"shilling" poems
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
14k
the fountain of poetry
e'er threatens to dry up
yet the inspirational words of Beryl Dov Lew
re-supplied my dwindling cup
with his advice duly given
my expression's reservoir fills to capacity
in a most generous
flow of endless verbosity
had he of not encouraged me
to keep the pen's ink spilling
my Hello Poetry pages
would be empty of shilling
with a mentor of Beryl's calibre
positively re-invigorating my oft dry fountain
I am ever assured of a verse
brimming unto the highest mountain
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely ***** O ***** my love,
What a beautiful ***** you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful ***** you are!'
II
***** said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?'Said the Piggy,'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
4k
"You are old, Father william," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown must uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned back a somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kep all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling a box--
Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eyes was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"
3.1k
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears
2.8k
New York Sun Editor John B. Bogart once said
When a dog bites a man, that is not news because it happens so often. But if a man bites a dog, now that's news.
I think the same could be said of life,
at least, mine anyway.
Don't worry, I'm not going around biting dogs,
but I am living it up as if my life were a story,
because it is, otherwise, I'd be bored.
But, if it were up to my parents,
I'd be working some dead-end desk job
at some marketing firm shilling packaged bread
so I could pay off my student loans,
own a home, get a wife & make enough dinero
to march to retirement, just like everyone else.
Same 'ol story.
Dog bites man.
Isn't it more exciting to read
about a roving poet skipping around
the world from Cairo to Toronto
occasionally stopping to smoke on beaches
all the while meeting people
who seem like they're from a different dimension?
I'm not saying I want a book written about me,
but... if one should be in the works,
I know it'd be a real page turner.
Although, most in my generation has been told
we're all unique and special;
getting participation trophies in baseball
& ribbons for being in the spelling-bee,
yet we're all also told, or rather it's highly suggested we
follow suit & get in line like our parents & grandparents did,
continuing their stories of countless wars and conformity.
Same 'ol story.
Dog bites man.
But nobody will read all these identical stories.
That's part of the problem with people,
only a few are living like they have a story to tell
while most fade away in some gray apathy hell.
Well, my brothers and sisters,
I can only frame it to you this way,
if you had a choice between reading the headlines:
Person Does What they're Told Until Death
or
**Person Dies in a Skydiving Sound Circle **** & Bake Sale**
which story are you going to read?
Now, if you'll excuse me,
I have to make some magic brownies
because I'm late to my skydiving ****** education lesson.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day;
Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea;
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.
With all his honours on, he sighed for one
Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;
Did little jobs about the house with skill
And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still
Or potter round the garden; answered some
Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.
2k
Come join the British Army;
And take the Queens Shilling;
You won't have any problems;
We'll take care of all your billing;
We'll make a man out of you;
Or a woman as the case may be;
In the Army of the nineties;
With ****** equality
We are a modern army;
With modern management systems;
Such as TQM and H & S;
And lots more bursts of wisdom;
But in this modern world of ours;
Don't forget what an army does,
And training and development;
Is to give us all a buzz.
Yes we are a modern army;
But we still serve Queen and Country;
And it's getting more and more difficult;
With ideas from the gentry.
We don't ask for much in life;
Just to earn an honest bob.
So cut down on your ideas;
And let us do our job.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:34 AM UTC
I ,
yes I the traveller have long seeked the moon ,
the stars and the sun ,
often they have slipped my gaze ,
now only a blanket covers my eyes ( blinded by the sun )
Have you met the story teller of the great ‘ I am ‘ ?
of his tales should I tremble ,
in his halls the lost do not seek ,
the sick and poor enter his halls with praise .
For even this Gods patience will one day like sand fall from his blood stained hands onto beaches castles were built .
Now begone with you for even I must sleep ,
and find comforts no man should wish .
For the monsters of the deep have found me ,
Lust ,pride , bitterness and fear .
Look my jailer comes with chains you can hear that drag down the passage on this dark satanic night .
Sage if you see him tell him what might have been ,
and sorrows only purpose is love .
Are you still there ?
Dam what’s wrong with my eyes ?
I used to visit the fairground ,
Preachers like Wolves used to say ‘ come this way ‘
‘ come that for a shilling , for a crown ‘.
The musics stopped ,
I can’t hear the music and what of the great hall ?
The story teller I must find on this blessed night .
Now a chain mail of Norman men rise in my sea of despair ,
they like skeleton snakes rattle like memories in my head .
Surrender or capture the light ?
Holy Spirit my demons confront me and darken my night ,
for this must end in heaven or hell I bid it the light .
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.
[ undefined ]
i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.
but i'm sure i pass
through There
ever since.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Theme: "Laughter for Breakfast"
A Duet by:
Bard Oluwateniola Adeniyi (Faderera)
Fuad Opeyemi (Gemini)
A free Verse Poetry
🚹🚺🚹🚺🚹🚺🚹🚺🚹🚺
Quite a yore, when the snail crawl in the open
The birds fly, oblivious of the stone
The heart so calm,
Not threatening to break out of the rib cage
Yore, when we have peace as the housewife
And laughter for breakfast
💪Gemini💪
Days are gone, when we arise at the hissing of the vulture,
When we patiently wait for the owl to hunt silently at night,
Or joyfully await the folktales of the aged,
And enjoy the moment of moonlight chit chatting while playing 'ayo'
👊Faderera👊
The thunder might clash
Storm may roar,
But the breeze of tranquil,
Still find its way to soothe the raging heart
Indeed, laughter for breakfast
💪Gemini💪
When we assemble at the manor to celebrate our unity,
Wine and dine without fear of being poisoned,
When we dangle our waist to the rhythmic beats and get autem,
Or twerk our butts to the sound of the music and not get *****
👊Faderera👊
Days, when the crop rose,
To kiss the morning light
Plants welcome the dew with joy
Felicity is brought to us on a platter
And the heaven smile its grace down
💪Gemini💪
Gone is the time, when we fall to our knees or one's face to greet,
When we have eros love to opposite gender not same gender..
When we honour the church and respect it's doctrine,
When giving wasn't a problem and kindness wasn't scarce
👊Faderera👊
Time so long, when smiles glint through the eye
Danger not friends with darkness
The chain of slavery,
Not tied to our neck, living fully
In a house not haunted
💪Gemini💪
Long gone are the days, when the richest man is one with a shilling,
and a pence could earn quality education and utilities,
When feeding wasn't a life taking occupation
Or shelter a life threatening need
👊Faderera👊
Now, lost to the feeling of nostalgia
Giving knife to demon of today
On knees, begging to be euthanized
Oh, long gone are this days
When we had Laughter for breakfast
💪Gemini💪
Now,a shilling amount to nothing; even a pence is worthless,
The leaders now dish out war and serve themselves peace,
Corruption is now added to the list on our menu,
Our food isn't complete without massacre,
Favour is now amounted to cruelty or being diabolical...
Alas! gone are the days when laughter was for breakfast
👊Faderera👊
©Oluwateniola Adeniyi™
©Pen of A true Gemini™
Do Rate this piece of Art 🎭 🎭
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
He comes knocking your door
Buys things you need no more
Weighs and pays for discarded load
Then goes off to another road.
For your pound he pays pence
Makes it seem in perfect sense
The deal is only if you're willing
To barter the old for new shilling.
You feel he adds some happiness
Clears the dirt creates the space
Your home was long a messy lot
With no place for new things brought.
Not all old things are like that dirt
A few are ever new are your part
He never asks them to be sold
Knowing you wouldn't for price of gold.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
Johnny had a golden head
Like a golden mop in blow,
Right and left his curls would spread
In a glory and a glow,
And they framed his honest face
Like stray sunbeams out of place.
Long and thick, they half could hide
How threadbare his patched jacket hung;
They used to be his Mother's pride;
She praised them with a tender tongue,
And stroked them with a loving finger
That smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.
On a doorstep Johnny sat,
Up and down the street looked he;
Johnny did not own a hat,
Hot or cold tho' days might be;
Johnny did not own a boot
To cover up his muddy foot.
Johnny's face was pale and thin,
Pale with hunger and with crying;
For his Mother lay within,
Talked and tossed and seemed a-dying,
While Johnny racked his brains to think
How to get her help and drink,
Get her physic, get her tea,
Get her bread and something nice;
Not a penny piece had he,
And scarce a shilling might suffice;
No wonder that his soul was sad,
When not one penny piece he had.
As he sat there thinking, moping,
Because his Mother's wants were many,
Wishing much but scarcely hoping
To earn a shilling or a penny,
A friendly neighbor passed him by
And questioned him: Why did he cry?
Alas! his trouble soon was told:
He did not cry for cold or hunger,
Though he was hungry both and cold;
He only felt more weak and younger,
Because he wished so to be old
And apt at earning pence or gold.
