now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

Every morning
Every night
You're always there
I miss you already
Dread the day you won't be here
I'll be heartbroken, grieving
A few kilometres away

You've kept me calm
When my days were dark
A physical reminder everything will be alright
You'll promise me I can find another friend
To unconditionally love me
And always be there

Until then you are the Queen of this realm
Everything  I can give you
To enjoy without a care
Sitting there in bliss
Watching the birds in the sun
To never know hunger, thirst or fear

I will hug you, play with you
As much as I can
I will protect you
Take care of you
Its the least I can do
You're my very best friend
I'll always love you

There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.

To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.

Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.

You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.

So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?

1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.

2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.

3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.

4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.

5) Eat all the free food you can.

With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.

Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.

Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******* in your own pants.

This…

Is only temporary.

You must say.

A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.

This is only temporary.

Preach your bible while you spit venom
Like you're the only one with a mental illness
Your first time in this ward? It's my fifth
Tell me about my life, apparently you lived it
Ever been disowned, disinherited, left in the dirt?
Tell me what is feels like every time one of my comrades dies
You sat in AC while I slept in the sand
You're just a POG to me, ******* man

your a magic fish.
you live in a tiny dish.
young people find you to make a wish.

im a crazy dog.
i carry a magic pog.
my house is a giant log.
i love to jog.
my best friend is a ***** hog.
he lives in an enchanted bog.

your a little bird named sweety.
you favorite hobby is to sing a little song tweety-tweet-tweety.

Peire-Roger, le Chevalier Faydit.

