Best Punters Poems
The other me you'd be quite surprised
She wears high heels, makes up her eyes
she parades around, singing lively songs
telling bawdy jokes where she belongs
Upon the stage, she's not alone
for in that bar, the stage, her home.
Dressed head to foot in sequinned gowns
the punters watch her earn her crown.
The greatest sight they've ever seen,
to them she is, the peoples 'queen'.
Every night there in that bar,
They come to watch her, she's the star.
She gives the punters what they want
Singing lively songs, to which they chant.
Then when it's time to close the doors,
she exits with rapturous applause.
They clap and shout and scream her name,
She revels in that loving fame.
When the show is o'er and done,
she's back to where she first begun.
She removes her wig, takes off her makeup,
and now it's time for him to wake up.
Oh there he is, where has he been?
pretending to be the people's queen.
It's back to some normality,
is she a he?, or he a she?
You see, the answer is quite clear,
She's a he and he's a *****.
Earning cash from having toiled
in late night bars,
burning midnight oil.
The DJ shuts the fader by mistake,
yet speaks his words in slick and practised tones,
but doesn’t hear them coming through his ’phones,
berates himself: That’s quite a gaffe to make.
That’s five whole seconds, nothing but dead air.
I’ve dropped a clanger. This is just not done!
The programme’s live, it’s not a trial run.
The punters might retune and go elsewhere.
But more important is that what we give
distracts, amuses, offers light, bright, trite.
Dead air is not an option. Get it right!
They need our pap: it tells them how to live.
Although this little lapse is but a blink,
it might just give the punters time to think.
Ladies dress up, looking their best
Pretty clothes chosen just to impress
Perfumed and pretty the ladies in high heels
Their menfolk look keen and prepare to do deals
It’s Ladies Day, at Ascot, an important event
For spending one’s money and not paying the rent
The crowd roars and cheers with tipsy excitement
Champagne overflows with the toffs and the titled
The royals parade for the eager crowd
Top hats lifted and politeness all round.
The fine horses parade sweating and anxious
Whilst trainers give jockeys tips for the action
Bookmakers sing out the odds for punters
Whilst tic tac men send secret codes to funders
Favourites are picked for substantial bets
Whilst outsiders are chosen by those with large debts
The stalls are opened and the horses surge out
Whips crack, and jockeys curse mounts
The favourite pushes through so beautifully
And the no hopers go backwards for all to see
The favourite is a winner just by a nod
the crowd cheers and eagerly collect their huge wads
For the beaten it is a day to try to forget
And the losing tickets flutter down with regret
The racegoers journey back home, fortunes spent
Whilst their ladies plan for next year’s event
In equine racing they always say,
You hope to win when you make your play;
Off course as you know,it's the horses that show,
They're the only ones to make their hay.
With no help from the divine my guess could be as good as thine,
For doesn't our quadruped take a million fools,
For a ride not individually, but at a time?
Never known to run quite true,
All handicapping techniques never seem to do.
Yet it always finds it's friends,
Poor battered punters,trying to make amends.
Wagering on them are millions spent,
To get you returns it was never meant.
This sport of Kings will carry on,
But as king of this sport.....You could never be DON!!!
--- Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
Men dressed in top hats and tails
Ladies in designer dresses and fascinators,
Bookmakers standing by the rails
Taking bets singles or accumulators,
Epsom downs, Derby day classic
The best of three year old equines,
Tensions heightened becoming dramatic,
Punters drinking champagne and wines,
Beautiful majestic Arabian athletes
Parade in front of the stand, so elegant,
Coats shining, muscular, nothing competes
Showing their professional temperament,
Jockeys in pristine silks so colourful,
Trainers and owners in the paddock,
Stall handlers loading horses so skilful,
Under starters orders ready to gallop,
Stalls open, up goes a roar from the crowd
One and half mile to the finish and victory,
Last furlong favourite in the lead, cries so loud,
Another exquisite young Colt makes history.
On June 3rd 2017
Superb
Moulanic entertainers
rouge by colour their powerful red
the colour of lust
vermillion crimson a scarlet gapeing
a bawdy well loved little tattle dance
high kicking girls
screaming with a yelp
knocking ones hat off
flying jump n splits
Oh Gawd just look
split crotch knickers
PS
Only jokin really about the Gawd bit
its was they expected punters at the theatre!