Kindly that neighbor was, but poor,
Scant coin had he to give or lend;
And well he guessed there needed more
Than pence or shillings to befriend
The helpless woman in her strait,
So much loved, yet so desolate.
One way he saw, and only one:
He would--he could not--give the advice,
And yet he must: the widow's son
Had curls of gold would fetch their price;
Long curls which might be clipped, and sold
For silver, or perhaps for gold.
Our Johnny, when he understood
Which shop it was that purchased hair,
Ran off as briskly as he could,
And in a trice stood cropped and bare,
Too short of hair to fill a locket,
But jingling money in his pocket.
Precious money--tea and bread,
Physic, ease, for Mother dear,
Better than a golden head:
Yet our hero dropped one tear
When he spied himself close shorn,
Barer much than lamb new born.
His Mother throve upon the money,
Ate and revived and kissed her son:
But oh! when she perceived her Johnny,
And understood what he had done
All and only for her sake,
She sobbed as if her heart must break.
1.6k
The owl and the pussycat came home from sea,
Their boat had finished its course.
The cat took the honey, and most of the money,
Then filed a suit for divorce.
The owl had a hard time finding a brief,
But the pussycat had it made.
For you see the poor owl was a ripped-off old fowl,
But the cat got feline aid.
They argued away, for a year and a day,
In court, where they made a fine show.
Till the owl, said he, would better off be
In the land where the **** trees grow.
He was asked, “Are you willing to sell for a shilling
Your share of the boat and guitar?”
Then after long wrangles and tough legal tangles,
The owl and his brief said, “We are.”
So the owl and the pussycat went their own ways,
The cat left dancing a jig.
She hopped on a plane and got married again,
And the owl went to live with the pig.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
I am not not selling my soul to the devil tonight,
not for a 10 bob shilling note or a ***** hoody with your deep scent of pain lined within its seams.
I am not selling my nature,
for my nature has roots as big as the old oak tree that grows in the deepest forest and shelters those that seek.
I am not forgetting my place,
it's right here, next to you, by your side;
it's right here, in front of my son, holding his world in my arms, and his love in my heart;
it's right here, projecting from my heart, arms that encompass the world.
I am not drilling for oil,
I seek no riches from ill gotten gain,.
I am not your past journey,
I walked my own road to get here, i laid those bricks down piece by piece.
I am not who is knocking at your door,
for i am not the fear your heart dreads at that sound of that knock.
I am not here for you to sum up,
I am not a number, an equation or problem you have to solve.
I am not my emotions,
as they are an extension of me as my words are my mouth, and my actions from my hands.
I am not a box of wonder,
I am a clearly written masterpiece of wonder and intrigue, and i love the very soul of me.
I am not your head,
my arms lay weary at my side for the troubles you carry within your mind are too heavy for me to hold.
I am not a carnival horse,
that swings around and around, for applause, for the fame and the glory.
I am not a catch,
a fish, a lock to a door, a bubble to burst.
I am not a master, a magician, a hooligan or a carpet burn *****
I am here, open, here, honest, here, just here.
I am not,
I am not,
I am not, you.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
Wind torn sails
and old wives tales
both tell a certain truth
like sailors forlorn
'round the cape horn
drowned or frozen to death
The waves and the wind
punish for sins
that frequently go untold
dare to begin that voyage to win
bring in the most liquid gold
Whaling was the name
of this sailors game
learned from my pappy before
when the tall ships call
you'll answer for all
the misgivings that you ever did
Swabbing the decks
like a beer hall *****
sickly from waves and decay
this is the life
for months at a time
from New England
to the ports of Biscay
First sign of a blow
shouts to below
from where the watch sits above
The decks come alive
thar be the prize
the deadly game awaits
Set sails to the wind
and get that boat in
harpoons and crew await
haul on the ropes
or abandon all hopes
the behemoth will get away
Hearts pound like the oars
sending us forth
Oh, how our quarry evades
better keep your eyes peeled
or your fate is sealed
if she comes up underneath
With a mighty hurrah
the striker lets fly
the harpoon sinks deep in the whale
it plunges below
taking us under tow
blood staining the deep blue waves
I cry for this sin
as we haul the whale in
and cut up all it had been
trade a shilling in the purse
for a life long curse
never to sleep again
When I shut my eyes
I can still hear the cry
up from it's blowhole it came
shivers my spine,every time
I bolt upright wide awake
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
will you pass the shilling test?
your life is the slamming
of typewriter keys
to paint with crafted words the world you would dream
the world she would love you in
your life is the desperate holding at bay the hours evaporating
into a future you cannot
comprehend
into a land as foreign as another world
into a mist of unknowns
my leather bound case and trench coat
bible and cookware
a shilling for the ferryman
but fret over
like the wringing of sweaty hands
pacing the hall
small bald fat men
with neatly pressed brooks brothers suits
but fret over like the well greased
plans and carefully laid designs
of another mans futures past misgivings
will you pass the shilling test
another day and far away from such
musings i find myself at odds with
myself over the course i should follow
on this days misadventure
i have known deep seasons of love
and iv known vast feilds of emptyness and fear
these days are a mystry to me
i cannot see my way
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
Early this morning,
not quite the shilling,
my hair rustled
like a recent killing
of something black and once alive,
big black
Lucifer
dived at my head.
We tussled for five
in the warmth of my bed,
he pawed my hand like a prize
and his yellow eyes
were electric
and light.
He likes to fight.
His tail beats black against my navel.
He plays under the sheets like an excitable angel.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
Sitting in the high grass,
praying as the sky turns grey.
Waiting for the cargo,
nervous eyes upon the waves.
Everything invested,
every shilling,
every crown.
His heart
is in his salty mouth.
On the cliff
as he looks down.
His eyes look to the lighthouse.
It's beam
they follow
out to sea.
He holds her locket
in his hands,
prays again,
"just let it be."
But this time,
prayers aren't answered.
The whistling wind,
begins to rise.
He opens up the locket,
stares and cries
into her eyes.
Alas, it is all over now.
He knows
that he cannot return.
The ebb and flow
is angry,
and he wonders
will he ever learn?
The bodies on the rocks below,
signal the sad end.
As lights appear upon the shore,
his dreams start to descend.
Into the rain.
Into the gales,
that blow on Bantry Bay.
He throws the locket to the wind.
Once more now,
upon his way.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Electrodes to nodes
and nothing bodes well
electrickery and it trickles into me
revolting and jolting
and Frankensteinlike bolting me
to the bed.
The head
this head will no longer be as free
as the thought imagining in me
while hot electrotomoty
burns me to
anonymity
and it's a pity I can't be
a less condusive entity
but the powers that be seem to have it in for me
and I am strapped to non lucidity
in the name of all humanity
don't put a shilling in the meter
Later I meet myself
in a shell of who I used to be in a picture
painted hastily
on a background
which I cannot see
and what was once no longer is or was it ever and did I once was clever too or were the words electricked through the nodes that boded ill?
Will it stay or will it go
somewhere out there
do you know
or are you waiting for the leads that lead you to electric feeds?
Can someone bring me bread and water
call my Mother
call my daughter
or like the lamb led to the slaughter
will I bleed to death?
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
Sign there son
You will be paid
Take the shilling
Europe awaits!
Grab your rifle
Grab your sack
Tell your mum you'll be back
Meet new friends
Palls together
All aboard and off to The Somme
They were just kids together alone
First the smell
Then the noise
Far from what you left at home
Then the shells begin to fall
Like nothing you had seen before
You're wet and cold and in a hole
Shaking with fear not the cold
Your friend just passed in a puff of smoke
His head was first, then his *****
His legs are spread across the floor
Then another explodes next to you
The smoke clears and the Sarge smiles at you
Like a statue painted red
He doesn't know he's already dead
Mother Mother! Others scream
But cries and wails no one hears
None of this can be real
You're just a boy and soiled with fear
Fifty years past then more
At night you still hear the screams and cannons roar
Like yesterday but years before
It didn't end all the wars
They made a sequel a bigger cast
Not your turn now to carry the flag
With one arm you can't do that
And your lungs still burn from the gas
Once again the generals cried
"Come on lads, we need you now, come and sign the Sgts form"
But was Tommy on the top once more?
Or did they use anothers name, to sign your precious lives away.
When oh when will all the madness end
For The Somme took away your friends
Only poppys now remain
Over fields where Britains youth lies slain
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
the folly of chasing
an impossible dream
drained the fellow's
limited money stream
invoices stacked high
in a towering pile
the paying killing
his lopsided smile
a snow queen sending
*unending requests for powder *****
an addiction dependent
on the cash cow's stuff
the ledger outgoings
to the province of York
extracted more than a few
rashers of prime pork
in time they'd wipe out
every shilling he had
which was an expense
of a destiny so sad
there he sat grappling
with the long years of loss
all fanciful ideas
smothered by moss
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC