Thread for all of my poems

Bugger me, I type some crap when I'm drunk.

 

actually, your subconscious relayed a very amusing antecdote, especially prevalent in the first three lines. But that's for your decyphering. I'll tell you what. You examine that again, and tell me one of two things. Either a)what it is to which I may be referring or b(e)that I am a fruitcake, and you would appreciate it if I kept my distance. lol.

eMBeMLaHV!

 

Whoa. Now you've got me thinking, dude.

 

Thanks for sharing all these John. Even the crap smells good to me!!



S

 

FREAK FLAG

Let it grow,
Let it grow,
Let it grow.

 

MUSHROOM BLUES

Rain is falling through the trees,
I see you and I know it must be me.
When the light shines all around,
I see within a brighter shade of sound.

Satan's gone to Heaven,
He's wondering what to do,
Elvis has his kingdom,
Those drugs ain't nothing new,
I am in the playground,
With the mushroom blues.

Sun is smiling in the sky,
While trees and plastic lovers pass me by,
When the sea returns to me,
It shows my mind a crazy kind of being.

Satan's gone to Heaven,
He's wondering what to do,
Elvis has his kingdom,
Those drugs ain't nothing new,
I am in my playground,
With the mushroom blues.

Come on down to mushroom town with me,
Come on down to mushroom town with me.

 

The Devil and God, they share a common bond: they both want to rule the world.

eMBeMLaHV!

 

FOLK CLUB NIGHT AT THE FOX AND HOUND

Brian Kelly props up the bar,
While Smokey Williams tunes his guitar,
And I'm in the corner,
Drinkin' my third pint of beer.
Folk club night at the Fox and Hound,
We're gonna have a sing-a-round,
It's almost eight o'clock,
And the others will shortly be here.

John Connolly walks through the door,
Sitting his banjo down on the floor,
And greets his good old friends,
As he finds a place to sit.
When he's done tuning his guitar,
Smokey orders scotch from the bar,
And after a quick shot,
Smokey's rosewood pipe has been lit.

When everyone else has arrived,
The idea has been contrived,
To sit in a circle,
Everyone huddled all around.
Beer is drank and tobacco burns,
While bearded old men take their turns,
To strum on their guitars,
And play that drunken folk club sound.

There are songs of love and of war,
Of sailors, of outlaws and more.
After a good few hours,
It's time to buy the final round,
Then on with the drinking and song,
Loud and bellowing all night long.
There's nothing quite like it,
Folk club night at the Fox and Hound.

 

sounds very knee slapping and stuff we just need some ol folk dancing... very very good

 

very folky

 

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere...
The bombs come screaming through the air,
And fall on hills once lush and green,
Now lying black and dead,
With darkened streams of devil red.

Meanwhile...
Back in cosy England,
Down at King John's Tavern:

On the TV screens men battle
Like neanderthals,
Over childish balls,
While the people stare like cattle.

The drunkards and the flirts,
In their new designer skirts:

"Hello! How's your mother?
Did you hear about some bitch or other?
Uncle Freddie's gone away,
And isn't it cold outside today?"

"What does it all matter?" I ask them.
They fix me with their seething glares;

Somewhere...
Another billion people die,
And no one cares.