Gawd is that God or Allah
Its all nonsense of course
Gawd n Allah
and perhaps even the split crotch knickers!
collects his benefits from hole in the wall
Luck is on his side, that's his school of thought
His mate has given him a hot tip, good man Paul
the stable lad, he's in the know well he ought
Because he said put your shirt on this one
A racing certainty, can't lose, a walk over,
He enters the bookies, nothing can go wrong,
Writes his betting slip, looking over his shoulder,
Planning to double his money, odds not too long,
Five minutes to the start, he counts his returns
In his head, stalls are being loaded, starter ready
Flag drops stalls open, there off, his stomach churns,
hustling and bumping for position, he feels unsteady,
He's watching the race but his mind begins to wonder
Starts thinking what treats to buy for his three kids
A lovely bouquet of flowers for his devoted woman
Get a take away, perhaps a Chinese sticky spare ribs
Things will be great when this racing certainty comes in
Then shouts from other punters, roaring get in my son
Then came the realisation, devastation, deflation,
No such thing as a racing certainty, all his money gone.
Into the lane
come wind, impetuous rain.
Trees are now a threat,
gesturing wildly, angry,
promising to snap,
eager to pounce,
to crush in an embrace
of leaf and crusty bark.
The village fête, though,
is like the show:
it must go on,
it must go on.
It’s fixed in time,
it’s preordained.
Brave souls
staff the stalls and serve,
to raise the funds
to fix the roof.
Spattered souls – pulling
their cardigans closed, tugging
their knitted hats further down their heads –
bravely measure out the day
in collected coinage
dropped into biscuit tins:
the target must be reached.
Cricket’s off – rain stopped play;
back to the crease another day.
But the ladies of the Guild
fête the thinning punters
with bric-a-brac and homemades,
with orange juice and lemonade.
It’s a parallel world –
the other one’s not here today.
This is all there is.
For this day only,
this is our fête.
What are the world's current requisites?
Is preferable to intelligence than bellicosity.
We should stoop our heads like wind chimes,
Additionally, supplicate our Almighty God.
It doesn't matter if you approve it or not,
Ultimately, the answer is in your hands.
With a little blot, you cannot go wrong,
Regardless of what you might do.
Others will be exonerated and scrutinized,
It's almost as though they're finely rung.
Consider them as if they are pleased and jubilant,
When you stand together, you will be magnificent.
I'm aiming to lessen my rating and increase my love,
This action should be carefully examined.
Being exempt from the requirement to assign a score,
As a consequence, the path will be unambiguous.
Punters, first and foremost, notice your spirit,
In the long run, you might consume the right to see.
That every one of us will provide his fair share,
As a result, harmony will be defined by no rules.
2nd place contest winner
Written: March 24, 2022
Your Peace Message To The World Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Leap off a Day
Leap off a day full of struggle and toil.
Pleasure-power fuels freedom's few precious
hours. Head for the cellar where solace is
found. Shoulder a way through the jostling crowd.
The thicket is wild and dense by the bar,
winter-branch arms shedding autumn-leaf notes.
Barmaids flick taught-aloof tails while they flit,
ripping off balls with their sharp little ****.
Machine-gunning speakers spray punters with
rap. Call for ''strong-ale!'' Leave the lager for
louts. Survey, edge away from the wankers
and drunks. She's got mad-eyes. He's pushing tabs.
Ocean of faces polluted by booze.
Snatches of voices wind-torn from the storm.
Crackhead is screaming about his bad hit.
Rodents are filling his skull full of ****.
Rhythm-girls bob up and down to the beat.
The one called Desire has wings on her feet,
legs and white pants like a rose in full bloom.
the one in the crowd who lights up a room.
Shouting and cursing and breaking of glass.
Fun at the bar... stampeding, girls crying,
chairs swinging, fists flying, then Exocet-
bottles-and-boots in an all-out attack.
Faces exploding in fountains of blood.
Shatter-glass windows ice-blue-psychedel;
game-beating police rousing quarry to
flight – any brace cooks-the-books for the night.
Scatter and panic, a jam at the door
as we tear and then pull and then kick and
butt heads, now dash for the street and the sweet
inky-black safety of swallowing night.
Find the fair-maid Desire, cute little sprite
whose ignoble-knight offers Vindaloo-
sauce – plan for scalding her **** and covert-
ovens-of-love as we leap off a day.
The raptors squawk instead of talk
Across the city bridge
Their screeches carry on the wind
To ears they want to reach
They hop like birds with heads that bob
Converging with their friends
They compare scraps
That they have tapped
On gestures they portend
A daily dose of basic smack
And a hostel is their aim
Finding punters to comply
Is the object of the game
“Try’n to find a hostel
To get into tonight”
Is the line they use to get the
Price of the daily dose that’s right
They’re not the same as human folk
Who go about their day
The raptors are a different kind
For whom we ought to pray
Think of them as you and me
With a different take on life
Everyone has their own way
To snort the deals of strife
Small gauge large sound
could be trivia profound
Stations and shunters
red lights for the punters
Small member large auto
mobile cars pars pro toto
In silly banter we trust
French letters a must
But remember the other
Freud had a mother
In Victorian Vienna he toiled
his thoughts rather soiled
In mind he bonked on the couch
dirty old man sought to debauch
Those wicked rationalizations
what a treat for all nations
Kill thy father bonk thy pother
plenty of perversity to smother
So deliriously stupid it seems
it is all in all in those dreams
Yet morbid mortality calls
when the man stumbles and falls
He walked a tight sleezy rope
cocaine was his grand old dope
When the wicked go mad
it culminates bad and sad
High volume tiny shackles
still nonsense’s trifle crackles
All quiet again at the libido check out
Sigmund is dead long live the doubt
Retracing a happening
Afternoon at the big hospital, far from home
I sat on my bed wearing a new pajama;
tomorrow, the surgery. From my window I could
see the zoo and cable cars going overhead so
punters could admire animals from above; but
think if a car fell into the tiger enclosure.
I had a packet of fags in the bedside drawer,
thought of sneaking into the loo, but someone
had removed the packet and lighter too.
I was in a strange mood, like I had hypnotized
myself and not me who sat on the bed like a lamb
that knows nothing of the morrow.
A brisk nurse came gave me a pill and a glass of
water, when I awoke my throat was sore, but
they wouldn´t give me water and I hated those
who had done this to me.
Three days later, a day in May, they let me go.
Dressed in shorts, open necked shirt I took a taxi to
the bus terminal. Driver helped me out of the car,
and I made slow progress up some steps to the ticket
office. A woman came helped me to find the right bus
and she carried my bag. Must have fallen asleep when
I woke up the bus had arrived to my home town and
took a taxi to the local hospital where the trek began;
my car was there but I could not drive it, chest too sore
and I worried about the stitches. A neighbour looked
after my dog feed and let her into the house at night.
The dog knew I was near so I took another taxi home.
glad to see me, she knew I was ill and didn´t jump up
and she slept in the doorway of the bedroom making
sure that no harm came to me.
Meat Market
They sit on window sills in Hamburg Amsterdam and many beautiful Cities
Legally ‘freed’ they take part in a shady economy of flesh lust and domination
Skimpy dress bare buttocks and bosoms with red light advertising their ‘virtue’
Pimped and pumped out it is business as usual tonight and the punters arrive
Many are most recent imports from Eastern Europe snatched under false promise
Of valuable jobs now bereft of their passports and drugged to dark eye balls
They stand in dark alleys or prowl the streets offering rough rides and adventure
Hand out release for a tenner blow foul members like good sex slaves would do
On the passenger seat they take men to new heights and submit to exploitation
The point of service for entry is all good and if its not the front passage its dearer
Without protection the purse opens wider as the clients take their greedy pick
‘Some goods are beyond the sell by date’ but look now ‘Two for the price of one’
Some of the women and often young girls end up stitched up and dead in a ditch
But who cares they are only whores not pretty enough to be escorts or call girls
A vile supply and demand economy unregulated like neo-liberal infection below
‘The tart enjoys it and she can be proud to get stuffed by the great guy I am’
Modern day serfdom with no power of love but bonded in sick love for power
03rd June 2019
Fatima was always dressed up fittingly as any occasion called for
Today one might call her a performance artist but she was
A hippie and child of God always good for some drama though
Was not taken seriously in the reviews in the Paradise Gazette
All she wanted was to be seen as playful serene and sophisticated
First thing it were dates that started the show in the garden
And she had never performed in the nude let alone seduced
She played Hamlet and Noah Mephistopheles and Juliet
Let her hair down to climb down from Babylonian towers
Her repertoire was enormous and to her chagrin so was her bust
‘They always look at my bosom and never hear a word that I say
Fake voyeuristic news and when things go wrong I get the blame’
She was made for the stage in the Big Apple not dated palms’
Tried olives but they were too small and peaches far too symbolic
Bananas were phallic and there was no couch in the garden
‘Fatima at her best again a gorgeous woman with forbidden fruit
But she covers up and her sidekick Mohamed bears the cost
She must reveal more of her natural talent and not hide her loins’
Her mountain quivered in disgust of the lecherous media and
Pressed for fame she developed a different plot with a twist
‘Mohamed let’s be traditional and awaken the punters with apples
We could juggle and whenever we drop one we’ll take off some clothes
The last one with fancy knickers gets to skin the snake as a prize'
High into sensational air they went but could not catch the globes
It was not divine as such but they created the first nudist camp
Once all garments were ripped off the good Lord smiled as they pleased
History must not be falsified and the legend carried on for millennia
Evangelists spread the message and facebook has millions of hits
Finally the audience got a full un-redacted view of naked scripture
Fatima was a transgender man and the serpent had a pearl for an oyster
01st Agust 2019