bazcfc1
VIP Member
No mate I didn't write it was roald Dahl who wrote it mate not me wish I could write it thoi think thats exellent well done if u wrote it
i think this is excellent well done if u wrote it :::
did u ?
do any members read or write poetry ?
- Thread starter celticfc
- Start date
celticfc
TK Veteran
really liked it
bazcfc1
VIP Member
My missus can write poetry a little bit I was never any good at it its a talent to be able to write fluent poety
celticfc
TK Veteran
you should encourage her..and u to should try
bazcfc1
VIP Member
Will see if she will tell me a poem and I will post it
celticfc
TK Veteran
good if she has a talent the let her show it . poetry is good therapy for some
REWARDS
It must be boring; lying dead, not a word being heard or said
Never seeing light of day,idlying the time away--
In an oblong, pinewood box, black silk tie, black shoes, and socks
Dressed in all your Sunday gear, 'till you rot and disappear.
In all the time thats yet to come, youll lie there, motionless and dumb
You'll never sip another drink, you'll never smile, or nod or blink
The maestro's song, the poets verse, unheard since you were in the hearse
And now, the only way you'll move, is when the soft mud starts to ooze
Or dogs start digging up your bones, from slimy, slug infested zones
Some yappy, mangy, thorough-bred, invades your grave and steals your leg
Then scurries off, to his abode, in Mrs Joneses down the road
That Mrs Jones you really hate, now owns your leg, make no mistake
That extra limb, inside her gate-; IN LAW, is part of her estate
And Mrs Jones adores her pup, as it growls, and chews, your shin bone up.
But do'nt be too down-hearted, friend, although truly is your end
Some preachers, preach a diffrent one, the day when Gods kingdom will come
They fantasise, and see themselves, with halos, harps and chiming bells
And wings to transport them around, through sacred gates to hallowed ground
They never harbour thoughts unkind, now they have left this world, behind
Eternity, will be their prize, in Heavens, glorious paradise.
Oh how imagination weaves, ITS story book, of MAKE BELIEVE,
For me, what death is all about, is six feet down, and counted out
We decompose, and all We were, is neither, either, here or there
So leave this world, and have them say, when your life has passed away
Remember Him, the guy was good, He lived His life, as people should
Gave up belief in God and prayer, but if there's a Heaven
I'LL SEE YOU THERE
Eddie Graham
REWARDS
It must be boring; lying dead, not a word being heard or said
Never seeing light of day,idlying the time away--
In an oblong, pinewood box, black silk tie, black shoes, and socks
Dressed in all your Sunday gear, 'till you rot and disappear.
In all the time thats yet to come, youll lie there, motionless and dumb
You'll never sip another drink, you'll never smile, or nod or blink
The maestro's song, the poets verse, unheard since you were in the hearse
And now, the only way you'll move, is when the soft mud starts to ooze
Or dogs start digging up your bones, from slimy, slug infested zones
Some yappy, mangy, thorough-bred, invades your grave and steals your leg
Then scurries off, to his abode, in Mrs Joneses down the road
That Mrs Jones you really hate, now owns your leg, make no mistake
That extra limb, inside her gate-; IN LAW, is part of her estate
And Mrs Jones adores her pup, as it growls, and chews, your shin bone up.
But do'nt be too down-hearted, friend, although truly is your end
Some preachers, preach a diffrent one, the day when Gods kingdom will come
They fantasise, and see themselves, with halos, harps and chiming bells
And wings to transport them around, through sacred gates to hallowed ground
They never harbour thoughts unkind, now they have left this world, behind
Eternity, will be their prize, in Heavens, glorious paradise.
Oh how imagination weaves, ITS story book, of MAKE BELIEVE,
For me, what death is all about, is six feet down, and counted out
We decompose, and all We were, is neither, either, here or there
So leave this world, and have them say, when your life has passed away
Remember Him, the guy was good, He lived His life, as people should
Gave up belief in God and prayer, but if there's a Heaven
I'LL SEE YOU THERE
Eddie Graham
bazcfc1
VIP Member
If I went to heaven and you was not there I write your name everywhere so that the angels can come and see what you mean to me if you was not there by judgement day I'd know you'd gone the other way I'd give the angels back there broken hearts and wings and just to prove how much you mean to me I'd even go to he'll for you. My missus poem
celticfc
TK Veteran
that wasnt hard was it ?
she should post more , if NO-1 objects ?
liked it
buy her a pen n paper
bazcfc1
VIP Member
Its not something she does on a regular basis but if she will i will post a poem a day
celticfc
TK Veteran
this is sure to mean something in your CITY no matter where you stay !!!
The cardboard box hotel
I am sleeping on the sidewalk, there's no place else to go;
Cardboard boxes every where, homeless row by row ,
Sold my watch for Pizza ,now I ’ve nothing left to sell;
So I ’m sleeping on the South bank; in a cardboard box hotel:
London, rich mans city; where rich get richer still;
Poor get even poorer , on ,rich mans phoney bills ;
They rip me off for everything, and life ’s a living hell;
Sleeping rough in cartons ;in a cardboard box hotel .
When I rise up in the morning , the mist hangs like a veil ,
My bones are creeking hinges,as I slop out in a pail,
I used to get a breakfast , in a cold damp prison cell;
Now I 'm free I’ve got the freedom, of a cardboard box hotel:
Big new fancy Jaguars when Yuppies come to call;
They urinate their champagne on, boxes near the wall
Although Policemen saw them , they swear they cannot tell;
If they unrinated on me, in the cardboard box hotel:
The Social does not know me ,and the pains of living show;
My head ’s so sore , my feet on _fire , tramping too and fro
When JESUS wrote my horoscope ,He bid me fare thee well
Then dumped me with the cats and rats , in cardboard box hotel
AND some folks cannot take it; their hearts break and they cry
The old folks never make it , they just go to sleep and die
Oh GREAT LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY I learned your lesson well
The only hope for HOMELESS is ;A CARDBOARD BOX HOTEL
E.GRAHAM
The cardboard box hotel
I am sleeping on the sidewalk, there's no place else to go;
Cardboard boxes every where, homeless row by row ,
Sold my watch for Pizza ,now I ’ve nothing left to sell;
So I ’m sleeping on the South bank; in a cardboard box hotel:
London, rich mans city; where rich get richer still;
Poor get even poorer , on ,rich mans phoney bills ;
They rip me off for everything, and life ’s a living hell;
Sleeping rough in cartons ;in a cardboard box hotel .
When I rise up in the morning , the mist hangs like a veil ,
My bones are creeking hinges,as I slop out in a pail,
I used to get a breakfast , in a cold damp prison cell;
Now I 'm free I’ve got the freedom, of a cardboard box hotel:
Big new fancy Jaguars when Yuppies come to call;
They urinate their champagne on, boxes near the wall
Although Policemen saw them , they swear they cannot tell;
If they unrinated on me, in the cardboard box hotel:
The Social does not know me ,and the pains of living show;
My head ’s so sore , my feet on _fire , tramping too and fro
When JESUS wrote my horoscope ,He bid me fare thee well
Then dumped me with the cats and rats , in cardboard box hotel
AND some folks cannot take it; their hearts break and they cry
The old folks never make it , they just go to sleep and die
Oh GREAT LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY I learned your lesson well
The only hope for HOMELESS is ;A CARDBOARD BOX HOTEL
E.GRAHAM
celticfc
TK Veteran
Last edited by a moderator:
bazcfc1
VIP Member
You could but I can't have a passport lol
celticfc
TK Veteran
we ll b penpals lol
bazcfc1
VIP Member
OK I've always wanted a pen pal they keep running out on me lol
celticfc
TK Veteran
this is poetry .
The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God: By J. Milton Hayes
NOT ME BUT GOOD
The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God
There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.
He was known as 'Mad Carew
By the subs at Kathmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell,
But, for all his foolish pranks,
He was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along
With the passion of the strong,
And that she returned his love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.
He wrote to ask what present
She would like from 'Mad' Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad:
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do ...
But the green eye of the little yellow god.
On the night before the dance
'Mad' Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they pulled at their cigars,
But for once he failed to smile,
And he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night.. beneath the stars.
He returned, before the dawn,
With his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples... dripping red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Colonel's daughter
Watched beside his bed.
He woke at last and asked her
If she'd send his tunic through.
She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the pocket,
Saying, 'That's from "Mad" Carew,'
And she found ... the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew,
In the way that women do,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the stone,
And Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.
When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him ... and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the barrack square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.
His door was open wide,
With silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried
In the heart of 'Mad' Carew ...
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.
There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.
The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God: By J. Milton Hayes
NOT ME BUT GOOD
The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God
There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.
He was known as 'Mad Carew
By the subs at Kathmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell,
But, for all his foolish pranks,
He was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along
With the passion of the strong,
And that she returned his love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.
He wrote to ask what present
She would like from 'Mad' Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad:
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do ...
But the green eye of the little yellow god.
On the night before the dance
'Mad' Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they pulled at their cigars,
But for once he failed to smile,
And he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night.. beneath the stars.
He returned, before the dawn,
With his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples... dripping red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Colonel's daughter
Watched beside his bed.
He woke at last and asked her
If she'd send his tunic through.
She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the pocket,
Saying, 'That's from "Mad" Carew,'
And she found ... the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew,
In the way that women do,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the stone,
And Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.
When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him ... and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the barrack square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.
His door was open wide,
With silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried
In the heart of 'Mad' Carew ...
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.
There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god for ever gazes down.
pabloescaban
VIP Member
another one for the Scots, or anyone who likes a tipple of Whisky...
A Warning On Spontaneous Combustion by Stuart McLean
O whisky is the king of drinks,
Renowned the world o’er,
But here’s a word o’ caution,
Tae think of when ye pour.
There’s a certain combination,
That tastes so very good,
But when it hits your tummy,
And mixes with your food.
That’s when the trouble starts,
For yer pleasure hits overload,
And half an hour later,
Ye’ll suddenly explode.
So there ye are in the pub,
Completely engulfed in flames,
And yer good wife’s dashing home,
Tae lodge insurance claims.
Well now that I have told ye,
Don’t say ye’ve no’ been warned,
So don’t try it oot yersel’,
Or ye’ll soon be bein’ mourned.
Nighttimenel
Member
THE SICK NOTE
Dear Sir I write this note to you to tell you of my plight
For at the time of writing I am not a pretty sight
My body is all black and blue, my face a deathly grey
And I write this note to say why Paddy's not at work today.
Whilst working on the fourteenth floor,some bricks I had to clear
To throw them down from such a height was not a good idea
The foreman wasn't very pleased, the bloody awkward sod
He said I had to cart them down the ladders in my hod.
Now clearing all these bricks by hand, it was so very slow
So I hoisted up a barrel and secured the rope below
But in my haste to do the job, I was too blind to see
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me.
And so when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead
And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead
I shot up like a rocket till to my dismay I found
That half way up I met the bloody barrel coming down.
Well the barrel broke my shoulder, as to the ground it sped
And when I reached the top I banged the pulley with my head
I clung on tightly, numb with shock, from this almighty blow
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks, fourteen floors below.
Now when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor
I then outweighed the barrel and so started down once more
Still clinging tightly to the rope, my body racked with pain
When half way down, I met the bloody barrel once again.
The force of this collision, half way up the office block
Caused multiple abrasions and a nasty state of shock
Still clinging tightly to the rope I fell towards the ground
And I landed on the broken bricks the barrel scattered round.
I lay there groaning on the ground I thought I'd passed the worst
But the barrel hit the pulley wheel, and then the bottom burst
A shower of bricks rained down on me, I hadn't got a hope
As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I let go the bloody rope.
The barrel then being heavier then started down once more
And landed right across me as I lay upon the floor
It broke three ribs, and my left arm, and I can only say
That I hope you'll understand why Paddy's not at work today.
First saw the Corries sing this but I think it was written by a fella called Pat Cooksey.
Dear Sir I write this note to you to tell you of my plight
For at the time of writing I am not a pretty sight
My body is all black and blue, my face a deathly grey
And I write this note to say why Paddy's not at work today.
Whilst working on the fourteenth floor,some bricks I had to clear
To throw them down from such a height was not a good idea
The foreman wasn't very pleased, the bloody awkward sod
He said I had to cart them down the ladders in my hod.
Now clearing all these bricks by hand, it was so very slow
So I hoisted up a barrel and secured the rope below
But in my haste to do the job, I was too blind to see
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me.
And so when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead
And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead
I shot up like a rocket till to my dismay I found
That half way up I met the bloody barrel coming down.
Well the barrel broke my shoulder, as to the ground it sped
And when I reached the top I banged the pulley with my head
I clung on tightly, numb with shock, from this almighty blow
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks, fourteen floors below.
Now when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor
I then outweighed the barrel and so started down once more
Still clinging tightly to the rope, my body racked with pain
When half way down, I met the bloody barrel once again.
The force of this collision, half way up the office block
Caused multiple abrasions and a nasty state of shock
Still clinging tightly to the rope I fell towards the ground
And I landed on the broken bricks the barrel scattered round.
I lay there groaning on the ground I thought I'd passed the worst
But the barrel hit the pulley wheel, and then the bottom burst
A shower of bricks rained down on me, I hadn't got a hope
As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I let go the bloody rope.
The barrel then being heavier then started down once more
And landed right across me as I lay upon the floor
It broke three ribs, and my left arm, and I can only say
That I hope you'll understand why Paddy's not at work today.
First saw the Corries sing this but I think it was written by a fella called Pat Cooksey.
pabloescaban
VIP Member
DECEMBER
Now is the time of fresh starts
This is the season that makes everything new.
There is a longstanding rumor that Spring is the time
of renewal, but that's only if you ignore the depressing
clutter and din of the season. All that flowering
and budding and birthing--- the messy youthfulness
of Spring actually verges on squalor. Spring is too busy,
too full of itself, too much like a 20-year-old to be the best time for reflection, re-grouping, and starting fresh. :(
For that you need December. You need to have lived :)
through the mindless biological imperatives of your life (to bud, and flower, and show off) before you can see that a landscape of new fallen snow is THE REAL YOU.
December has the clarity, the simplicity, and the silence you need for the best FRESH START of your life.::
Now is the time of fresh starts
This is the season that makes everything new.
There is a longstanding rumor that Spring is the time
of renewal, but that's only if you ignore the depressing
clutter and din of the season. All that flowering
and budding and birthing--- the messy youthfulness
of Spring actually verges on squalor. Spring is too busy,
too full of itself, too much like a 20-year-old to be the best time for reflection, re-grouping, and starting fresh. :(
For that you need December. You need to have lived :)
through the mindless biological imperatives of your life (to bud, and flower, and show off) before you can see that a landscape of new fallen snow is THE REAL YOU.
December has the clarity, the simplicity, and the silence you need for the best FRESH START of your life.:
:
aldan
VIP Member
Beer Beer Beer
Traditional
A long time ago, way back in history,
when all there was to drink was nothin but cups of tea.
Along came a man by the name of Charlie Mops,
and he invented a wonderful drink and he made it out of hops.
He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
The Curtis bar, the James' Pub, the Hole in the Wall as well
one thing you can be sure of, its Charlie's beer they sell
so all ye lads a lasses at eleven O'clock ye stop
for five short seconds, remember Charlie Mops 1 2 3 4 5
He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
A barrel of malt, a bushel of hops, you stir it around with a stick,
the kind of lubrication to make your engine tick.
40 pints of wallop a day will keep away the quacks.
Its only eight pence hapenny and one and six in tax, 1 2 3 4 5
He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
The Lord bless Charlie Mops!
Traditional
A long time ago, way back in history,
when all there was to drink was nothin but cups of tea.
Along came a man by the name of Charlie Mops,
and he invented a wonderful drink and he made it out of hops.
He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
The Curtis bar, the James' Pub, the Hole in the Wall as well
one thing you can be sure of, its Charlie's beer they sell
so all ye lads a lasses at eleven O'clock ye stop
for five short seconds, remember Charlie Mops 1 2 3 4 5
He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
A barrel of malt, a bushel of hops, you stir it around with a stick,
the kind of lubrication to make your engine tick.
40 pints of wallop a day will keep away the quacks.
Its only eight pence hapenny and one and six in tax, 1 2 3 4 5
He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
The Lord bless Charlie Mops!
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