"squashed" poems
Here in this rich suburb
of a city which is perceived
as dangerous,
the squirrels run
right in front
of the speeding cars,
and some of the squirrels
stop in time, turn around,
and go back to the safe side,
but some keep running
and get squashed by the speeding cars.
So one day
I was driving
and a squirrel
ran under my car
and as I drove on
I looked back
to see him writhing in agony,
so the next car
put him out of his misery
by running over his dying body.
I have not gotten past
being a squirrel myself
facing such an end.
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 3:11 AM UTC
I am thankful for the mountains
I am thankful for the music that comes from the mountains
I am thankful for every fire that is lit by nothing more than the embers of a fire that raged before it
Only these fires can truly comprehend what it is like to suffer and be born again
I am thankful for the knowledge that every human being has in them a true spark
Only some don't care or are too busy
Or let their dreams be squashed or didn't have the fuel to burn in the first place
I am thankful for the holy beat poets
Kerouac and Ginsberg
I am thankful for the poet saints
Rimbaud and Lorca
And I am thankful for my saints of folk music
Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie shaped me long before any of this
But all in all I am thankful for the holy ghost of Carl Sandburg
Without him I would not be writing this poem or any
I am thankful that these poems allow me to say what I need to
I don't expect my words to be recited at weddings or funerals
But I don't mind because both atmospheres depress me just the same
I am thankful for every trail I have walked
I am thankful for every breath of Rocky or Appalachian air ever to enter my tragic lungs
I am thankful for the bonfires I have lit
I am thankful for the sticks that snap in my hands and leave scrapes that bleed only enough to remind me that I'm alive
I do not need such reminders but it's always a nice thing to have
I am thankful for every lost love
Whether I disappointed them or ****** them off is no matter
All that matters is that there is humility
I am thankful for the fact that these lost loves are leading
Completely happy lives with or without me
Knowing someone's happiness is dependent on me is a responsibility I cannot bear
I am thankful for this typewriter
It was my grandfather's when he was my age
He passed away two years ago on the week of Thanksgiving
He was born that week too
And it isn't pilgrims or stuffing that help me to feel thankful
It's the people like him
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
And a dilemma is? Fixing the cafe while preparing your breakfast shake so elegantly. Hurriedly to turn on the news upon the squashed HD as you settle down on the white roundy, the sound turned down just enough not to wake the neighbors. Where has this life taken me?
Dark dank daily routines...
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
It's Sister Lucy not Sister Bridget
who's the crush on the young priest
Father Joseph Magdalene said,
Mary said is she the one? as she sat
on Mags bed listening to music
on her record player I thought
you said the Bridget,
Magdalene sitting beside Mary
passed a glass of lemonade to her
and said nothing certain
you understand just the rumours
I've heard but don't tell
the parents or my arse'll
be slapped for spreading the rumour,
have you a ciggie?
Mary said
putting the lemonade and glass
on the bedside cabinet,
Magdalene poked under the mattress
and took out a squashed pack
of 10 Woodbines and said
open the fecking window
or Ma'll know we've been smoking
and she'll have a moan
and passed the packet to Mary
who took a cigarette
and put it in her mouth
and went and opened the window,
Magdalene took a cigarette
and stuffed the packed
under the mattress again,
Mary sat down and said
have you a light then
or are we to fecking **** on air?
Magdalene took out
of the pocket of her dress
a box of matches
(liberated from the kitchen)
and struck a light for them both
and put the matchbox away again,
they inhaled and sat in silence,
the record played( Billy fury)
and they tapped their feet softly
and nodded their heads,
so what are you doing
about Brian Brady?
Magdalene asked,
what'd you mean doing about
I'm doing nowt with the ******
it's him who thinks I'm going
to be doing things the soft loon
Mary said,
you seemed to be encouraging him
the other day Magdalene said,
ah was fun only I'd not let him
near me in a serious way
no more than the holy Joe himself
Mary said,
smoke filtered ceiling ward,
a car backfired from the street below,
Magdalene leaned in close to Mary
I'm your best friend
and I get jealous of the likes of him
being too near to you,
O he's nothing to be worrying yourself
about him Mags he's just a loon
as boys are Mary said,
Magdalene held the cigarette
a way from her lips
and kissed Mary's cheek,
Mary sighed and said
he's nothing I just give him
the tease he'll get nothing
from my ****** money box,
they both inhaled and exhaled again
and watched the smoke
rise ceiling ward,
the sound of Magdalene's ma
downstairs singing along to the radio,
Magdalene's hand went on Mary's thigh,
a bright sun in a blue Irish sky.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty
This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame
It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do
Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic
Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****
It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow
When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way
Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion
The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong
People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Forget me not as I find myself
Blind to the lies, my knowledge is my own true wealth
Dreams that I lay upon Orion's belt
Your heart is ice cold, passion will make it melt
Forget me not as I walk blind
Right part of the road, wrong side of the lines
Mother nature caresses me faithfully as I feel the wrath of Father Time
I search for clarity, but I cannot find
Squashed grapes on the ground of lies told through the life's grapevine
Forget me not as my heart endures life's maze
Guide me, Lord, through this very day
Spring my faith, like the gentle flowers of May
Tomorrow isn't promised, so all we can do is pray.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:38 AM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.
I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me.
If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.
If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.
One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.
If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.
Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.
If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips
If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird.
If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
If I ever see you again
I'll spat insults and hope they
Spray on your aviators
like the bugs that squashed against
my windshield the last time
I drove away from you
If fate destroys me
and I am in the same pub one night
as your wormy self
I'll tell you how you're the most
arrogant, vapid, shallow, womanizing,
******* male mascot
I've ever had the disgust to know
I'll slap you hard across the face
Oh and not like Scarlett O'Hara,
you demon darling
No crushing kiss will follow
and I'll mean vengence
vile will seep through my mouth
instead of the sweet saliva
I let you taste
long ago
If I ever hear your voice
or see your mocking manequin
among my tele again
With disgraceful force
I will lift that 50 lb set
and propel that ******* screen
across the state
The way your black static apology
shattered the brightness
that used to reside
within
me
If I hear of you
one more dispicable time
I'll grow bombs maticulously
within my empty core
and time them so perfectly
that all of your dysfunctional doormat
confidants
will explode the second they come near me
and their manipulative cells
will burst
and be burried among the soil
of ***** words
you whispered in my ears
**** if I ever see you again
I'll shatter every martini glass around me
and down a fifth of fireball
and breath venomous fire
and burn you, you beastly boy
And I'll pretend beauty amongst you
and walk away, a tall glass of water
That could diffuse
that angry licking fire
that is swallowing you up
When I see you again
I won't acknowledge your existence
and I'll be dressed to the nines
and I won't do a ******* thing about it
Because you aren't worth a sentence within this stanza
But I know I am.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
You can tell a lot about
A person by the ones he admires.
Another telling factor is
The people whom he inspires.
Donald Trump, for example,
Praises Putin, a leader who
Has jailed dissenters, squashed human rights,
And done away with opponents, too.
After a questionable referendum,
Which restricts in many ways
Civil rights, the leader of Turkey,
Erdoğan, received Trump's praise.
Duterte of the Philippines--
Authoritarian and leading official--
Has had thousands of people killed
In a manner blatantly extrajudicial.
So that's his way of solving the problem
Of drugs in the Philippines is it?
And guess who wants the blood-thirsty,
Despotic leader to come for a visit?
And then there's the leader of North Korea,
Kim Jong Un. Only a rookie
Would say that the mad, unhinged and murderous
Leader was a "pretty smart cookie."
Trump's had business ties with three
Of the above countries. There's no mistaking.
But does this mean that a Trump Tower
In Pyongyang is in the making?
-by Bob B (5-3-17)
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
somewhere
in this vast oasis of home
party streamers of the heart
faded stuck to the walls
pale pinks like the sinking sun
drowning in it’s own image
below the horizon
i feel that’s us
where we belong
laughing through our shame
the night calls without names
into the last party of the decades
rushed into goodtimes and struggles
flushed away into pollution
tv static nuclear radiation
here on this couch of your parents
orange and yellow
brown
from some era I can never understand
or touch
as with each moment some new invention is formed
the past is squashed
we strum along to the hum
of a world
never quite ours
but here we are
5/27/11
1258pm fri
May 27, 2011
May 27, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
My shattered life is like the forsaken Black Widow spider.
The victim's detestation does not even show passion to me.
I bit my victim in two and also hurt them in the process.
The more I hurt my victim in the process, the more woe I have
and hope they are still my friend tomorrow.
The deeper I sink my teeth into my victim,
the more fatal my poisonous venom becomes and hope the fatal
poison doesn't execute them.
I think of all the hard times I've had, just by being nice and
friendly, but it does not work.
When I let go of my victim and hope they do not smash me,
But have the time, I get squashed and hope my sin are forgiven.
Then time was wasted for unanswered dreams and in the process
making new friends.
But I never did.
Life has gone without a prayer, without friends and for someone
to love me.
The next time you see a Black Widow spider, ask yourself,
"Could my life be like a Black Widow spider's?"
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 8:37 PM UTC
Some fairground
by the coast
taken by the Baptist mission
by coach
and outside
some magic mirror tent
after having gone in
you said to Helen
not much in there to see
and the fairground guy
having overheard you said
not much to see?
come here and see again
and he took you
in the tent again
and showed you
how you looked
in front
of the various mirrors
in some you were thin
and tall and in another
you were broad
and fat or you were
squat as if someone
had sat on you
and squashed you flat
and you laughed at that
and the guy said
see there is much to see
so go tell your girlfriend
so you went out
of the tent
and said to Helen
yes it was good
the second time around
and Helen said
perhaps we should
go in together
and so you paid the guy
the money
and you went in
with her and stood
together in front
of the mirrors
and laughed
and she held
your hand
and you remembered
the guy saying
tell your girlfriend
and you guessed
she was
and that made
you feel happy
even schoolboys
of 10 years old
sometimes want girlfriends
secretly endeared
away from the sight
or knowledge
of other boys
as if it were some kind
of betrayal
of the schoolboy code
and as you walked
about the fairground
you watched
where others
on racing
wooden horses rode.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold
Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken
I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before
Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed
We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
I'll ask you not to turn off the lights,
I want them to blind me
with their brilliant filaments
until the bulbs break
like a vase on a tiled floor,
the walls, the door go back
to being charcoal black
as they have been so many times before.
I have started to abhor
the roads that define me,
the words that describe me
and my traits,
the way I must walk in wintery air
to a migraine inducing wilderness
to be squashed into old moulds,
will this be adequate for you now and when?
What is this fall,
does it affect you, your actions,
your jumbled jigsaw piece thoughts?
These bruises are purple,
this brain is strained,
inject me with zest
until my wrist pains
so much it must combust.
Out of the glass is nothing,
a candyfloss cloud, a tree, a lawn,
it bores me,
an artist is needed,
paint a new canvas
swathed in colour
and things from my weekend dreams
lucid and intense.
I am a ******* up ball
of paper, unfold me, still legible?
Fold it again, an airplane
chucked into an angry breeze
or please,
if the lamps are tough enough,
watch my words illuminate,
drool across the table.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
He's black and tiny.
Dull but shinny.
Disgusted with its presence.
People swap him off
the tables,
the wall.
Their eyes blazing with flare.
Raising fists about to strike,
their food becomes trash
in a moment,
the fly flies,
not anymore,
squashed and lifeless,
where it lies paralyzed
and dies.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
There's two eyes of the Hurricane
both blue
flecked with grey.
Incalculable
forecasting the direction.
Ominous hunch
it is heading
my way.
The stability of shelter
is a lottery
of hope;
defenseless
if caught in its
path.
I'd be squashed
like a paper cup.
At a glance,
she can obliterate you
just like that. (click)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I squashed a cockroach the other day.
A big, Fat, Cockroach.
It was trying to get away and I squashed it.
Not that I had anything against that, Particular cockroach but, I was bare-foot.
I had tea, And biscuits, And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.
It took some time to calm down and, Fetch another tray.
When I returned, The cockroach had moved.
A thick, white streak, Of substantial viscosity, Ran right across the floor and, Straight under my door.
Her gartered leg was up on the table.
She removed a delicate silver pistol and, With his back turned, Fired a single shot.
I used a shoe this time, Like a maniac,
And then, Framed by a single, Swinging light-bulb, Waited for the detective.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
Three dead birds on highway squashed,
Roadway washed with corpses discarded as carrion,
To be chewed upon by companions in a world of brothers,
In a world of blood and guts,
A lone magpie was seen,
A sure purveyor of doom,
Gloom and sorrow,
For birdies splattered,
No tomorrow,
Perhaps they saw him too,
Didn't show him due respect,
They'll never know if they had regrets!
Livvi Kent 09/06/2013
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
She was elegant and graceful.
Light as a feather
drifting upon an empty winters day.
Baby spiders crawled up her arms
she squashed them to crusty blood
upon her featherlight biceps.
They told her once that she was
the ugly duckling to the flawless
reflection of white.
How can all colors compare to the
purest?
