"priory" poems
Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk by a Bilderberg
Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’
Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion
Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove
Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by ****** rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze
The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live in a conspiracy!
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Baptized in the framework,
emboldened dregs,
stolen legs,
having the will enabled,
will stoke flares.
Hope there's enough left,
to capitalize and trademark,
Mark.
These machination metaphorics may get way dark.
Witness the churn,
turn barrel, pour fuel.
Envision thrift in the burn.
Unequivocal innocents in the thick of it learn,
gun metal, flower petal.
Power is sick of our tone.
They play their tricks on our young,
to build a system above.
We killed the sadness
fit to galvanize
a truthful spirit,
loose beneath the masses.
lifted powder keg,
rug and broom,
others soon to be suiting fashion
Buried in a priory cast.
Wire he tapped,
isn't the first,
was a fiery blast.
I heard the ground stir, out turned choirs of wrath.
Give baron bread, give miner shaft,
and all the pigs just laughed.
All the swine surrounded, founded "Freedom".
Heavy quotes aligned to,
"leave em lying".
We declined to deify, redefine our civil vision .
Twisted lips and sirens, rent,
systems turn, climate,
worth, time to learn to hear and listen,
kids, earth, diet.
'On the list I promise'.
Truth can't hurt if you stay quiet.
Truth in earnest moves the strongest.
Our seeds to earth are truth in kindness.
Grow.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
I've come to see Saint Christopher,
a cult local celebrity -
commanding, remote, bearing
the burden of pious prayers,
a chip from Cheshire's sandstone lip -
to hitch a lift on his shoulders
into Norton priory's past.
Gingerly touching sandstone walls,
connecting with their history,
rough grains adhere to my hand.
I somehow feel part of it now,
watching mediaeval hoodies
as they celebrate the spilling
of some ancient sacred blood.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
The castle was smaller than I’d thought
In the Scottish countryside,
It sat in a hollow called Claymore Court
Where all the defenders died,
The signs of cannon, pounding the towers
Were there in the crumbled walls,
And shrubs grew out of the rubbled bowers
While trees took root in the halls.
I sensed a touch of hostility
The moment I reached the gate,
For Angus’s friendability
Came on just a little late,
We’d both attended the Priory School
But that had been way back then,
And I, in parting, called him a fool,
He wouldn’t remember when.
But he did us proud with a suckling pig
And a quart of **** o’ the North’,
Marie, who knew him, was ever so big
And sat with me, holding forth.
I had no mind that he felt so strong,
I’d have left the woman at home,
He had this feeling I’d done him wrong
When I coaxed Marie to roam.
And there she sat with a month to go
Way out in front with our bairn,
I didn’t know it would crease him so
But there, you live and you learn.
He coaxed her drink, with a dreadful leer
Pressed on her **** o’ the North,
It wasn’t as if she was drinking beer
Or water, for all that it’s worth.
We went to bed in a tower room
When the moon rose over the glen,
It felt to me like a Highland tomb
As it was to my clan back then,
Marie began to moan in the night
That the bairn was coming forth,
It had a skinful, thanks to Marie
Of that liquor, **** o’ the North.
And Angus heard and he came to gloat
When he heard that she couldn’t hold,
I dropped him there, head first in the moat
To a grave both wet and cold.
Marie and I, we sit in the barn
And the blame swings back and forth,
What price my friend, and a helpless bairn
To a jar of **** o’ the North?
David Lewis Paget
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
The rain falling from a tree lands with a weight
It is comfort, the outside world reminding me it's real
There is more than the airless, dry aired, stuffy rooms of school
There is a whole world to explore.
If I ran into the middle of the moor, and closed my eyes
Breathless
The roar of traffic could almost be the sea
Northern, icy, blue-green-grey.
In my kind it tickles the priory on a stormy night.
I wonder what it would be like to be somewhere hot
Where warm, humid air and bright light was outside
And icy cold white expanse was in.
Those grey clouds are more than the grey tinge of copy paper.
The black of tarmac is more than board pen
The spiny trees are real, no words come from their branches
All are familiar, and yet outside provides comfort.
Inspiration.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
I – have this dream
Red and yellow swirls – across a field bathed in summery golden, sunset shine
Twisting and twirling, dancing together in love-faked hate
Some would call the roses two
Their colors different, they cant be one
But up from the ashes, as proof to the masses, denying the undeniable, THE undeniable truth, that not only were they equal, the same, but ONE according to their roots and ancestral bearings! That the time spent spending time in separation was in vain because all that was priory believed is now rendered unbelievable and all that wasn’t – is
I have this dream
That even though, the lights been off, we can turn to our inner glow
It slowly rises, rising slowly but surely, making sure its taking its time to make TIME the one thing it wont run out of
Because in this world of today
We have many more tomorrows
And tomorrow holds more promise than any of us dare to hope for today
“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed
I have a dream today”
–
yea, I have this dream
But then I wake up
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
I have to write in my diary,
I have to tell someone what's going on
I have to watch a motion picture
I have to finish tasks for French and Dutch.
Having written, having told, it's gone,
having watched and having finished, priory
fruits in life start growing, how to pass a stricture,
because a girl out there, forever unknowing, simple touch,
is so cryptic, close to crime.
I hate time.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk by a Bilderberg
Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’
Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion
Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove
Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by ****** rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze
The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live within a conspiracy.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
Harsh Sun throws our
Shadows sharp against
Flagstones.
Beside the Priory wall,
Brought low by Henrys' Hammer the
Abbott lies, long gone.
Just we two, Now, in
Silhouette-
Your walking stick tapping a
Military Tattoo,
My hat of Panamanian straw
To delineate our presence.
O History-
Goodbye
Surely the New,
Loosened from past embrace
Shall see lovely flowers linger
Just for this Sunny Day
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 2:15 AM UTC