In a little pub in London,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Night came, a ***** black night with rain.
Mid-December, nineteen hundred and thirty nine,
Just a few months before ****** turned London's
sky black with lead.
But for now,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Sat solemnly in the candle-lit corner.
He gazed ruefully into his drink,
Like a haggard old grey ghost.
He was tired and felt strange and lost
in this faraway disgusting place.
The whorey smell of the city.
He felt a million and one miles away
from his home.
He was born in a little white cottage,
straw roof, on a small tragic island
off the West of Ireland;
Just a few stone-trows away from
the sleepy fishing village of the
village of Kinsheenlan.
Moriarty had often written letters to
his lonesome mother dearest,
but instead of tossing the letters
into gloomy London post-boxes,
he would post them into
the pub's fireplace.
Fuel for his shame.
Alas, the curse of drink had taken
over his soul and mind.
The sweet poison was now
his only pleasure,
his only softness.

So there he sat, drinking the Devil's drop,
like a mop soaks up spills on the counter-top.
And blowing out sliver smoke rings
all through those long winter nights.
Give to Moriarty to drink mandragora,
until he becomes muddied and slow.
Those rose colored glasses that he had
on for so long now,
they were not going to shield him forever.
As he transfixed his eyes on his beer,
he heard a voice,
a wondrous voice,
at first he thought it lay alone in his mind,
but it was coming from down the hallway,
the sounds of a young maiden's song,
wild and free.
It made his heart feel the substance of his life.
That fabulous blue center-light delight of song.
Sounding so alike to his sister Betty.
It shook him to his core.

Moriarty, the poor lost soul,
had not seen his sister in twenty odd years.
He recalled their last meeting.

The ship has set sail into an ocean, black and calm.
Just that morning, Moriarty got the letter from his mother,
Handwritten in felt tip, slightly stained with a tear,
Telling him to keep warm and stay safe,
To fill his stomach and fill his pockets.

As his sister stood on Dublin's docks to see him off and wish him well
She shrinks with the distance growing between and
She looks twelve and three quarter years younger than she did that day,
The little girl who Moriarty fought with all the live long day over nothing.
Now, she was the women who put up a fight over his sailing away.
Sometimes, brothers and sisters never change.

She knew that this was for the best, but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She felt her words, weightless would have just sailed right away with him.
Moriarty wondered what she will look like if he seen her again,
Will she have received wrinkles from worrying about mother?
Will her chestnut hair have turned white as the snow burying her bare feet?
And now
Betty was all Moriarty's mother had, after Moriarty's father,
a fisherman, drowned that awful November night.

Then, just as Moriarty thought of his ghostling past,
there came the question
'Are you going home for Christmas, dear?'
Asked the barmaid,
Her words dripping like honey into Moriarty's half-empty-glass.
'Sure, I have not been to Ireland in an age, but I know for certain
that my mother is waiting for me with arms open' Moriarty answered.
But he was unsure if his own poor mother would recognize him
for it had been so long.
But just then, Moriarty heard the Christmas-bell-like-voice of
the women standing, singing in the hallway.
The past came into consciousness like a flood.
And in the corner of his eye,
there glazed, the starting of a tear.
Moriarty pushed aside his beer glass-half-full and
said to himself
'I shall be home for Christmas day'.

After two weeks, long weeks
Gone drink nor smoke,
Moriarty have sharped up enough pounds and pennies
to bring him to his home of Ireland.
And while on that train through the lands, green and beautiful,
The deeper into the West Moriarty went
the stronger he felt it,
a beat, beat, beat that thumped and rang out in his chest.
Night fell by the time Moriarty set foot in Kinsheelan,
The church bells rang true and strong sixfold.
Moriarty was unrecognized by the sailor Tomas Bawn,
As he climbed into the little white boat
to sail home across the calm, blue, winter-waters,
to that same white cottage.
Tomas Bawn heard Moriarty as he said to himself
in little more then a whisper
'Thank God above, I shall be home for Christmas day'.


In a little pub in London,
Moriarty's abode,
By the hallway door,
A letter, unread,
Laid upon the floor, It read-

'Oh dear Danny,
Our poor mother has passed.
The funeral will take place
In Kinsheelan church
After mass
On Christmas day'.




-Jamie F. Nugent

a pretty face and she’s little waisted
a pretty place and a little wasted
tumble and tip into submission
stumble and slip into position
set all sweating systems to go
as emotions among other things grow

I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive

that’s just the way the story goes
when we remove our whorey clothes
and get right down unto the bone
the nitty gritty, the solid as stone
I want to get down to the heart of you
I want to feel every last part of you

I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive    

I will not deceive, please believe
I will not deceive, you best believe
as long as we can receive and relieve
as long as we interweave every eve
darling I would never, could never leave
I will not deceive, I will not deceive

I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive

Why must we read 500 pages
to get the moral Of the story.

Keeping it abbreviated is
Not the worry

You write and write
Until we are wick and rory

But if it is over now or then
it will still have it's same glory.

Stop this addness or 
 we will never finish
until we are forty!

two seconds and done,  
might seem a little whorey

But do it again and
we will just  skip to the end.

A rich old lady came to tea
Her face was full of apathy
I asked her if she fancied me
But she was barely listening.
It seems her husband lets her down
He doesn't dig her disco sound.
He makes her pay for every round
While his career is fizzling.

She said so sorry to be rude
But she could not abide our food.
I asked to see her in the ****
But I don't think she heard me.
She showed me photos of her daughter
While my dad went out and bought her
Several crates of special water
She said ours was *****.

Her hands were like old withered claws
No wonder she fell off her horse
I told her she should get divorced
But she just plain ignored me.
She said that she would love to stay
But she had business in L.A.
She'd change her outfit on the way
To something chic but whorey.

As she left she kissed my nose
She said I was an English Rose
I offered to take off my clothes
But she was on the porch now
She left behind her walking stick
Her attitude got on my wick
I hope our muffins made her sick
so she dies a lets me think

I wanna write
but I don't have a good story
I could depict something nice
or something quite gory
such as a mouse squeaking in strife
cause his wife is quite whorey
She was caught with the three blind mice
her only retort, a sob story
unfortunately he didn't believe her lie
and stained her fur a sticky wild-cherry
just beat her until she died
he gave her no time to say sorry
now he sits alone and cries
his breathing getting steep
no one can ask why
after this, he'll never squeak.

another **** nI̲ght in
this room in which you sit with li̲ghts off delightless (no light)
anger inside begins rising as this dA̲rk-ridden mI̲nd gets
preoccupied with hA̲rd-hitting, violent
electronic beats & also senseless toxic thinking
(no means to dump it than writing)
so unacco[ɑ]mplished & spineless
like slugs, but not O̲nes you sent flying
in the course of gun-utilizing
but all you're good for, just like an alliance
of vigilantes fighting org. crI̲me rings
and being a quartet, is typing & rhyming
["good four"]
besides, 'course, like performing the type of dance wI̲despread
among Caribbean party femmes, whining
["wining"; the Carribean dance known as "wine" & "dutty wine"]
about stuff you ain't fI̲ne with
self-buried alive by the time a **** fI̲ght is
not even started; on to[ɑ]p
of that darksome life stuff, like a wa[ɑ]nton nutjo[ɑ]b
bumping broa[ɑ]ds he swives o[ɑ]ff
your mind gets hau[ɑ]nted by thou[ɑ]ghts...
["thots"]
————————————————————————————————
about this ro[ɑ]tten world rI̲fe with
injustice-multiplying ******, blinded
by their fI̲nances, license
allowing those scU̲m to do vI̲ce deeds
and the fact of being unpunished, plus mindless
web skites in chase of society's liking
all those po[ɑ]p-trap artists, lifestyle blo[ɑ]ggers, IG mo[ɑ]dels
[by "pop-trap artists", I mean both pop artists & trap artists]
whose underlying jo[ɑ]b is
keeping our minds less co[ɑ]nscious
of unjU̲st things in this world; auto[ɑ]cracy with or—
—ganized crI̲me on the rI̲se, which
means corruption is thriving; works of A̲rt simplifI̲ed, which
goes to no[ɑ]nsense sometI̲mes, yet
both are things the larger slice of the highly
evolved kind is alrI̲ght with (so what?)
who in the world where the larger slice of the highest
biolo[ɑ]gical kI̲nd seeks fun & vI̲ce needs your li̲ne kit
that, while not tip-top, just like an alpI̲ne peak
is way above plain? like one occupI̲ed with rock-climbing
who needs that if your stuff is nothing but silent
and features no boasting 'bout riches, dope, boning?
like a simplistic club trap
tune the pace of which is buck slaps
per min. (give or take) & to which a young lass
of Western CBG makes her freaking *** clap
it's a pretty dumb track
[twerk music; "buck slaps per min." - "100 beats per minute"; "CBG" - "cultural background"]
that this world's going down, like an airshI̲p that's go[ɑ]n' crash
a sentient kind, though so nutty & childish
["naughty"]
that's why the world seems like a gargantu[—]an kinder—
—garten with media posers, stU̲ck-up bad guys, &
ching-blowers buying bananas fixed ta
[that valueless piece of work presented as "art"]
[and purchased for $6.2 mil by a media-attention-seeking bozo, I'd say]
walls for the sum authorizing
to buy around 9 mil rounds of firearm ammo with the
addition of around 400 gU̲ns that I'd highly
advise utilizing on a hU̲nt spree for vI̲ce-rich
creatures, such as mo[ɑ]bsters & tyrants
[you may check a long note on these lines left under the last one]
with compliant lA̲p dogs of theirs
I'd say, just like an attic nigh bare
of belongings, thA̲t billi[—]onaire
doesn't hA̲ve much upstairs; & such highly gaga affairs
as that are despite the fact that somewhE̲re
out there conditions of living
may be regarded as a nightmare (so what?)
such finances-trifling when there are ones winding up dying
'cause of an aliment crisis (so what?)
which is mostly a result of armed co[ɑ]nflicts ignited
by marbles-lost tyrants (so what?)
how many of pro[ɑ]sperous gU̲Y̲s give
a **** regarding stuff li̲ke this
apA̲rt few ones forming this
mad world's philanthro[ɑ]pic minority? (so what?)
that's about it
yeah, let's blow funds buying fruits fO̲r six mi—
—llion go[ɑ]ddamn bucks O̲r some-thing
like that to keep satisfying that horribly
big ego, enlarging it mO̲re than it
already is, than help ones downtro[ɑ]dden or those in need
————————————————————————————————
there's no[ɑ]t enough words to e[ɪ]x—
—press how mU̲ch this **** world is sick
like a set of li̲nes on some morbid sh#t
indited quite lurridly
semantically loaded, &, rhyming-wise, swarming with
multies constructed nigh perfectly
————————————————————————————————
as if you're a stud in an **** with
an abundance of whorey chicks
f#ck all the wanton... mobs, tyrants, plus loyalists
of theirs,  inasmU̲ch as it's morally corrupted authorities
being alright with abhorrent things
with the now-said in mind, the soundest reply
to such an abnormalcy
is, as if you're 'round a few ***** with an urge to ge[ɪ]t
spanked red-hot, to strI̲ke them bods forcibly
["𝗯ooty-𝗼bsessed 𝗱egenerates", where "*****" means "prize"; "butts"]
just like the bloodthirsty re—
—gime of that Assad schmU̲ck overthrown in ju[ɪ]st
11 days (**** it, you sordid b#tch)
every physically fI̲ne-fettled pE̲rs. who gives
a ****, to whom justice is mO̲re than ju[ɪ]st
a word, should get thE̲mselves wiser, get E̲xercised ta
a level of an effective fighter; find sympathetic partners
who'd be helping with acquire—ing intel, prepping o[ɑ]ps a—
—gainst evildoers & executing them
get intel, prep your offense, get tO̲O̲led up, then
go hunting

[THE AFOREMENTIONED NOTE]
Caliber-wise, the most common types of ammo used in the next 4 types of firearms, which are pistols, SMGs, assault rifles, & ****** rifles, are the following: 9mm; 10mm; .45 ACP; 5.56x45 NATO; 7.62x39; .308 Win/7.62x51 NATO. Here's (all time) average prices of brass rounds of the types mentioned (taken from southerndefense.com/ammo-prices): 9mm - $0.29/unit; 10mm - $0.47/unit; .45 ACP - $0.44/unit; 5.56x45 - $0.43/unit; 7.62x39 - $0.45/unit; .308 Win/7.62x51 - $0.67/unit. $6.2 mil ÷ $0.67 = (~)9.253.731 brass rounds of the .308 Win/7.62x51 type.

Let's say you have $6.2 mil. Given that a unit of brass ammo of any of the other types mentioned is cheaper than $0.67 & that ammo of those types should be purchased too, you can purchase 8.9 mil of diverse brass rounds for less than $6 mil. Keep in mind that if you purchase some or all of the rounds with steel casings, which are cheaper than brass ones, then you'd have even more than 9 mil rounds. Let's say you've purchased 8.9 mil of diverse brass rounds for $5.9 mil, then you have $300.000 left to purchase firearms.

Most firearms cost $400-$800/unit. $300.000 ÷ $800 = 375 firearms. Given that, caliber-wise, you have diverse ammo, you shouldn't purchase only $800 (or more costly) firearms. Let's say, for the sum mentioned, you've purchased around 400 firearms, which can be used by at least around 200 expert assassins in operations against mafias & agents of authoritarian regimes worldwide. Don't know about you, but to me, that's a highly better way of spending $6.2 mil than purchasing one **** banana for that sum.

Of course, to go on such a hunt spree, you should be organized way better than just having firearms & ammo. You also need other means & equipment, such as money, trustful allies, intel on targets, transportation, a place to stay, knives, firearm accessories. Just in case, I don't try to promote a criminal lifestyle. If there's any lifestyle I try to promote, it's a vigilante/evil-fighting one.

-Confusion-
Whether or not you seek glory,
Whenever you're writing a story,
You'll know on the double
That you're in big trouble
If you confuse "hoary"° with "whorey."

°definition: old and trite

-Grammar-
It's really quite shocking to me
When speakers of English can't see
What they convey
Whenever they
Use "him" when they ought to use "he."

-Subjunctive-
They say the subjunctive° is dying.
If I said, "Who cares?" I'd be lying.
If I were you,
I'd do what I do:
Perfect it! At least I'd keep trying.

°The subjunctive mood expresses wishes, suggestions, demands, or desires.

-Past Participle-
To another thing I must ask "Why?"
To the past participle, say "Bye!"
Why don't folks give a ****
When they say "We have swam,"
"He has ran," "I have drank"? My, oh, my!

-Past Perfect-
The past perfect tense I can tell
Can cause people problems as well.
Some folks abuse it;
Some just don't use it.
Use "had" with the past par…. Ah, hell!

-by Bob B (5-28-24)