She had long grey feathers.
They protruded from her back.
White never goes grey.
To the youthful feathers
on each unhappy bird.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
I have become a gran again,
To a special girl,
Shes's got warts on her face,
And a squashed-up nose,
And she trots at a fast pace.
She's cute and she's brown,
Apricot to be correct..
I love her so much
Even when she's being greedy,
Which is most of the time
But we keep her in line
As pugs tend to go fat..
And we don't want that,
I find it a joy
To have her stay,
My cat isn't impressed
And does her best
To ignore Peggy the pug,
I hope one day
They will be friends,
As I care for them both,
The love from a pet
Is unconditional,
Their loyalty knows no bounds
To stroke a pet is therapy they say
I know being with Peggy makes my day
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves
And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal
Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed
...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?
Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?
And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!
YES!
Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret
and **** yourself!
You know you don’t—love her?
Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....
Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...
And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!
Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call
And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!
And if you had really loved
who you had seen
I MEAN—LOVED HER!
You would have—
You would have done—
ANYTHING!
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
.
c o
c k
r o
r a c r
o h c o
a o c a
c k r c
h o a h
c c h c
o c o
c o c
k
*Hey, it's a fact of life for coaches ... if you win everyone loves you. If you lose you get squashed."
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Ah wuz lookin oot o' mah winder and ah saw this lad
wi' a barry wee lassie gaun' up the hill.
-Wair the **** d'ye think you're gaun tae? ah yells oot.
But the daft ***** didnae answer at aww,
must've been oot o' thir ****** heids wi' E's or summat,
d'ye ken what ah'm tellin' ye,ye daft radge?
-Wair ye're ******* going? ah yells a couple mair times
and finally the gadge yells back to ays,
-Up the ******* hill tae fetch a pail o' ******* watter,
me Ma's hud her fuckin' taps turned oaf by the fuckin' Corporation,
which is a ******* pain in the erse ah had ter agree.
I realised ah knew the wee **** Jack but,
eh wuz an auld classmate of ays and eh's hung oot wi' ma brar n me,
when we wuz bairns oan the Scheme,eh?
-That's a bonny wee lassie ye've goat wi' ye, there Jack, ah yelled,
thinking ah'd nae kick her oot o' mah scratcher
withoot gi'ing her a guid ride.
Ah huvtae sey ah recognised hir as a wee ****
called Jill from the Scheme, a right tidy wee ride
in mah opinion wi' a guid little ***** on hir, as ah recall.
-Mind ye're own fuckin' business, the **** yells back at ays,
takin' the pail in yin hand and the hoor's wee hand in the other yin.
Ah can tell ye ah totally pished meself wi' laughter
when the pair o' they wide ***** fell doon,
Jack breakin' his fuckin' croon n the groond,
ah'm sure he nivver meant it tae happen,
'n eh mustae squashed his ******* bawws
as eh fell doon n aww from the wey he screamed oot,
but the wee lassie cam tumbling doon the ****** hill n aww,
heid n **** oor her fuckin' erse
'n ah could see she wasnae wearin' any ****** *******
'n her ***** was on display under her skirt.
Ah wouldnae expect anything else from a wee hoor,eh?
-Dinnae worry, ah'll com and help ye, ah called oot,
but when ah goat thir, both o them wis deid,
ah thoat o' gittin mah hole wi' the deid lassie n aww,
but you shouldnae dae that, it's no respectful tae wimmin,
'n eywis, the polis might trace me through the DNA,
those ***** are clivvir 'n aw, ye ken.
So ah contented mesel' wi' rummidging through the poakits
o' the lad's jaykit tae see if eh hud ehs payment from the Joab Centre,
but the daft **** mustae spent it aww on a boatil or two o Grants,
ah ken ah'd hae done the same mahsel'.
And there wasnae a penny in the lassie's purse,
so ah thoat ah'd jus' **** oaf doon the ******
'n ask some **** tae call the hoaspital and the ****** polis.
Eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
When our names were smeared
with dust and kicked
butt-naked into the streets
tramped upon, squashed by dancers
revelling on the song of our shame
We take all in saintly fate
Poverty has diverse chairs
all which are glued
to the heart of hell
upon which we sit
pipped with jears
Our pains for the tithe
we never paid
untill our lives are almost spent
We aren't bearing with us
our sack of shame to the land
were we shall endly rest
Laugh not out of you breathe
we shall mend our broken past
and pick up the moon we left behind
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC