the tale
Of the Wobble of fifty nine
**
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC