"tyrone" poems
She made me wear
A pink french maid's uniform that day
I had to wait on her and her black stud lover Tyrone
Fix them drinks and make them dinner
These are the duties of the ***** cuckold
It's hard to be inferior to him
He is so well-built and powerful
A perfectly sculpted body
A large and powerful manhood
He is every woman's dream
She reminds me that no beautiful woman
Will ever want to be with a ***** like me
That my manhood is too small
That my *** drive is too low
Nature has dealt me a bad hand
I sit by the bedroom door
This time I am not allowed to watch
She only told me that they would be doing it **********
I sit next to the door
I hear her load moans and sighs
I know he is pleasuring her
In ways I never could
My goodness
Forty-five minutes have passed
And they are still going at it
I peer through a crack in the door
He is so powerful that he can hold her up
As he thrusts deep inside her
I am not strong enough
To have *** in the standing position
What a man he is
He can squat 300 pounds
And has a strong powerful ***
Look at him ******
She screams in ecstasy
After she is finished
She will tell me how wonderful he was
As I polish her high heels
After he leaves
I have the humiliating and exciting task
Of giving her oral pleasure
These are the duties of the ***** cuckold
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
Same **** different day
But today is New Year's Day
....Same **** different day
Hung over
New Year's Eve leftovers
Stuck on resolutions & do overs
Picking up the broken pieces & starting over
I headed to work with every intention to make it all better
Then I picked up "Friday's paper"
Said it once then said it twice
A part inside felt a little less safer
Homeboy died in Friday's paper
police Closed his eyes
but he finally feels a lot safer
Mommas screaming why in Friday's paper
Rather die than suffer & stay alive
Spend eternity w| her angel
Because in her eyes
There's no survival
Where's God when all you know is sinning
Baby's hungry so he prepared to break in
But that's not what they saying
Friday's paper headline **** break in"
He want the money & the drugs
So he break in
Food ain't enough & he breaking
How can he step forward in a world they already set locked gates in
In other words segregation
Buts it's decades later
Yea well you know segregation
White privilege
Under one nation
**** ain't nothing different
Just ask Friday's paper for confirmation
Poor white man w| mommy issues
finally had enough & shot up the whole school
Young black **** shot cs his black hoodie ain't seem too cool,
Ok Amber we coming to the rescue
Tyrone got kidnapped who?
I know y'all see this
or do y'all got a blind eye too
cs there's no reason why we have to fight to survive
while you ask daddy for a check or two
I'm living off a check or two
& you need 3 bathrooms to survive
why does the law apply to me
more than it does to you?
How do you look down on me
when I created you?
Lip injections,
hair extensions
ghetto expressions
that ain't you
but here comes Friday's paper right on cue
Zendayas dreads are unacceptable
twerking is ghetto too
While "keeping up" with the exact life you ridicule
then have the caucacity to put it in Friday's paper too
-G
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
I asked you.
Do you love me?
You replied, I guess.
That spoke more then you know.
I asked you.
Wouldn't you love to be rich?
You replied, yes.
That you surely knew.
But the question's that meant the most to me.
You treated it lackadaisical.
Yes, no spirit at all.
And now you're wondering, why you're alone?
I would say call Tyrone.
Like Erika Badu.
But he can't affrod a phone.
Let alone a home.
So this I guess.
Have affected your world.
All because you didn't give the right answer.
When asked.
If you turn it around and ask me.
I state it with truth about the way I feel for you.
There won't be this I guess.
Because you would only hear three words of truth coming to you.
I guess.
Well maybe I will.
Then again, I guess I won't.
Then again.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight;
sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night.
They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King.
Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings.
They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights,
Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight.
They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea.
The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see.
The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace.
Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief.
James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates.
The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced.
Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome.
His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.
Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?
I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.
Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.
I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.
Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.
I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.
He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.
He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****
His boon companion smiled.
I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.
Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.
As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.
His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"
" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."
So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.
After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.
I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 7:08 AM UTC
I’m at peace
Deep within
Reality hit me fast
Now I see thru men
The consistent need of wanting
A woman like their mother
Not know the horrible trait they carry from
Their father
Who they say they never wanna be like
“Oh, my dad was never in my life
The streets raised me
I don’t sleep at night “
Commitment issues
Leaving these young men blind
To their OWN reality
Thinkin’ the world is theirs
Never having responsibilities
****** every BAD ***** they see
What can you give me ?
****
Nah, see that **** played out
Boy ALL you did was take me out
I paid for the food and the ride
Cause you so called left your wallet at Tyrone’s house
Generosity out of my own heart
I paid my dues
Did my part
Take me on a spiritual high
Let me fly into a land with magical trees
Birds singing melodies
Elephants talkin’
Lions upright walking
I’m not angry
Nor mad
Speaking words that should’ve been said
My peace is peace
If you can’t respect that
It’s simple
Let me be
Because my spiritual journey
It’s more than ***
Worth more than money
See from my point of view
I promise the world could truly be your
You’ll be at peace too
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
My cohort is shattered, the regiment reels,
from the lead of the merciless foe.
I'm wearing the blue, Fredericksburg,62'.
I''m a conscript from County Tyrone.
Saint Mary's Heights is a most fearful sight:
****** acres of men who won't fight again,
Our wounded are dying alone.
The devout say a prayer, others blaspheme and swear.
I just wish I was back in Tyrone.
Up on that hill wearing Butternut grey
are Irish like me from back home.
Sure they gave out a cheer when Meagher first appeared,
with our banner of green, on his Roan.
What mortal flesh can, we did in the end
Some died just in sight of the wall.
In the cold dark of night we survivors take flight;
Rappahannock, protect us I pray.
I'll never forget the screams of that night
or the butcher's bill we had to pay.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
I wish I could dance like Fred Astaire.
Or Gene Kelly just to show you my moves.
I'm sure all of them would impress you.
I wish I have the charms of Cary Grant or Gary Cooper.
Since that seems to be the type to impress you.
Of the dashing looks of Tyrone Powers.
Since that seems high upon your list.
But, I'm just a me.
You have the grace of Grace Kelly.
And the independent heart of Katherine Hepburn.
And the good looks of Yvonne Decarlo.
All ladies of style.
Still, I'm just me.
Who else should I be?
If I pretend to be another.
Then I would be fooling myself.
And you would never see me beneath the myth.
So, I be me.
Until you see the best in me.
I know my qualities.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 6:52 AM UTC
For years, it remained hidden,
behind a picture in its frame.
Seen, unseen, forgotten
behind people now unnamed.
My cousin went to toss it out,
but felt the metal’s heft.
She felt, refurbished, it would look nice
on her Mother’s antique Chest.
Her husband took the frame in hand
with the thought to paint it blue.
“What’s this?” he said when,
from the back, a paper he withdrew.
There upon the yellowed sheet
in a spidery scripted hand
were our maternal ancestors:
Great Grand Ma and Dad.
Great Grandfather was John Devine
of Kildress Parish in Tyrone.
His bride, Sophia Gormley-
a name, till now, unknown.
They had a child named Margaret;
Grandfather’s second wife.
She was mother to my father
and thus my own path to life.
The name Sophia stands for wisdom”
and she married a” Devine.”
Thus I may claim a 1/8 share
of wisdom that’s D(e)Vine.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
It's no fable.
During the forties, who didn't admire Clark Gable?
With the common sense of Rhett Butler.
For instant.
Who didn't want to be Cary Grant?
In Affair to Remember.
Admiring and loving a woman forever.
Who doesn't know a shy man like Gary Cooper?
Who came across as a true trooper?
Who stood his ground in High Noon?
And what man didn't burn for Elizabeth Taylor?
With the beauty to make them roar like the MGM lion.
Or is it only me.
Maybe, I'm just living a Hollywood's dream.
Thinking of things I wanted to be.
Lights, Action, Camera.
Is all I use to remember.
When I was pretending be Tyrone Power.
Maybe I was Sean Connery.
