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"pisspot" poems
That cowgirl won’t go Won’t ride Won’t die Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes And they do their damndest to draw her attention Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out And the piano man run away Sometimes they shoot the others down All for the chance to pay two dollars To lay with the only cowgirl in town She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls **** loose and fast Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go Won’t ride Won’t die I asked her to marry me Many times before She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.” In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house, Settling down and starting a family. But that cowgirl won’t go Won’t ride Won’t die
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Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
jason-galt
Cowgirl
That cowgirl won’t go Won’t ride Won’t die Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes And they do their damndest to draw her attention Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out And the piano man run away Sometimes they shoot the others down All for the chance to pay two dollars To lay with the only cowgirl in town She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls **** loose and fast Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go Won’t ride Won’t die I asked her to marry me Many times before She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.” In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house, Settling down and starting a family. But that cowgirl won’t go Won’t ride Won’t die
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You saw a closed door, I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a, blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise, pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore, once swore, one more spell in bedlam, well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps, and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary. Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes, suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do. They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed. Tomorrow , what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more, I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there, In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round it's bleedin' flat.
0
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
john-edward-smallshaw
Mad Monday
You saw a closed door, I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a, blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise, pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore, once swore, one more spell in bedlam, well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps, and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary. Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes, suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do. They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed. Tomorrow , what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more, I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there, In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round it's bleedin' flat.
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