Best Bookies Poems
The reason why I gamble,
I ought to tell the truth.
Those squalid tales I spun before…
Well, don’t go seeking proof.
The one about the heart op
And my desperate plight for cash -
A pack of lies, I’m fit and well
(Except a little rash).
And then there was the other one
About my mental health
And descent into depression
And the quest for joy through wealth.
And when you saw me on the street
In front of the casino,
I wept and cried ‘I have no friends,
So where else can I go.
I haven’t tasted human warmth
For such a countless while,
At least when dealing out the cards
The croupier gives a smile.’
And when you looked concerned
I said ‘Don’t fret, it’s human weakness.
But I’ve joined a local church
And hope to find a cure through Jesus.’
Then soon as you were out of sight
I dodged into the bookies
And put a tenner on a nag
(You’ll think The Devil took me).
And when this news got back to you
You started that campaign
To ‘Save Our Al’ from brimstone wrath
And flaming pitchfork pain.
And when the cash came rolling in
You gave it to my Mum,
And told her it was for
The welfare of her troubled son.
Now she was pretty mystified
And thought you were deranged.
She used the cash to buy a car
And just gave me the change.
But with all your selfless efforts,
I feel a little mean.
It’s time to set the record straight.
I’m ready to come clean.
You see.
The reason that I gamble,
There’s no tragic tale of sin.
The reason that I gamble:
It’s because I always win.
"I'd bet on Someone Just Like Me", the lovely stranger said.
"I know the odds are long, but I just have this lucky feeling!"
The bookies gave a 10 to 1 for her prized thoroughbred,
I knew the odds for Reader Of The Stars were more appealing.
I placed my bet, the race began, my horse led out and out,
He passed by Harry Trotter, and had Hay Girl on the run,
He'd hold off Maple Stirrup, and beat Princess Peach, no doubt
But then, as though she'd seen a crystal ball, her longshot won!
Just like her odds, my hopes seemed dim in searching for a wife.
I hoped that lovely stranger at the track might be my honey -
The lucky day I'd longed for she would enter in my life?
I looked - the woman of my dreams was gone, just like my money.
Written 7 Sep 2020
Phrases in Bold are required by the contest
Pitcher deals.
Center snaps.
Forward volleys.
Captain kneels.
Wing traps.
Road team rallies.
Runner steals.
Driver laps.
Bookies watch at O'Malleys.
Coach jaws.
Goalie paws.
Mothers pray.
Midfielder moans.
Winners eat macaroons.
Fathers look less gray.
Refs tally the time left
'Til the moon rises.
Fans leave, bereft,
Searching for further surprises.
as builders spend pennies
flipping profits on houses
lifestyle gurus
show us how to fold trousers
and chefs under pressure
scream out all their orders
while people in need
are labelled as hoarders
and bookies fix odds
for the afternoon races
as judges cast judgements
on bizarre family cases
and teams answer questions
to win mystery prizes
while traffic cops chase
young suicide drivers
and retirees escape
to a life on the Costas
as law firms inform us
it’s good to sue doctors
and super vets cure
lame dogs and sick horses
as folk with backstories
fail SAS courses
and dealers earn livings
from ducking and diving
while medics with agents
get judged Strictly jiving
and loan deals have small print
explaining their charges
while celebs enjoy cruising
on canals in large barges
and food critics chew
over masterful dinners
and. there. are. several. long. seconds
before we find out the winners
but when MPs dodge questions
on the numerous news’ panels
it’s proof that what bites
really sucks on our channels.
He is a bookies monkey,
A blackjack Joe,
A casino junkie,
A slot machine Moe,
He is a roulette Roger,
A double down Dave,
A betting shop lodger,
A gambling slave,
He is a baccarat Billy,
A poker sharp Pete,
A wily old Willie,
A Charlie cheat,
He is a high stakes Harry,
A dog track Dan,
A lotto Larry,
He is the gambling man
I remember living in one room dingy and dire
with old lino on its rotting wooden floor.
I remember crystallised spit dangling from guard at the fire;
as mother cleaned, he'd only honk the more.
I recall how we went hungry, waiting for the paltry sum
he allowed us for board and keep, the cheap fink,
and how he served apprenticeship to becoming a true bum
by treating as priorities his fags and drink.
I remember all the rows he caused demanding back the cash
which was supposed to feed and clothe his we’ans
I remember every Christmas morn' the gifts received were trash
because he'd pissed the present-money down the drain.
I recall one awful night my mother hunting high and low
with a hungry bedraggled child on either hand,
she finally catching that boozy stinker sate in the Dungloe.
