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kirk Feb 2016
Oh Annette Tidy, I would love to lick your ****
Show me that you like it, you **** loving ****
******* pulled beyond your hole, while kneeling like a mutt
Legs apart so far and wide, I don't want your ******* shut

Spread you cheeks across my face and open your hole wide
Pelvic thrusting on my tongue, while I'm slipping it inside
The taste of it is magical, when tongue and *** collide
I can lick your ***** too , but I'll let you decide

It's okay if your a *****, when it's ***** and bums to pluck
A Furry ***** is alright, it's still so good to ****
Soiled ******* I don't mind, they make my cockerel cluck
A touch of romance is quite fine, but so is a good ****

Oh Annette Tidy let me knock on your back door
You can show me your intentions, you filthy ******* *****
I doesn't matter that we're strangers, because our *** is raw
If your like the phone box says, then what are you waiting for?

So come on now get naked, and I will do the same
let me have your **** hole and a **** ******* game
According to the writings your a filthy kind of dame
I've read that your an **** ****, so your be glad I came

Oh Annette Tidy, I am on a real *** hunt
I would be so happy, if your proper ***** ****
Whether your a posh girl, or just a ******* munt
You need to get your knickers off, and I'll give it a punt

I'll be grabbing onto your ****, and It would be devine
Vigorous ******* may result, in hearing your **** whine
If your a cheater that's okay, it really is quite fine
As long as your cheating with me, and you are ******* mine

So push your **** upon me, let my **** slide in
I'd **** without a rubber sheaf, it's better on bare skin
I'm sure that you'll enjoy it, when your sitting on my pin
And **** old Dennis Richmond, cos I don't give a **** about him

Oh Annette Tidy, I fancy a real good ****
I am really hoping, your a ***** ******* ****
It doesn't matter if your good looking, or a dried up hag
***** lips are free to flutter, when I **** your fleshy flag

**** ******* is so good, what a fantastic feeling
The tightness squeezing on my rod, that's what I find appealing
Doing **** would be great, bent over or just kneeling
An ******* that is spread wide, is really quite revealing

So when my **** is hard enough I would stuff it in your ***
Fingers up your ***** and your ******* under thumb
A frigging is in order, because I want to feel your ***
******* in your tight hole, I would really give it some

Oh Annette tidy, let us have some ****** fun
Let me see you naked, and I will ***** your hot cross bun
I also like a wet ****, but these things must be done
For you squirt me with your juice, just like a Capri Sun

I hope that you like big *****, cos I have a nine inch ****
Because I'm not hung like those fellows, who are in Hong Kong
So I won't put it all in, in case it is too long
But if you want the whole lot, I'll make sure that it says strong

Are you such an **** *****, well I don't really know
You could be a real ***** ****, or just an average joe
If your not that kind of girl, then somewhere else I'll go
Because I'm looking to get ******, and a **** and blow

You maybe such a nice girl, and you get home by ten
So you might not be interested, in ridding my big ben
I'm sure there's **** ladies, who'd like playing in my pen
A **** time they can have, if I went round to their den

Are writings on walls true, you don't have to sit there idly
If you want an arrangement, I could ******* every Friday
Unless you are a nice girl, and your a bit like Heidi
And your up in the mountains thinking . . . . Oh Annette Tidy!
These new-fangled televisions
never display any freakin' static.
Is it possible for a man to be
nostalgic
about static?
Francie Lynch Sep 2018
I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.

I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.

They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.

But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
There's no **** paper in this ****-house.

My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.
Mohamed Nasir Aug 2018
As though their roles are irreversible,
As only comforters to bread winners,
And thought as weak oft perceived as sinners,
The men rules, women seems incapable.

Dear fathers why burdened your daughters so?
Of women's jobs but forced the girls to fill
The pails with water, wood from distant hills,
Instead of school to learn what they should know.

Herded at tender age to married life;
Heaven's rewards engraved on simple minds;
To tidy, cook and wash, no cuddly toys,
Be ever present, good, obedient wife.
They need your love, affections so be kind,
They strive in onerous world with men and boys.
The Petrarchan or the Italian sonnet. A different form from the modern shakespearean sonnets that I normally write.
Rollie Rathburn Jul 2018
In repose,
your short
night-time breathing
quarter-turned on the edge of the couch
until you faced my chest
and drifted peacefully.

Finding the right orientation
in coordinance to my prone form
took time, is all.
Fourth person in your family
to come around to the idea
of having an extra pair of legs
to walk y(our) dog
and tidy up
once you turn from my chest to face day.

Perhaps this is why,
my body locks itself away in the bathroom.
Subconsciously buying a little more time,
until your rotation finishes,
lands facing mine.

Because the trouble,
it seems,
is we (you and I)
have never said a thing,
we didn't mean.
Eva Amato Sep 2018
I slide the door open,
she was rightfully there.

It was the room I assigned for her
she had just moved in.

A few spares of her outfit peek out of her wardrobe,
A couple dresses as well
One blue; one red.

At the side is a broom; feather duster and such
Still lying around.

Her personality hadn't changed the room yet.

now

I take my first step in,
she amusingly begins bowing already.

No different than the rest of the furniture she is: tidy, a pleasant aroma around her and a pretty thing to look at.

I greet her, my maid.
I hear those dutiful words, that name: "Mistress".

She's blushing; her arms so obviously tense.

Every footstep I take towards her echoes in our hearts.

...


I lock our gazes- such an adorable and intimidated look.
Her lips are trembling as I get closer: "Mi-" she tried to say.

But my finger was keeping her mouth shut.

"Shhh" a whisper followed by a modest nod from her.

The tension is cut as I slide my fingers down her arm
her gasp held hostage by me.
She could make no sound.

I can't help but giggle.

With that smile I lean closer to her.
To her lips.
I had her captive already, my arms resting on her hips.

"You are my furniture, dear."
"Yes Mistress."

It is all there was before with my kiss
I took over her mind.
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
As I was standing under the dropping rain,
I talked to a girl
fair-dinkum
& light as corked nades
She spoke softly
And I
hummed and awkward
listened
To her love for poetry
where her eyes smiled with her speech…
Nowhere else could I find more of a love sweet thing.
We talked for two minutes under the drizzle
While we waited for the rustic buses to come
to pick up our tidy loads
I thanked her
She smiled like how Kindness would have smiled
I beat curses
& thought I near found a lover to be loved
But she said good-bye
And in my sunken mood
the pale cloud drops sank into my shoes.
Would love your feedback <3
Ryan O'Leary Feb 16
May the crows forever,
get pick your stack and
may that ******* always
be out your back. (yard)

And not over the hedge-
rows into the mountain
streams which flow to
the River Blackwater.
SJ Nov 2018
The house was perfect
No matter how small.
Forget the broken window,
The stain on the carpet floor.

The explosion of toys over the floor,
The tea parties,
Cubby houses,
And Zombies at the park.
The urgent rush to tidy up
Before mum walked in the door.

Stories with Dad
A run-away lawn mower,
Bruce the shark.

On Christmas mornings,
When we would wake up,
To find map,
Guiding us to the treasure

In this house, I learnt what having a brother was like,
lots of cars
lots of trucks
lots of blocks

Where I learnt to walk
And talk
And laugh
Where I discovered the power of words,
The importance of doing your best
Taking pride in your work.
Treating others with kindness,
Not putting yourself first.

All the memories,
Echoes of laughter
The photos of a happy family
Like trophies on a shelf.

Clocks ticking,
Moving fast
Too fast.

Until one day,
We outgrew the house,
Small was just too small,
Where would we find space,
For the things that needed a place?

So, we packed up and left
Shutting the door
On memories and expired dreams
That weren’t around anymore

But we set off,
To make another house of bricks,
a perfect home.
Sean Hunt Dec 2018
Why does my body
rebel against my wishes
to walk or to talk
to tidy my house
to wander the world
or work?
Do I really need to sleep
to dive so deep
beneath the waves
of the day
to  run so far away
MJL Mar 2
A stiff in the corner
A stiff in a pew
Watch the parade
Formality on cue

A choreographed dance
From station to station
First to the church
Then dirt destination

Like hospital corners
Clean little lines
Sanitized process
Dressed to the nines

Death can rub off
As every ghost knows
A sickness to catch
It seeps in your clothes

Orderly duty
Sterilizing the end
Except for our thoughts
Would never offend

The cliquing and pooling
People masking their eyes
The family alone
Will look to the cries

A lifetime of sharing
With nothing to say
Thoughts sprint to the bar
To silently pray

Bagpipes have started
It’s time to decide
Pay some respects
Or silently hide

Weak at the wall
Will flies to the door
Avoids every handshake
Just looks at the floor          

Dotting the “i”
Think neat tidy passing
A check box is ticked
Life’s not very lasting

A stiff well-dressed drink
A stiff well-dressed friend
Worth more than a nod
On cowards choice wend


© 2019 MJL
I should have said something, said the Irishman.
Kim Essary Sep 2018
Spider Webb's of depression rain down from these walls.
The scent of musty clothes gathered like a rug on this floor.
Dishes overflow the kitchen sink, wrapped with anxiety just waiting to be clean.
But my mind awaits the title wave to wash all this pain away.
There may or may not have been a time set to tidy, where it went if it's gone I haven't a clue as the bricks of my life are weathered and frail some lay beneath my feet, The wood to rebuild it is too warped for any future so I will lay myself down and sleep it all away, as I've come to conclude what people use to say ,this too shall pass, and so it does to the same way I feel today.
©KimE2018
It overwhelms me sometimes to think I use to be made organization to this caused by depression
Stu Harley Sep 2018
spotted hyaenas
giggled cackled and chuckled
as
they
dined and swallowed
big chunks of
their prey
without
saying grace or prayers
we
just
tidy up things a bit
ardnaxela Jun 2018
You want me to
write my heart out on my sleeve,
then pull the thread,
unravel it,
patch it up,
then again,
then cut that arm off
and burn it.

Shovel my thoughts
into tidy piles,
then spill the milk
and muddle them up
then sop 'em up and
mop 'em up
'til I'm left with blurred lines.

Stuff my feelings in a jar,
toss them with ingredients
that don't mix
rollie pollie
with a dab of Ranch
and it's all ****** up.

Y'all want the key
to my mind -  
an old closet that leads to
a tunnel that leads to
the grave of my buried thoughts.

I opened the door
and I was pushed from behind
then told to "lead the way".
To "find the truth
in all your ways" -
one arm out
reaching in the dark;
a ******* a mission,
searching for her heart...

I fell in a hole.
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
It started to rain,
I was surrounded by mud.
The door closed.
Which one of you all
care to open it again?
3-25-18, 10:35 pm
Lawrence Hall Jul 2018
from an idea by Sheila Sharpe

In the foul heat and damp and rot and stench
After dusting off 1 the bodies of dead pals
The living and the dead, the living dead
Old Boats 2 lit off a cigarette and growled

“They say this stuff’ll **** ya.”



1 Dustoff – noun.  Dust off – verb with an adverb.  A dustoff is a medical evacuation via helicopter, as in “Doc, your dustoff will be here in three.”  To dust off a patient, then, is to transport a patient, not to tidy him.  I have recently read detailed arguments about the terms dustoff, dust off, and medevac, but no one quibbled about such minutiae along the Cambodian border.  

2 Boats – a boatswain’s mate, the brains and muscle of the Navy.  Boatswain’s mates do it all and are seldom acknowledged in history or art, not even in the recent film about Dunkirk.  A boatswain’s mate is often addressed as Boats, and always with deference, even by the C.O.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
THE FLAMES EAT THE PSEUDO-GOTHIC HOUSE


He was an Action Man
minus a left arm and trousers.

A dog had chewed his head
almost off.

But - he still had thought.

She was a Lego Lady,
Built of red and blue blocks.

She was forever coming apart
trying to keep body and soul together.

She had only one eye
and no mouth to speak off.

Same dog who had a passion
for the chewing of toys.

But - she still had thought.

They met one night when
thrown together in the toy box.

A giantess' voice had screamed
"YOU TIDY UP THIS ROOM RIGHT NOW!"

He loved the Lego Lady's yellow block hair.
It was like a helmet...suited her face.

And oh that one little eye
and the way it would look at you!

She saw at once that he had no *******/
but then - neither had she.

It was a purely platonic affair.
They thought and thought at one another for hours.

They got on like a house
on fire but

one night the house
went on fire.

They held on to each other
both melting into a final embrace.


Mother always told me
"You shouldn't play with matches!"
A re-telling of Anderson's THE CONSTANT TOY SOLIDER in today's terms yoked together with a friend telling me of her early career as a child arsonist. "What was I thinking...?" she told me with tears in her eyes. "I loved that house...down to its mullions and final...but then...so did the flames. It was something I grew out of when I hit my teens....then it was all boys...boys...boys!"
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