When I was all of twenty
I sipped the wine of plenty
But it went straight to my head
When I was all of thirty
The wine just tasted dirty
So I switched to rum instead
When I was all of forty
Got drunk and feeling sporty
I'd turn on the wit and charm
When I was all of fifty
Not feeling very nifty
I just dealt with all the harm
Paddy was a hit man
for the Irish Mob
hired to be slick
and do a whack job
but he didn't have the knack
or know the trick
without being caught
and put in the nick
behind bars
but not the sort one might think
where a few jars
may be bought and he did so love a drink
more than one too many
was his undoing
the cause of all
the troubles brewing
and with only one hit
it's really no wonder
he was fired from the gang
for a drunken blunder
as he couldn't quit the whiskey
be it bottle or a flagon
and ended up inside
not on the wagon
QUAFF OR SIP
In days of old one drank from a flagon
Some were even embossed with a dragon
Yet more recently, mugs then emerged
And demand for matching items surged
Whether in tin, porcelain, or plain china
Some potteries’ items could not be finer
Later, tea drinkers in the Victorian era
Affected, bought cups that were dearer
Like doll house items, cups got quite small
And they offered hardly a mouthful at all
We know small teacups are not the same
So perhaps a cuplet is a far better name
Behold the beast, wandering in astral night
From dark caverns he emerges by starlight
to quaff nectar from his ambrosia chalice.
A leering creature with evil eyes of malice.
What nefarious thoughts does he ponder
as muscles ripple in his aimless maunder?
Does his venomous tongue thirst for more?
A pungent stench sloughs from every pore.
Empty cup held in gnarled gargantuan hand,
this goliath bellowed orders in foul reprimand,
"Heed my warning or tonight one of you will die;
the one who allows my nectar flagon to run dry!"
With each guzzle, the more belligerent he grew,
a frightful scene in which a battle would ensue.
The massive titan stumbled out in moonlight,
with ripe grape libation, he was fueled for a fight.
What brutish slander he grunts without a pause.
Frothing at the mouth with fallacy as his cause.
Scorning those upon whom he wishes to feast.
Brutal is bigotry when malevolence is released.
This year I asked Santa for a Harley
and a flagon of wine made of barley.
Then I asked God alone
for an angel of my own,
only not one of His, one of Charlie’s!
`~~~
The hot girl next door at her window stands
and through it I gaze her soft buxom glands.
When the moment I seize
it’s at times such as these
I’m so glad I’m not Edward Scissorhands!
~~~
My ma said something I couldn’t ignore
at dinner time and my jaw hit the floor.
Okay, but I think you’ll find
any more and I’ll go blind,
“No, I said you need to masticate more!”
Written: January 2018
Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,
Fire in his belly, a cork in his eye;
And wordlessly sleeping, a-snooze in his bed,
His words, when awakened, go straight to your head.
Alluring to look at, golden is he,
There when you need him as sure as can be;
And anxious to aid you, he doesn't think twice,
The cost of his concert, your soul is the price.
Then, tell him to go now, bid him goodbye;
Leave him to slumber, let sleeping dogs lie!
Tell him his concord you are shooing away,
The lad with the nostrum may no longer stay.
Well! time he was leaving so, show him the door!
A flagon of whiskey a-smash on the floor.
Two lovers smitten, cruel sister bitten
by envy, her tantrum, a spell newly written
‘This shall be so, when next they shall meet
His one desire, to roast her and eat
One empty flagon, then the unwary
He shall be dragon, she shall be fairy
Monster shall never know love with a sprite
Dragon shall see her as supper this night
Their love shall falter and she’ll be his snack
And he shall be mine when I change him back
For he shall think twice ’fore next time he picks
A lover whose sister is this dark witch.’
And yet in spite of her cruel drunken night
At first light those lovers shared their first flight
One dragon, one fairy, neither was prey
For true love it seems shall find its own way
1 November 2021
Contest: Rhyme Me A Poem 2 (based on image 1)
Sponsor: Eve Roper
The Tyburn wagon halts at every inn.
Tight stinking alleys
cobblestones and gin.
The condemned drink their fill,
none fear falling ill.
Harlots cackle and screech
the condemned grow horny.
The Hanging Tree accommodates
three at a time.
Six limbs a’ waving,
bladders and bowels voiding
- drink now to the dangling.
A canting debauchery
spends its copper penny.
Hungover Londoners swear
‘off the wagon,’
but look here comes another:
Pass the flagon!
Painted dragon
walleye graphics
Crushing traffic
Plasma flagon
Paisley flower
Common hours
11/6/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
Hagrid had an egg on his table
And according to the told fable
It hatched a male dragon
He drank a large flagon
Then he named it Norbert not Mabel
I wielded my sword
And slayed the foul dragon,
Then crammed the vile beast
Right back in his flagon.
Pickled and sodden
There will he lie
Few to remember
Fewer to cry.
Obnoxious his deeds,
Destructive his breath,
His venom pervasive,
So glad for his death.
Now we can harness
Our thoughts and our prayers,
Be kind and productive
Not just dragon slayers.
This noble island
This hallowed soil,
So very much more
Than one man’s spoil.
Let the healing commence,
Work as one to achieve,
A country in which
We all so believe.
A land of invention,
Of Shakespeare and Keats,
Of boundless endeavor,
Whose heart strongly beats.
She drank a flagon of cider
Whilst hubby sat down beside her
When she broke wind
It did not offend
He just shrugged, "Where can I hide her?"
Trust is such a deliciously sweet thing
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Make the yellow-bellied canary sing
Confidence lost in an abandoned mind
Smoky sulfur
and silica methane ...
uptake of noxious fumes to the brain
Pinning blame on the innocent
is such a wickedly gossip thing
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Make the paid parrots walk the plank
Over the edge,
submersive feeling of a shark bite
Band of brotherly fear: pie-hole footsteps Caine a-coming,
like the razor slice of a sharp knife
A taste for deceit is an acquired appetite;
such a distended, gluttonous thing
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Loyalty fled, as the cannons started firing
Resentment turned inward,
be a busted gut full of bellyaching —
Sunken boatload of wretched, scurvy self-loathing
Someone coveted the strawberries ...
perhaps it was a fickle foe pretend friend
Check the fingers for the evidence
that is scarlet proof crimson staining
Drink an ask flagon of cherry whine
Who
stole
the
strawberries?
Will be mutineer revealed in due time
Aye, Mikey, the Banshee's wailin'.
Closer. Ever closer. Spurred by your fears.
And the wailin'; oh, the wailin'.
What to do? What to do? The Banshee's drawin' near.
Nay, past deeds are no salvation.
'Tis your fate, Mikey, all but sealed.
And the wailin'; oh, the wailin'.
What to do? What to do, when our Sooners take the field?
For this Banshee's clad in Crimson;
And the wailin's that of Sooners fans
And their Sooners that you've sadly failed,
Once among the greatest in the land.
Aye, 'tis Malice the Crimson Banshee's wieldin'
There's naught but darkness in your fate;
And the wailin; oh, the wailin'.
Not long will the Crimson Banshee wait.
So, drink deep from your flagon Mikey;
Ease your confusion; rest your mind
From the wailin'; oh, the wailin'
For the Crimson Banshee's never kind.
And when you hear naught but the wailin'
It means the time for leavin's come.
Meantime, the Crimson Banshee's wailin', wailin'
"Fire the bum! Fire the bum!"
A gentle breeze on a scorching day,
We wake up early to bring in the May.
Bluebell skies frame cherry blossom showers,
Excited young girls hold garlands of flowers.
Morris men and mummers,
St George and the Dragon,
The roasting of meat,
And ale by the flagon.
And then,
Bouncy castles, welly wanging
Gem jars and races.
Ancient names with modern faces.
At May time
old and new worlds collide
She rests on the stones
With a large glass of wine.
The flags remain
But the people are gone.
Sunburnt daytrippers
Return to their homes.
The sheltering tree
That stands on the street
Guards the old and the new
Until next time they meet.
8th May 2018
Related Poems