How he fumed, outraged that food she dared demand.
I remember his begrudgement of those sparse few days away–
one hour upon the beach or at the fair:
how just when we were relaxing would be dragged from play.
Homeward-bound: him the ‘bookies', us despair.
I remember trudging up to Creggan to the ‘Housing Place'
every week with mother and sister, come rain or hail,
and how that worthless, selfish, monster did not even have the grace
to commend her dedication, instead railed.
I can picture his expression when she got herself a job,
determined not to lose her new clean home.
I remember his wild tantrums when she'd saved up for a hob–
the delivery man was perplexed at oral foam.
I remember those miserable times as if they were today,
how he made odd help with homework living hell–
so that now a friend's assistance, however gracefully
put, grates my tortured psyche so much I cannot tell.
When we started working, my sister dear and I,
it seemed for him a licence to give less.
Many weeks he'd keep house-money and, as the months went by,
we discovered he'd drunk the rent; that was a mess.
So now sot has retired, and it seems his mind has gone–
for he's telling all how great he was those years:
he built house on the prairie. He was such a con:
the only thing he constructed was a legacy of fear.
Here are six tales of six relatives of mine
Now all have passed in the passage of time
Mostly seen through the eyes of a child
Poetic licence used for I’m no Oscar Wilde
~~~
Aunt Ada and Aunt Edie were a scary pair for me
Ada wore a real live fox fur dangling from her neck
And as a child I really thought this is where it slept
Of course it was not breathing as the poor thing it was dead
But nothing could convince me ~ for to me it was asleep instead
Edie was Ada’s companion or that is how it seemed
Much smaller in stature she walked behind Ada
Who strutted ahead when her mind it was set
Each day Ada dressed in her Astrakhan coat
And walked to her ‘bookies’ where she placed her daily bet
~~~
Another scary person whom I only met the once
A cruel step mother came to stay
When I saw her face I ran away
Her face was pointed
Her nose was too
Her countenance a paler shade of blue
And with her came her daughter too
A spookier pair I never knew
From whence that day the day they came
Their names we never spoke again
~~~
My dearest Grandpops ~ loved him lots
A character through and through
He wore a black beret perched upon his head
With a loosely tied dickie bow draped round his neck
A master magician with his performing dog named Win
Performing caricatures by his favourite Dickensian
Wishing he was here ~ passed in his 84th year
Wanting many answers to questions unasked
For the young have no time for to stop and to hear
When young, one can be so selfish I fear
And that is the reason I wish he was here
~~~
An uncle in the navy spent months away at sea
Like Father Christmas he returned ~ I sat upon his knee
His knapsack overflowed with gifts for family and for me
Exotic lace and silk and dolls and fancy fans and herbal tea
Ivory figures large and small he'd bring from a foreign land
He would sit for hours spinning yarns of the Orient exotic and grand
~~~
his visits stopped so suddenly no more gifts were sent
to this very day I have no inkling where my uncle went
Written 15th November 2020
Contest Six relatives
Sponsor Caren Krutsinger
FIRST PLACE
Contest ALL YOURS POETRY
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
Ey-up uncle Ken,
I bet tha goin, bookies Agen!
I'll go with thee,
If it's or rate.
I go that way,
To see mi mate.
Wats tha backin, in two thirty?
Mi gran ses put a Bob,
On flirtin girty.
Gonna play Togger on park,
Then go woods,
Before it's dark.
Get sum cheggies for afta tea,
If tha calls in Lata
Will save sum for thee.
See thee lata,
Hope tha win
Will no if tha has,
Thal av a big grin.
There's something from the Chinese
that's called the poor man's fortune.
when back in the beginning
was thought of as misfortune.
My story starts with Sally Trac
A waitress in a chain.
One courteous and generous
that no one would call vain.
Each day would be a badgering
where Sally'd pester me.
and I'd return the pestilence
Our humor running free.
I'd order up a coffee milked.
A coffee Sally'd make.
The moment came up often
as the days turned into wake.
In sipping it I'd soon relax;
when tapped upon the shoulder.
And turn around where Sally'd be
Her smile come close as bolder.
An outreached hand to beckon me
presented me with cookies.
Them broken and no fortunes,
as if to come from bookies.
Without their guidance I was lost
unless you count their portions.
For Sally giving cookies free
would be the poor man's fortune.
My vice and addiction is not with bookies
But my money’s spent on Girl Scout cookies.