C'est Peire-Roger le Faydit
regardant la vie avec hauteur
Comme l'aigrette flottant
sur son heaume argenté.
Ses terres furent mises en proie
Par les prélats du Pape
Au profit de barons pillards.
Venus de Septentrion.
Il était Languedocien,
Par la langue et le cœur
Sa sœur Esclarmonde, était une «Cathare»,
l’une de ces chrétiens hétérodoxes,
Se vouant à l'Esprit,
Et disant rejeter ce mal
Qui corrompt l'esprit humain,
En colorant de sombre
Les œuvres terrestres.
Très jeune, les jeux de guerre
Furent, pour lui, comme un breuvage ardent.
Il éprouva l'amour brûlant
Pour de belles châtelaines,
Si dures à séduire,
Au jeu du «fin Amor».
Mais il était certes moins aimé
Pour ses vers d'ingénieux troubadour,
Que comme homme fort,
ayant belle prestance,
Et apparaissant triomphant,
dans ses courses au galop,
Et les grands coups
Qu'il donnait pour se frayer
Un passage dans la mêlée,
Dans les éclats, les étincelles
De l'entrechoc des épées.
Bien jeune, il vit son père
Spolié de sa seigneurie,
Confisquée au bénéfice
de la lignée maudite
De la maison de Montfort.
Il fut tout jeune humilié
par la tourbe des seigneurs pillards
Conduite par des fanatiques
Et masquant sous l'apparence
De religion, leur vile convoitise
Et leur voracité de loups.
Une fausse paix obligea son père
A rompre l'allégeance
Avec les comtes de Toulouse.
Alors que la persécution
Des «bonshommes» s'amplifiait,
Et que les libertés Toulousaines
Étaient sous le talon de fer.
Son père s'en vint en Aragon
Parmi tant d'autres hommes,
droits et valeureux,
Pour sauvegarder l'honneur,
Et préparer la reconquête
Des terres confisquées,
par l'avidité de ces nuées
De corbeaux et des loups
Venus faire bombance
De terres Languedociennes.
Comme plus ****,
les Lys viendraient agrandir,
Leurs fiefs pour le seul profit
De Paris la dominante et la vorace.
Sa jeunesse se passa à s'entraîner
Et à rêver au jour où
Il traverserait les cols
Pour la revanche de son sang
Et la mémoire de son père,
Mort en exil en Aragon.
Enfin les appels de Raymond VII de Toulouse,
De Trencavel et du peuple de Tolosa révolté,
Résonnèrent comme buccin
Dans tout le Languedoc sous le joug,
Et l'oriflamme de Tolosa fut levé
Qui embrasa plaines et collines.
Le temps était venu de combattre
Et ce fut une guerre
Aussi ardente que cruelle,
comme une chasse à courre,
Faite de sièges et d'escarmouches
Contre les troupes du Roi Louis VIII.
Peirce-Roger chevaucha et guerroya
Donnant tout son corps et son âme,
Et fut maintes fois blessé,
Mais il lui fallut bien du courage
Pour déposer les armes
Quand les chefs s'entendirent
Pour donner en mariage
Jeanne de Toulouse
A Alphonse de France.
Ce mariage funeste,
annonçait et scellait la perte,
Des libertés et de la tolérance
De la haute civilisation
des pays Tolédans et Languedociens.
Aussi Peire-Roger, l'esprit blessé
Plus encore que ses chairs
Meurtries et tailladées,
Décida de consacrer sa vie
Au soutien et a la protection,
Des «bonshommes» traqués,
Par cette infamie nommée l'inquisition,
Usant des pires moyens,
Dont la délation et la torture,
Pour extirper par les cordes,
les tenailles et le feu,
Ce que la Papauté ne pouvait obtenir
Du choix des consciences,
Par le libre débat et le consentement.
Peire-Roger vint à Montségur
Sur les hauteurs du Po
Transforme en abri, en refuge et en temple,
Sur les terres du comte de Foix.
Il admira Esclarmonde la pure, la parfaite,
Et la pureté de mœurs
De cette communauté de «Bonhommes»,
de Femmes et d'Hommes libres,
Bien divers, mais si fraternels,
Ayant choisi de vivre leur spiritualité.
Contrairement aux calomnies,
Qui les disait adorateurs du Diable,
Ils mettaient par-dessus tout
Leur vie spirituelle et leur idéal commun.
Et leurs autres vertus étaient
Le dépouillement et la simplicité.
Hélas vautours et corbeaux,
Planaient autour de l'altier Pog.
Alors que la bise des premiers froids
Se faisait sentir les matins.
C'est alors qu'un groupe d'inquisiteurs
Chevaucha jusqu'à Avignonet
pour y chercher des proies.
Cela embrasa de colère
nombre de Chevaliers Faydits,
Dont les parents avaient tant soufferts
Le feu de la vengeance l’emporta
Sur la prudente et sage patience.
Et Peire-Roger lui-même
Pris le commandement de la troupe.
Qui arriva de nuit à Avignonet
Pour punir la cruauté par le fer.
Le Bayle, Raymond d'Alfaro
Ouvrit les portes aux vengeurs,
Et un nouveau crime s'ajouta
Aux précédents crimes innombrables.
L’inquisiteur Guillaume Arnaud
Et Étienne de Saint Thibery,
furent massacres avec leurs compagnons.
Leurs cris d'épouvante et d'agonie
Résonnèrent dans cette Avignonet
Qui huma l'acre parfum du sang,
La peur semblait disparue
Et la vengeance rendue.
Mais la lune aussi pleura du sang
Dans le ciel blafard et blême
Vengeance fut ainsi accomplie
Pour les chairs et les âmes martyrisées.
Mais le sang répandu appelle
Toujours plus de sang encore.
Quelques mois après un ost
De plusieurs centaines de soldats,
Sous le commandement
D'Hugues des Arcis.
Vint en mai 1243,
Mettre le siège de la place fortifiée.
Peire-Roger se battit comme un Lion
Avec ses compagnons Faydits,
Ils accomplirent des prouesses
De courage et de vaillance
Furent données.
Mais lorsque de nuit par un chemin secret
Qui leur avait été révélé,
Les assaillant s'emparèrent
Du roc de la tour,
Et y posèrent une Perrière
Pour jeter des projectiles
Sur les fortifications et les assiégés.
L'espoir de Peire-Roger,
des défenseurs et des bonshommes,
Commença à fléchir.
Et une reddition fut conclue
Le 1er mars 1244 laissant aux cathares,
Le choix de la conversion ou de la mort dans les flammes.
Ce fut grand pitié ce 16 mars de voir
Plus de deux cent femmes et hommes bons et justes,
Choisir en conscience de ne pas renier leur choix et leur foi,
Préférant terminer leur vie
D'une manière aussi affreuse,
en ce début du printemps
Qui pointait ses lumières.
Et jusqu'à l'ignoble bûcher,
Leurs chants d'amour,
Furent entendus puis couvert,
Par leurs cris de douleur
Et les crépitements des buches.
Aussi; qu’une honte dans pareille
En retombe sur le Pape si mal nomme, Innovent III
Et sur le roi Louis IX, sanctifié par imposture,
Et sur l'archevêque de Narbonne, Pierre Amiel.
Que surtout vienne le temps
Où la Paix aux doux, aux justes
Et aux Pacifiques s'établisse.
Et qu'une honte et un remord sans fin
Punissent ceux et celles qui continuent
A se comporter en inquisiteurs
qu'elle qu'en soient les raisons et les circonstances.
Il semblerait sans aucune certitude
Que Peire-Roger, le chevalier Faydit
Témoin de ces temps de fer et de feu.
Soit allé, au ****, se retirer et prier
Dans une communauté de bonshommes
En Aragon ou en Lombardie.

