Poetry - The Bastard and the Bunny Girl by Lee Cassanell
1am in the grass with a fist of Tequila
Four eyes on the sky say a prayer to the dealer
A tooth in my pocket,
The truth in her lips
That sang blooded from trips to the pavement
2am in the dark with a lung of Tobacco
Not a good Man or Saint
But the Bastard could Paint
And his Moustache was pruned to perfection
He had funny ideas
About Jew boys and Queers
But his one ball maintained an erection
Poetry - Dylan. By Lee Cassanell
I'd say that I'm a gambler
A misled midnight rambler
A man of flaming visions,
With heart as pure as vodka
I'd let you be my lodger
Poetry - Goodbye to the Loaded Generation By Jane Foster
It was all fun and FHM,
All alcopops and Spice,
The era when your gran
Thought Robbie Williams was nice.
We raised the union flag again
Poetry - The Joy of Filth and Squalor By Space Tart
They say that cleaning's the new rock 'n' roll,
You can scrub your way into a man's soul.
How clean is your house? How neat is your garden?
Do dusters and Marigolds give you a hard on?
But rock 'n' roll's filthy, not shiny and neat
Poetry - A BLAST FROM THE PAST By Del "Abe" Jones,
They are going to drill for more oil
Up in our arctic wilderness
So oil companies can get richer
With Politicians in the same business.
Let's not develop new resources
Poetry - Never Quite Happened By Anonymous
I think that you might hate me, I'm so tired I don't care.
Your opinion formed from nothing, when I wasn't there.
You thought that you loved me once, now I'm ugly and thick.
The fact I never dated you never altered it?
Poetry - THE PEOPLE'S POPE By Del "Abe" Jones
One billion Catholics round the Earth
Are in mourning for Pope John
And although He will be laid to rest
His Gentle Spirit will move on.
His Great Legacy of all those years
Poetry - FOREVERGREEN (Big Tree) By Del "Abe" Jones
For thirty-five hundred years
You've towered o'er this land
Almost one hundred forty feet
The great height that you stand.
Fifty thousand board feet
Poetry - FROM BIRTH TO DEATH By Del 'Abe' Jones
The Government thinks it knows best
Wants to tell us how to live our life
They even want to make decisions
That should be between a Man and Wife.
Their morals and beliefs they think
Poetry - YEAR TWO and A MOSAIC By Del 'Abe' Jones
It's the second Anniversary
Of one more War for our Nation
Some are still in "Shock and Awe"
And there will be no Celebration.
More than fifteen hundred Dead
Poetry - Poverty By Andrea Longstaff
Didn't have a pot to piss in and
That's the truth
A vague recollection of a leaky roof
Dad's an alcoholic, living in fear
Didn't want him watch him cut mam's
Poetry - SAINT PATRICK'S DAY By Del 'Abe' Jones
The Patron Saint of Ireland
Died in the Fifth Century
On the Seventeenth of March
Is that Anniversary.
That day is during Lent
Poetry - One Match Left. By Lee Cassanell
What now for the boozers
The last of the users
Poetry - An Indian's Lament By Darren Sant
Betrayed by the white man,
Robbed of our homeland,
The Great Spirit will avenge us,
We were free as an eagle,
Now we are bound to the earth,Read more...
Poetry - Marriage and Boredom By Darren Sant
You can't be happy forever,
Are you barking mad?
Have you lost your senses?
Is what I hear.
May be a pagan ritual,
Poetry - Friendship By Darren Sant
If love is satins sheets,
Then friendship is an easy smile,
If hate is a loaded gun,
Then friendship is a white dove,
If oppression is a wall,Read more...
Poetry - Maybe Next Week By Joe Hakim
You're sat at a bar and
the decision you need
to make, but can't,
sits across from you and tries
to stare you out.
Poetry - A Bad Case of Paranoia One Morning By Joe Hakim
it begins to dawn on you-
the people you thought
Poetry - I See Myself in You. By Lee Cassanell
Nothing left but the breeze
That I felt on my face for a time,
Gone all my hopes
Disappeared with the smoke
To a place I can't fathom or find,
Poetry - The Price of Oil By Maggie Clegg
Eyes are blinded, stinging, burning,
Heart is thumping, feeble, failing,
Wings are cold, clammy, weak,
Can't draw a breath through tar-bunged beak.
The innocent birds die by the score
Poetry - My Love-Hate Relationship with the White Working Class By Jane Foster
I get chatting to an old bloke on the street,
Real friendly, salt of the earth, definitely.
And he puts his hand on my cheek
And although it's not PC
I giggle a bit, 'cos I know instinctively