Doing all the secret agents type things.
Maybe I'm the Lone Ranger or the Cisco Kid.
Out to do justice for those in need.
These are the things that fantasies do.
When you realize pretending is better than a toy.
Which has been replaced by computers.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
on my stoop thanking whatever the power is
(I call her my Fairy crack Mother)
for just the other night I had 200 superfluous dollars
(and a white wild hair up my *** a demon from my past
calling, calling loud)
I called Rof, and Tyrone; J-rock, Sam, T-bone; Jeremy,
Cadillac, Tiger,
( no no one answered, I even drove to Tar-hill where all the time ,
three or four options are available and never before did I come home empty) this night: I did!
I let the bitterness intrude as I slept instead of peeping out the window and hearing strange heart beat sounds thumping all night
( but...I slept uncomfortable and once or twice cursed, her (my fairy crack mother))
then today, like a plan had come for my two hundred dollars.
And I gave it to someone who needed it for food,
and surviving. And I got a high, so much more that I went out and
sat on my porch and watched the dark- the evening come-
and my fairy crack mother, I thanked- cried finally seeing,
She has always
taken care of me.
And gave me this chance to feel how it feels
to feel a good thing, for once.
I guess I do believe,
in Fairy Crack Mothers!
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
There once was a man from Tyrone
Who spent all his time all alone:
It got on his nerves,
And he wanted some curves,
So he Frankensteined a female clone.
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 3:21 AM UTC
Silently, with tiny beats,
You let me know you're there,
Amidst the fluids and the fat,
Craddled in an un-ending embrace,
I'm just waiting for the day to come,
When you'll emerge to see the world,
And we can hold you in our arms.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
.the cardinal-dittoheads... the anchors that read from a cue... the basic tapeworms of: auto- and spasms... herr spaß... some say: pristine grammar, and hardly any spelling mistakes... because... you bring an ummy: and braille... to gold-dig the priße.... the siamese twins shifted "gear"... moved from vermont to northumbarland... so driving on the "opposite" side of the road... seems or would forever seem: normal... atom-bombarde with a leftover of letters... giraffe tyrone and schlang: the holy trinity of: ⠊⠉ ⠥: i see you: IÇU (ee, oh y o)...
the secular church of woke -
or whatever you call it -
plato despised the poets: almost a priori
from the "utopia"...
of "the" republic...
otherwise, what?
journalists are the priests of the secular
church?
journalists becoming allowed to savor
a priesthood-caste status...
with no church akin to a st. paul's
cathedral... but a glass-ceiling
and the wandering shard...
that these days journalists feel
impelled to be treated as the ancient lore
of the priest?!
the journalist these days
is the neupfarrer...
******** to the load of them...
but unlike the modern day priest...
i would not wish to be...
burnt at the stake...
by some... weak-cognißant: button-pressing
circus monkey!
how a priest became a journalist...
or how a journalist became a priest...
how horrific my heresy...
would have have to be...
to burn at the stake...
compared... to...
the "compensation" on offer from...
the current journalistic-priesthood
of secularism.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
Imagine Wall Street being a corner store
Instead of chasing pavements, you chase pipe dreams dirt poor
Slowly reminiscing ******* in cups
Cause you don't have a *** to **** in
Your home is the streets
Your clothes come from the streets
Your shoes come from Tyrone down the sreet-
cause his parents can afford to replace them
Stealing cars every night
******* broads who give you the green light
Your friends are whinos
Your brother's a crackhead
Family dinner never happens
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:10 AM UTC
love is a lie, a fool’s errand, a lost cause of being burned and churned; chewed up and spat out; of hate and bitterness. teenage veterans traumatized by the senseless romantic violence of the endless ****** wars.
of ****** prostituting themselves out to Chads and Tyrones, eating like pigs at an unlimited buffet, using, abusing, and abandoning, when they’ve had their fill.
of simps acting like dancing monkeys entertaining and quenching thirsty Stacies, who string them along, placeholders until a Tyrone pays attention to them.
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 11:34 PM UTC