Paul Arrighi

If when the thistle wet drip on my log
If when I throw the stone down to flip on my pog
If do the wet log, sog, gets to the gog
Then the bog twist suckle nutted left on the bar

If a man is prized by the dead wind buttel
If it is a sprig of wheat tugging on the chug narg
Then flark my tizzle, wet the bed
Put the thick log on my head
I am not a sped
I just dread the nut
Put it on my fat leg
Put it on my fat one
Oh yes
Oh yes
Now drip the salt, salt my boney

If you should ever set a sail
o'er the Irish sea
then perchance you'll hear a tale
from old mythology

and its told in local drinking holes
down valleys and up highs
and its always told with a pint of ale
and a twinkle in the eye

There was a man, who poor, forlorn
had heard this tale of old
its said "whereever there are leprechauns or rainbows
nearby's a *** of gold
and as the man could ill afford
to keep himself in whiskey or in beer
indeed the news, removed his blues
and filled him with good cheer

he went off hunting rainbows
near where the little people dwell
for only leprechauns can know
where gold is hid and they will never tell
for they guard their treasure very well

One day the man he saw a rainbow
which he followed to its end
and there he found a little pub
where leprechauns and friends
sat drinking with good cheer
from little pots of golden beer

The leprechaun proprietor
observed the man with solemn eye
he asked "what will be your pleasure?"
and the man gave out a sigh
he said ;"I have come about a *** of gold
or something of that sort
I have heard it told from legends old
that theres gold that cant be bought

Then the proprietor replied in gaelic
and all he said was "pog ma thoin"
whilst taking from his pocket
a single shiny golden coin.

"Pog Ma Thoin? The poor man asked
what does it mean, oh please explain
For I have searched so very far
for rainbows through the rain

Sir, would you like this golden coin?
you have truly found the rainbows end
yet the only pots of Gold round here
are filled with beer, my friend

But if you would like this coin of gold
said the proprietor as he raised his glass
then Pog ma Thoin for a golden coin
come over here and kiss my ****.

In his retirement, the
Lone Ranger decided
to learn Choctaw the
language of Tonto.

To his shock & horror
he was to discover that
Kemo Sabe actually
meant " Kiss my *** ".

Last December, I had
a glitter card with a
Donkey, in Irish that
said, " Pog mo Shon ".

Seems to me that nearly
everyone has lost the
spirit, this year I got one,
abbreviated, " X M A S ".