Long Bookies Poems
Long Bookies Poems. Below are the most popular long Bookies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bookies poems by poem length and keyword.
Off to The Bookies
I’m off to the bookies
To lay down a bet
Of when I will receive
A text from you next
I reckon February
A courtesy ‘hi’
Happy birthday dad
Well I know that’s a lie
The two to one fav
Well that has to be May
You’re low on funds
And it’s your birthday
Two days before
How are you?
I sent some money
And off you flew.
My granddaughter’s birthday
A text to astound
You didn’t reply
When I sent twenty pound
December you inform me
I’ve bought all my gifts
Mine’s conspicuously missing
But I let it drift.
I send a ton
Thank you so much
For another five months
You’ll be out of touch.
David Cox 01/01/24
As religion is discretionary
(not hereditary)
it's like a day at the races
a trip no less and here's a tip
while going through your paces
first check the horses' form
pick your odds-on favourite
as is the norm
from worst to best
(forget the rest)
put money on the nose
and place your bet
for yours to win
not those which show(s)
high-risk is high-reward
on the scoreboard
at the rail(s)
say a prayer take note
it never fails
for a day out big buck
winner's tote payout
and with a little luck
through thick and thin
your horsemanship
will come in
But what about the jockeys?
It's not the stakes, bookies' odds,
or those holding the reins...
it's all in the hands of the Gods.
They closed the corner store some time ago
the ciggies by the two we now forgo
our lucky bags now a recollection
as is browsing in the comic section.
Mechanics' Social Club no longer stands
their topless barmaids, striving local bands
and Sunday morns' all-comers talent show
both pubs have closed, there's nowhere left to go.
They closed the corner store some time ago
finally called the time and stopped the show
The cafe, bank the chemist shop, all gone
the street is quiet, not much going on.
We'll have a Tesco store sometime, they say
we know they're sure to place it far away
you'll need an Uber car, too far to walk
We'll miss the bench where you could stop and talk.
They closed the corner store some time ago
Nail salons and vape stores, now come and go
barbers, bookies empty charity shops
you see the homeless sleep, you see no cops
once walking up and down the street in pairs
graffiti daubs, the windows smashed, who cares?
An out-of-towner builds an HMO
inside the corner store we used to know.
Note this weekend's time and
date carefully on any diary and
calendar you can find
For it should not be taken with
a pinch of salt but rather go down
and be marked in terms of it's
historical significance
Because saturday's
Grand National winning jockey
was in fact a women
And Irish eye's must have
been smiling down upon us
all in equal measure
And hopefully now she stands
and takes her rightful place
in the suffrage movement
Beside Miss E.Davidson who
placed herself in front of a
horse on that fateful Derby day
Merely trying to make a point
not become a martyr for or
to the cause
Because not only did
Rachael Blackwood beat
the bookies and the odds
The Chair
Bechers Brook
The Water Jump
Canal turn
And every single thing Aintree
racecourse could throw at her
She also overcame the men as well
Now not only finally equal at last
but one better
I'm only just so sorry because
of this insipid covid pandemic
A multitude of ecstatic fans
we're not there to will her
across the finish line
And Cheer her till the rafters
shook during the prize giving
ceremony
And again i only hope
you win again in the not to
distant future god praying
next year
So you can receive a posthumous
double celebration
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.
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.
“Isn’t it nice to know that tomorrow
Is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”
For goodness knows I’ve made as many
As anyone else you’ve met.
Whenever I’ve come to a cross-roads
(And, in life, there are many of those)
After careful consideration,
It was always the wrong one I chose,
In the bookies I’m a favourite,
They smile when I walk in.
For, whomever I put my money on,
They know it will never win.
My biggest mistake was my marriage.
That was bound to end in tears.
I vowed to be true for ever;
She lasted barely three years.
So now I can’t wait for tomorrow.
I’ve vowed from the moment day breaks,
I’ll not make a single decision,
Then I can’t make any mistakes.
Came from Baltimore by Pigtown
Where they like to lay the law down.
He rebelled against the ground rule.
Had to grow up in reform school.
Got acquainted with a curveball
Dealing pepper by the church hall;
Broke some windows, but he left the scouts impressed.
He was an OG All Star, and a first draft Hall of Famer.
He had manners like a gomer, but he played with no disclaimer.
Pitched in Beantown, till they tossed him.
They’d regret they ever lost him.
Joined the Yankees as a slugger.
Jumped on southpaws like a mugger,
Shooting rockets past the flagpole.
Fattest wallet on the payroll.
Made a called shot, and the papers did the rest.
He went from zero to sixty lodged in Murderers’ Row,
With women, booze, and money all just part of the show.
He led the A.L. in hitting.
Chased after ta-il, no quitting.
Played ring around the bases
In a dozen pennant races.
He scored doubles at the wet bar.
Belted homers before radar,
And suffered his publicity’s intrigues.
He was an urban legend; no one ever saw him on TV.
And in the house that he built, there’s a tribute to his number three.
It was series after series.
All the bookies have their theories,
Parsing records and statistics,
Charting sinker ball ballistics,
But in the end, most everyone agrees:
He never had to play the N*gro Leagues.
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
LET ME BRING YOU
UP TO DATE.
GRIDS ARE DOWN
THROUGHOUT THE STATES.
A HUNDRED AND TEN
WITH SWELTERING HEAT.
WITH SHORTS ON MY BODY
FLIP FLOPS ON MY FEET.
THIS HAS GONE ON
FOR THE LAST 48 HOURS.
ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT
AND STILL HAVE NO POWER.
YET GAMBLERS ARE GAMBLING
BOOKIES BOOK BETS.
PREDICTING THE TIME
THE GRID WILL RESET.
A THUGSTER TRIED THUGGING,
BUT THEN HE GOT SHOT.
WITH A HOLE IN HIS HEAD,
HE WAS DEAD ON THE SPOT.
LOOTERS ARE TARGETS
FOR COPS ON THE STREETS.
WHO TRY TO STOP RIOTS
AND STILL KEEP THE PEACE.
THE BEST PLACE TO BE
IS INSIDE OF MY CAR.
WITH A/C AND MUSIC
AND ENOUGH GAS TO GO FAR.