Breezes fill my head!
She said, when asked
which life she’d take to bed.
What stupid question’s this?
She’d say, when questioned on replies she made.
My life’s just twice as fast as yours;
not saying that you all are bores!
But this one life I live’s not yours,
so please don’t like me to the whores!
But you’ve the choice of 2!
They’d brag – all confident, she was the Slag!
So never once kept in the bag –
their noisy claims
to have blagged the Hag.
I twice assure you – I’m just the one
I’ve always been this one
My lives all thought and told by you
remain to me a mystery.
You lying Tramp!
You’re twice the lass:
With one so sweet
and one with Brass!
We call your ID to the frame,
to watch you squirm
and shirk the blame.
Good grief! You kiddies,
you blind blokes!
Your blatant shite brings on these chokes.
This second life of Gawd Hussy
was never once lived out by me!
So whipped and shifted,
hyped and freed –
The stupid left the brave lady
and as the last one shut the door;
Her Crimson rose
and belched a ROAR!
And this then –
beast, which stalks at night –
sometimes breaks free when nought is light.
At the edge of the world,
Where only power and influence survive.
The ‘greatest’ of men collide.
Teasing nuclear envelopes
The way kids round our way, tease creepy-crawlies.
And just as this mighty cloud of wealth teeters on the brink…
A loud voice, deep in the midst of our crowd,
Remembered the bosom
(the soft cosy curve of sweet breast) out loud.
You’ll never believe that one shout saved the world!
Or rescued our leaders
From their throw-away plot
To blow us all up,
But you’ll have to believe that it’s true.
And as she shouted again, I’ll tell you –
So sudden this rage and shame fell
Like a shroud
As each nutter revisited
Memories of real warmth
In a metal box that rocks
with metal from it’s rock boxes
White Stacey cries it’s alive
in black rhymes and lies
oh White Stacey, who were
you rocking in that metal rockbox?
Oh White Stacey, with their
grim impress still fresh on your yellow locks!
From low down the top end of town
old curling burley slope-headed blokes
snarl freely as Stacey bounces by in her box
back to flat pints of watery beer
back to the sticky games of
stuck down pool
wiping leering chops of drooling shots up
lining pints up
Yet somehow never cheering up.
Oh scroats! Oh unhappy ‘happy-hour’ scroats
How many you number
And mass riches you squander.
Drowning in pool, sliding on cue!
To the sticky end of
your bitter fed night!