My daughter she sells them and gives me a wink
For she knows I will buy them before I could blink
The shortbreads, the caramels, the cinnamon swirls
The supporters of my addiction are these little girls
Cursors, failed again
My cursor has a secret life
devoid of fingered touch
darting about the internet
always in a rush
going to the strangest places
hanging out with “bookies”
inviting them to come and play
leaving trails of “cookies”
A single click
a tortured plea
someone please
respond to me
a double tap
upon the right
let’s crash the place
it’s party night
So sits my cursor
sheepishly wishin’
she’d stayed at home
and not gone “phishin’”
as flashbacks from
her sordid past
revisit her
in spamming flash.
Now she sits in rehab mode
“geek squad” modification
while I sit in another room
awaiting interrogation.
6/28/2015
Red Rum was pounding the turf down at Aintree,
Going as fast as any horse can be,
Ginger was there looking on at the side,
And the whole of Liverpool, filled up with pride.
For the third time now, this great horse had won,
The greatest steeplechase under the sun,
At Aintree a Horse is more likely to die,
For the third time Red Rum, the odds did defy.
Around the world the bookies all suffered,
The betting fraternity knew they weren’t buffered,
To lay off a bet when the Horse is a hero,
Is not easy, so most, were left with a zero.
The ordinary punter, who fancied a flutter,
Even, the tramp, who lived life in the gutter,
Joined with the housewife who bet the housekeeping,
On the horse with the heart which always kept beating
Because they all knew Red Rum would win through.
There are all kinds of people, wondering, why I like me.
When looking at others, this is what I see.
Smart, dumb, disabled and gifted, each looking for the way.
Rich, poor, young and old, trying to live another day.
Killers, stealers, bookies and thugs, knowing their deeds are wrong.
Lawyers, judges, police and priests, making rules that don't belong.
Strippers, dealers, johns and pimps, their lifestyle is in every town.
Racists, sexists, abusers and perverts, with understanding nowhere around.
The Panthers, Bloods, skinheads and gangs, and there's the Klu Klux Klan.
Crooks, thieves, rip-offs and cons, that's what defines, the dishonest man.
Extreme Right, Liberal Left and the media lies, not caring for other's need.
Hindus, Christians, Muslims and Jews, all pushing their religious creed.
Directors, reporters, editors and anchors, spreading stories that aren't true.
Blind, crippled, deaf and dying, all wishing their problems, happened to you.
Poets, writers, artists and singers, no longer explain the life story.
Principles, parents, teachers and coaches, seems to have forgot their true glory.
So, with an open mind, a caring heart and a longing to be free.
You know it's really no wonder, Why I Like Me.
Carl Wayne Jent
It's "Pick on Santa Season." Have a go
Making fun of him peeing in the snow
He's a red-faced fellow
When it changes to yellow
He tries to distract folks with, "HO HO HO!"
Santa Claus loves good little girls and boys
Having his elves build them fantastic toys
He eats lots of cookies
Bets horses with bookies
But smooching ladies, he mostly enjoys
Santa won't be driving his sleigh this year
"His butt weighs too much," complained the reindeer
Look at that fat belly
From eating' at the deli
Then washing' it down with beer after beer
George is in his eighties and he’s seen it all before
He was born in the depression and was wounded in the war
He hadn’t been a hero, but George had done his bit
His legs had both been broken when a piece of shrapnel hit
George with his new ungainly gait really didn’t care
He had served his King and Country and was proud that he’d been there
Once the war was over and he got a steady job
George worked hard and did overtime to earn an extra bob
He was careful with his money but you couldn’t call him mean
He had known the pangs of hunger as a child when times were lean
He never wasted money in the bookies or on ale
He wanted some security in case his health should fail
Came the National Insurance Scheme in 1948
George gave the scheme his full support thinking it was great
If we all join in together and we pay our weekly dues
We should all get good pensions that can only be good news
What with all our contributions and the taxes that we pay
Well never in the future should we see a rainy day
No humiliating means tests, no more workhouse for the poor
The old can hold their heads up like they never could before
Now George is getting frail and weak and needs a little care
The pension that George thought he’d get simply isn’t there
The savings that old George accrued long ago had dwindled
The Council now want George’s house, no wonder George feels swindled
Every evening in the news on all the TV stations
The Government hand out our cash to lots of foreign nations
What’s more it is a well known fact that cannot be disputed
Folk come here and claim benefits who’ve never contributed
Our leaders throw our cash around with philanthropic zeal
Massaging their ego’s, Not caring how we feel
To men like George an honest man the real reward is owed
We should be taking care of him, not stealing his abode