"raines" poems
The Press surrounded the boarding house
That was kept by Mary Toft,
Her sailor man was Rickety Dan
Who was hidden, up in the loft.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’
Cried the head of the Press Gang crew,
We’ve got you a berth on the frigate ‘Perth’,
‘Don’t make us come looking for you!’
Mary stood by the door and blocked,
‘You’ll not be coming in here,
You can’t Impress in a private house,
The law of the land is clear.’
‘But this is a plain old ***** House
It’s the Navy’s right to come in,
You don’t say no to a guinea or so
From a sailor, looking for sin.’
‘I’ll have you know it’s a Boarding House
Not a ***** House, Oh dear!
You’d better go off for a pint of gin
And swill it around in your ear!
A Boarding House is a private house
And protected, under the law,
You’d better go looking somewhere else,
Like ‘The Angel’, down at the shore.’
‘We’re here to pick up Rickety Dan
We know that he’s here with you,
There’s no protection since Bony came
And the Navy’s short of a crew,
So stand aside, by the rising tide
He’ll be lost to you, Miss Toft,
For somewhere out by the channel ports
He’ll be clambering up, aloft.’
Dan had rickets when he was young
His legs were bowed like a bell,
He heard the door come clattering in
And he heard young Mary yell;
He seized his favourite capstan-bar
And he leapt right out of the loft,
Then laid about him from right to left
In defence of his Mary Toft.
The Press consisted of Isaac Raines
A farmer, plucked from the hay,
A weaver, minus the broken frames
The Luddites had taken away,
A shipwright, also a ropemaker
Who had joined to avoid the Press,
‘As long as you bring them in, my lads,
I’ll not let you go for less!’
Dan lashed out with the capstan-bar
And he laid the weaver low,
Sent the farmer to tend his fields
With only a single blow,
Chased the shipwright out of the door
Where the ropemaker had fled,
Knocked the Lieutenant down to the floor,
Then saw that he lay, stone dead!
‘I’m gone, I’m gone,’ said Rickety Dan,
‘I’d better head back to the sea,
It’s bad enough that I’ve killed the man
They’ll all be looking for me,
I’ll go and sign on an Indiaman
If I have to sign as a cook,
Once I’m safely away at sea
It’s the last place that they’ll look.’
She never saw Rickety Dan again
Though she’d wait at the turning tide,
Whenever an Indiaman came in
She would dress herself as a bride,
And even after they’d left this life
With Dan no longer aloft,
A bird perched up on the mizzen mast
Would look out for Mary Toft.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
Beat
Beat back the urge
Beat it back to the Stone Age
You nerd!
I got a motor mouth
A mile a minute
It's a song and dance
But I'm not in it
Bite
Bite your lip
Fool yourself into thinkin'
You've beat it
I got a tigger finger
No gun to pull
A fragile headstock
Lost my cool
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Keep
Keep your cool
Keep it locked up tight
One rule
I got a worn out shirt
It Never fits right
I shift my shoulders
Under the lights
Make
Yourself do better
Make it all go away
It's the weather
I'm tic tock tic tock tic tock tickin away
I'll blast off like a rocket into outer space
You can keep it down for a little while
But soon enough you'll be forced to smile
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Bring all the kids on home from school
And gather the pets in tight,
Send out and warn the village fool
For it’s Crow Fly-Over Night.
Stable the horse, bring in the geese,
Shut up the chicken run,
We can’t rely on the local police
So load me a scatter gun.
Shut the windows in both the Utes,
Drive the car in the shed,
Lay out my anti-vermin boots
And a helmet to cover my head.
Lock the shutters and pull the blinds,
We don’t want to show a light,
Set the locks on the window-winds
For it’s Crow Fly-Over Night.
Then watch for the man in the hood and cape
As he drifts in, under the Moon,
If I sight him well, then he won’t escape,
Not like in the month of June.
He brings his carrion in to feed
In a flutter of feathered blight,
If he’s not dead yet, then he will be soon
For it’s Crow Fly-Over Night.
And the widow Raines in her mourning dress
Has been seen to stray, she roams,
She scatters seed in the wilderness
But the Crows will pick her bones.
At dusk they come in an evil cloud
But with not a single caw,
Then settle over the land, and loud
Announce the word is ‘war’.
So hide the children beneath their beds
And bar each door in place,
Block up the chimney flu with lead
And call your sister, Grace,
If she doesn’t come before the Crows
She’ll find the door locked tight,
And then she’ll know what the Devil knows,
It’s Crow Fly-Over Night!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
I smell an intruder, a spy in my house.
Is he coming from the dark zone
on a day it raines forever?
Does he wants my seven tears
or my smile?
Or Yesterday’s days that made
me cry?
He woke me up, leaving traces
in my nightmare,
I was a sad soul in torment,
he was my source of despair,
but I knew it wasn’t
my last evening on Earth,
I confessed all my sins,
since my mother gave me birth,
thinking who’s going to win in hell
if the mirror cracked, or tolls the bell?
I stopped being the girl
who plays with the fire,
calling the devil in disguise a big liar,
‘cause he tried to promise me the heaven,
but I still got my lives to live: seven!
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC