Best Shag Poems
He was asleep on his stomach.
His snoring could wake the dead.
She glared at his sleeping back
wanting to push him out of bed.
She covered her ears with a pillow
trying to block out the sound.
An evil thought ran though her head,
"There were no witnesses around".
She crept out to the kitchen
She could have stomped ... he wouldn't hear.
With the largest butcher knife
she returned to her husband dear..
Right between his shoulder blades,
one thrust ... he snored no more.
She gathered the blankets around him
to keep the blood off the white shag floor.
Then the snoring started again.
She let out a startled scream
and sat bolt upright in her bed.
It had all been just a dream.
He was asleep on his stomach.
His snoring could wake the dead.
She stared at his sleeping back
and wanted to punch him in the head.
10/07/2012
Bugger
17th July 2015
Last night my missus gave me some oysters for tea
Was I in for a night of rip snorting whoopee?
I showered and shaved trying to smell like a stud
Her half dozen oysters must have all of been duds.
Things were desperate so I engaged in foreplay
What old men do when they want a roll in the hay
I groveled I pleaded, even whined like a dog
But for all of my efforts all I got was a snog.
So should she ever give me a little blue pill
I now know it sure won’t be for an evening of thrill.
Her response
So you’re disappointed
That all you got was just a snog
How about make an effort
Stop smelling like grog
I don’t care for begging,
And sexual wee stirrings
Have a shave and a shower,
That'll start me concurring.
Now take your hand off my breast,
Just help me cook the kids tea
Grab the vacuum, do the house,
That’ll be enough foreplay for me
Hang out the washing,
Then feed the pets.
Do homework with the kids
Please now go make the beds,
Scrub all the pots,
Make sure you do the lids
Thank you my dear,
Your help was just great,
It's nice just not to nag
What! What do you mean?
You’re too tired for a shag?
28th September
Silent One's Competition
In response to my first poem
Pig a billa
Good tucker is ol pig-billa,
Porcupine Echidna hey,
Favourite food of Aboriginals,
Has him own spears anyway,
Track him cross the hot red sand,
Which way does he go, today,
Claws on his back legs are a pointing,
Where he come from, there we say,
Dead possum hanging oer the water,
Maggots falling soon they may,
Yellow belly sucks em sorta,
Big ol Cod could eat em hey,
Marbuk silent as a Gum-tree,
Waits with fishing plurry spear,
See the flash of yella-belly, see,
Him on the coals to sear!
Swish of killer boomerang,
As the wild ducks leave the water,
Pelted as a hundred swam,
Got a Shag hook nosed just sorta,
Break-em wing as it leaves the water,
Bloody tough meat make you chew,
Yarraman is a horse you see,
Milinbri beast of cattle, be,
Crocodile he waits for you,
Don’t swim where he will maybe chew,
After the death roll kills you, oughta,
Fresh meat ol tourist brought ya,
To Cape York for interview.
Ole Croc can get you too!
Sidestep this frenzy slaughter….
Whatever ya bloody do.
Ole Johnson the reporter …Don
Sway, sway so soft
Back and forth swaying
near motionless
holding on so tight
blending, merging
melting together
rocking your baby doll
to sweet silver blue...
Now gliding, waltzing
Cajun waltzing
Jolie Blon waltzing
so smooth, so elegant
so easy and tuned in like
skating on ice...
Slow-shag shuffle
Beach sounds on the juke box
barefoot on a sandy floor
Platters, Drifters, Temptations
Intricate, delicate movement
Shuffle to the seagull's call
to the warm gulf breeze
to the pounding rhythm of the sea...
Now shake it, shake a tail-feather
bend over let me see you
shake a tail feather
sweaty, salty, sexy shaking
C'mon baby shake it on down
shake it on down with me...
Last verse based on the song: 'Shake a Tail-Feather' by James & Bobby Purify
1) Find a broom, then go to your room, and give it a good sweep.
2) Lie on the couch, when Mom’s a grouch, and pretend that you’re asleep.
3) Take a ride on your bike, or take a hike, and best leave the grownup alone.
4) Empty the trash (but don’t ask for cash) when Dad his top has blown.
5) Call a friend on whom you depend, then go outside and play tag.
6) Find a four-leave clover, plan your next sleep over, throw a stick that your dog
can shag.
7) Taking a look at a few picture books might pass the time of day.
8) Be cute as a bug, and offer a hug in a roundabout sort of a way.
9) Though grownup’s tics are not all yours to fix, you can always sing a song.
10) And remember that grouchy grownups don't often stay grouchy for long.
I met her, she had all the right attributes
Petite torso, a smile so cute
But I think she was incognito
I visited her house, she turned out to be a fan of the Dung Beetle
I pledged my love to her, and told her my heart she could save
It all went sour, a three o'clock shadow revealed she needed a shave
The Lionel Richie mustache and the ZZ Top beard
It seemed out of nowhere to have appeared
She said she was a Drill Instructor for the female Marines
In my opinion with facial hair like that, male or female, she falls somewhere in
between
She says in her sweet voice, come shave me with a Schicks Quad Razor
I tell her I've got to go, Baskin Robbins is coming out with a new flavor
She is a Grunt so she trapped me in a snare
She says I will release you after you shave my facial hair
She said her skin is sensitive so she uses Edge Gel with Aloe
I down a fifth of Black Velvet to try and mellow
Now I grab the quad and approach the task at hand
I am really confused here, do Iove her, or beat her up like I would a man
She tells me, if you think I'm hot, you should see my cousin Judy
She is the Drill Instructor who punishes those at K P Duty
I smile and cringe at the same time
At this point I realize the sun doesn't always shine
This experience will never be revealed in a truth or dare
To this day, I am still shaving her facial hair
She is now hated by all the fellas
Mostly it comes from being hairless and jealous
Now she has really thrown the train off the tracks
She showed me the shag carpet on her back
The track marks are exposed, so you’ll have to look twice without getting caught. Your mind starts to wonder what it is he’s been shot full of, Cocaine? Gasoline and formaldehyde? Fabric softener or blue ne high. You’ll have to swallow hard because your throat’s gone dry from the bone dust. Reality is a broken jar of afterbirth, no longer able to contain the past remnants of truth, and shame… leaking all over the shag carpet. Spilling behind the couch into the cracks in the walls. Everyone can see the cigarette burns in the drapes. The neighbors are complaining about the sound of braking glass. Your smile’s gone cold and grey. The lines in your face run deep as wood grain and as smooth as a razor canoe on a river of flesh. You’ve taken shelter in the dry hardened shell of yesterday’s corpse. The sound track to your dreams are of rusty things that scream and clang, and “never mind” is the only thing that follows when you speak your mind in bits and pieces. Father, bless this child of sin. Consume her eyes and salvage her skin. Drape it across her mother’s face to bind and hold the tears in. The sweet nectar of heaven drips down from the trees onto your brow, anointed, salvation….religious disease. I don’t deny these things in my life that I can’t quite grasp, cold winds, locust song, and haunting gasps. Invoke your true self in the blood without fear. My smile’s a scalpel across your eyes. There’s no denying these things that dwell within your bones.
1.
My grapefruit tanned
toothpicks
bow above
the five-day flattened
spot
in an olive shag carpet
tracing grandpa Leo's
blueprint,
with one encapsulated
toe –
this is the femur, this is
the head,
this is the fist, the ring
finger, the soul.
I search for any blunt
white quivering slivers
of Caroline's purported
fly fetuses.
2.
Huddling behind the
corpse
of an old hospital bed,
a framed photo
smoke browned and
wearing my toddler face,
watches
his children choke
hushed, broken
sentences
this will be yours, my
plate, separate the
holiday china…
an enigmatic language
that hovers in
smoke stretched rings
to wilt
upon the hallway
bulb.
3.
I am left
the ceramic cygnet,
and an ivory carved
dromedary.
These artifacts
plucked
from his porcelain
menagerie
that I decipher
through dust fingerprints
for
one small inheritance of
a memory.
4.
Tomorrow,
Aunt Rose
puts price
to his bibelots,
the olive shag carpet,
even cousin Amy's
plastic horse,
who was accidentally
left to pasture on an
afghan.
A silver plated glass cage
image of her past,
she says she will whittle
all of him,
from the
wooden
house
bones.
A little blue pill called Viagra
helps horny old men in Niagra.
So women beware,
anyone with a pair
is thinking of how he can shag ya.
I know a lot of you will think
that a word like ‘Shag’ is a terrible thing to use.
But, in my life, my world, if you care to discuss:
you’ll learn a thing or two of southern syllabus.
Along about nineteen fifty four, as I recollect.
In a small Myrtle Beach bar ------trendy, circumspect.
Nameless here for the sake of patent rights, and permissions
not asked for, you know the gist—legal fights.
But none the less, the fat boy’s ambitions
live on.
Not only in the name of his Bar, you see;
but the name of the dance.
And the name of the dance is the S-H-A-G
Yes,here it is more than sixty years later.
The shag clubs number a hundred or better.
And that is conservative I would think.
For in the south, still home to the skating rink.
Still, beholding to the thought of romance.
It’s fitting to claim, and often to brag
of a dance we own and still love- - the Shag!!!!
Winter morning light filters through lace curtains,
Reaches down, spills onto the corner kitchen sink,
Through east and south facing windows.
The glass jar, the scrub brush and pad in plastic butter dish,
A down-turned, empty yogurt container,
The pink plastic rinse pan
Keep company around the sink's edges.
The dried-out, yellow dishrag
Straddles the stained white porcelain wall between
Its twin chambers. Home.
The three-track cribbage board,
Deck of blue and white checkered "Boardwalk Casino" cards,
Awaiting friendly competitors,
The gilded "Fiftieth" anniversary photo frame.
Adorned with golden bow, glass-winged butterfly,
Displayed proudly on the fireplace mantel.
The couple with their Papal Blessing,
Sharing in the holding. Home.
Morning light streams through
Aged lace curtains, into the living room,
Over the fireplace, bricks set years ago,
Solid as the blessed couple.
Solid as the Home.
She struggles with the details of conversation,
And asks, as she does each time, "Arrr you mare-eed?"
Trilling the r's, after greeting me
With her Mother's heart, "My Myzeleh Surptizeleh"
In her heavily accented German voice.
"Howv many cheel-drrren you havf?" Home.
The dated, yet functional, lime-colored shag carpet,
Symbolic of their stoic, conservative, old European ways;
The lace doily on the end table, photos of a grandchild,
A son, a daughter; and one of them, too. Home.
The pink plastic Rosary ever present
On the coffee table in front of the well-worn sofa.
Her days spent there,
Sometimes sitting, sometimes lying.
The beads close at hand, atop a book of Prayers.
Crocheted adornments on the walls,
A wooden decorator spoon,
A picture framed pair of swans,
With them all those years. Home.
I lay my dearest Susan down to rest
Of tall tales and humour she was the best
An excuse each night
Wouldn't hold me tight
There's something I need to get off my chest
See, Susan was a talented old hag
Three men at once she quite often would shag
The gents often told
Of her lips of gold
and the tricks hidden deep inside her bag
I put up with her, turned the other cheek
She was built of strength, I a man so weak
Shame filtered these eyes
She laughed at my cries
Til they found her in the bag by the creek
*no bags were hurt in the making of this poem*
To a rhythm my feet were moving.
Left, right, T.A.N.G.O.
Moving at a pace full of life and spirit.
A willing partner I had.
Twirl, pause, five steps always ahead.
Stamp and up he holsters me.
He was best with the twist.
My hips would gyrate.
Moving at the steady pace of his grasp.
Completely igniting my body fiercely.
I could not help but change my pace.
To a beat from Santana
I enacted to a tarantella dance.
Feeling his strong hands;
Hold, feel, touch and inflict.
Aphrodisiac some would say.
Perfect partner I thought.
1, T.W.O.S.T.E.P. we go
1, 2 he leads me.
I follow like a loyal dog, the irony.
I loved dancing.
I loved dancing with him.
Cha-cha he changed the pace.
Cha-cha I felt my heart beat.
His hands slithering.
His body away from me it went.
Coming back again for a sultry dance of shag.
The dream partner I needed.
Zouk he dances again.
Paso-doble he serenaded.
My heartbeat getting stronger.
My feet moving willingly.
Moving closer.
His hands grabbed me softly closer.
Waltzing he teased the tip of my nose.
Moving slowly down to my lips.
Allemande our arms where.
He whispered in a tricotee tone.
Au revoir my sweet.
I’m sorry to be such a bag.
But our dance has come to an end.
Cakewalk he strode away.
A partner he was to me.
But never was I to him.
Fox trot I complimented myself.
A fool I felt as I broke in a hora dance alone.
My perfect partner was gone.
I guess those who understand dance moves will understand this, but Im pretty sure its understandable ;-)
© Herzel Poshiwa
This is not my life
Where is the remote
I wanna rewind
What was on my mind?
This is no joke
Was I on some dope?
Smoking shag or sniffing coke
Is there any hope
I just can’t cope
Wasted time in school
Ignoring all the rules
Thought I had the tool
Now winding up a fool
This can’t be my life
Who to blame
When I took life as a game
It’s as if I’m going insane
Just disgrace and shame
God, it was just a dream
It was just a dream
But it seems so real
Life seems so mean in that funny dream
Gotta wake up, wise up and flip the scene
Karl Karlos Goulbourne
CYBER SHAG
(A silly poem)
It's good to cyber shag, talk message or chat
It's ok to flirt, it's harmless to act at times like a ****
It's good to be cool, to joke it's so nice to be heard
If I was Irish would 3 be ****! of course it would it's turd
Yes i am sharp like stannah, the famous of blades
Hard work leaves periods of dullneess
and no time to geting laid ;)
Whooo a bit raunchy, have i gone to far
no if you're a modern free thinking woman, suffragettes burn that bra
Gawjuice, baba, C REE ****, clever use of words
Wtf, sounds funny you think! definitely not absurd
one doesn't need mr sheen to shine, or even brasso
? Do you like fajitas from old El Paso
I love my hot food, yes I do love my spice
variety mmmmm, that definitely is nice
some people are breakable flowers, some dog turd on metal
what I'm saying is, for those non flowers, i wont be calling them petal
Anyway i hope these words bring on a pubescent smile
I can say with confidence I've got style
So it's back to work for me no time for play
There is always **** if that helps wehay ;)
Don't you think taramasalata sounds like ta ra ma see you later?
I use to have a thing for Eastenders Cat Slater
But no more I can say without hesitation
I'd rather choke the chicken beat the meat technical word masturbation ;)
So ta ta farewell au revoir chow
to all that read this, how you like me now
Xxxx
Da Predman powriginalpoems2makeu:)
2011 rewritten 30/04/13