"scrag" poems
"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."
Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your ***
How do you melt the multy swag?
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a ***
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You can not bank a single stag;
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
THE MORAL
It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
***** and the blowens cop the lot.
2.6k
Genetically glad
Genetically sad
I'm running with momentum over scrag and path
My muscles drag me to the destination
Other's pass by me
Other's I pass
All shapes and sizes
All styles and devices
The view from the top is sublime
Body sore from the climb
The town below think we are mad
Me ...I'm genetically glad
Aug 17, 2022
Aug 17, 2022 at 6:36 PM UTC
4/19/2019
I’m too skinny to be mean,
So why do I walk with swag?
That’s not maturity, I’m so green.
They say, “Work out, you’re such a scrag.”
I should try to smile more,
A scowl doesn’t draw people.
But the outside reflects from the core,
So change is not that simple.
Jesus change my heart,
Fill me – no, overflow me!
I need all of you to start,
To erase this mood of gloomy.
I’d rather be a nice guy,
I wouldn’t have to worry.
My old image – it’s time to die.
My turn to forget my history.
I’m still worried about my image,
I thought I climbed over that!
This culture values the savage.
In Your face, they’ve spat.
I’d rather be a decent fellow,
Someone readily trusted.
I’m quiet, I don’t bellow,
This way I was made, but I’ve resisted.
I was raised to be a gentleman,
What does that mean?
Call me a madman,
Act like Christ, when not even seen.
I’m done with looking tough,
I want nothing to do with grim.
I’ll act in a way devoid of mischief,
Even if I look like a weak victim.
But going back to culture;
I don’t want to slip into the throng,
I won’t blend in and become a vulture,
Feeding off the weak, don’t make you strong.
“Speak softly and carry a big stick,”
An interesting concept.
People these days are all talk,
That they are wrong, they’d never accept.
Even when I’m hated,
By Christ, I will show humility.
It’s not that complicated,
An extension of His credibility.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 8:02 PM UTC
A Lazarus body litters the sidewalk
outside a well-lit, desolate lobby.
On the left is a mexican restaurant,
with a line reaching to the
entrance. They should stamp
the grey and scratched up
plexiglass with a light and
dark purple neon:
Welcome To America.
It would be reinforced
by every delicious crunch
one hears on the way out as
cheap crumbs garnish concrete.
On the right, there’s a bar
alive on a Friday night.
Friends share hearty laughs
and pats on the back.
The bitter and the perishing
pretend they want this
when they should be
somewhere or someone else.
And mingling singles look for
compliments and numbers,
or maybe just someone to
take back and **** the **** out of.
But in the midst sits
a throne for ghosts.
Ceiling fluorescent reflects
off porcelain, paler than a farmer tan.
There are no other colors besides
the receptionist, bored to death,
leaning on the wall behind
the porcelain reception desk,
reading a copy of Ebony.
No ottomans or chesterfields
or benches. No consoles or cocktail
tables. Nothing adorning the walls.
Not even a stain.
Just a white hole, a bright
***** in an otherwise colorful
street on gray canvas.
I rise from my slumber
and mosey on out the lobby
in my purple linen suit.
The impoverished scrag,
his dog lapping his sores, asks
if I’d spare some change.
“Sorry, I only have card tonight.”
“That’s alright, sir. God bless.”
And I walk on, aware of the
Abrahams rubbing up against
a ****** in my wallet. I take a sip
of whiskey hidden in my empty
can of a drink that can never
satiate me. I wait for traffic to pass,
and then I jaywalk across Sticks St.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
Watched
you in white.
How you crossed your
sceptered body, glazing
ludicrous contortions
Supple-legged exaggerations
sex-shod, patent platforms
towered, figure-hugged
and cut to high indecency...
Ah, the slow-cooked
incandescence, that you
struggle to contain....
though pay no mind
to likes of me,
a letching scrag
who yearns to see you
set yourself on fire....
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 4:17 AM UTC