Long Boozers Poems
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They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.
You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.
Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.
As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen fifty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.
Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.
He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"
As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near
They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."
I was a self-admitted misanthrope
unwilling to lose or drop a case.
I often threw a rope-a-dope
just to win; I never lose face.
I worked the dark streets
for dark, and even darker, clients
while the cops walked their beats,
shadows showing giants.
As far as I was concerned,
they were all a bunch of losers.
They were bad; they’d get burned.
The lot were boozers or bruisers.
I had caught a difficult case
The man was stabbed and shot.
He deserved it; he was debase,
but the perp would be caught.
The lawyer was my client,
he was dirty; the worst he could get.
Damn, he was mighty defiant!
Still, I didn’t think he did it.
He had no motive, but also no alibi.
So why were the cops after him?
He was a jerk, but had no reason to lie.
But for him the outlook was grim.
I might have to pummel every john
on the streets to get to the truth.
It wasn’t unpleasing to use my brawn
and I was a hellava good sleuth.
I’d search every city block.
I’d find the filthy little perp.
I’d find the lowlife and knock
the truth out of the twisted twerp!
26 August 2022
Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
https://www.rhymezone.com
Black hoodie, black gloves and a black balaclava
Allegiances born of belligerent father
A council estate with yards full of tyres
A rucksack that’s laden with tin tacks and wires
Cars outside boozers where loyalist losers
Don’t spot the briefcase with time delay fuses
One man and his neighbour of different persuasions
Soldiers and ministers weighing equations
Each side will tear you apart with their bombs
Some will send ‘letters’ to where you are from
Some cite religion or national pride
Or family honour when taking a side
Orange and green the colours of choice
BBC using an imposter’s voice
Still the news media expresses surprise
When pubs, cars and trucks light up the skies
A town-centre nightclub to which people flock
Across the street came Messrs Browning and Glock
In hands now committed to unleash their guns
They fingered their triggers... and then there were nuns
***
[During ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, whilst many individuals were targeted due to their religious persuasion, targeted attacks on any particular religious institution were, seemingly, rare. A lengthy chat with Mr Google named two Catholic priests who were deliberately killed, but only one nun who was killed when she happened-on-by a bombing; she remains the only nun killed (albeit inadvertently) because of ‘The Troubles’. ‘And Then There Were Nuns’ simply prompts the question (to which I have no answer) what would a team of gunmen do next if a group of Nuns wandered into their ‘hit’?]
A Political Machine
Two Standards
Tom Wright
7-5-2016
After laying out charges
the FBI suddenly flipped,
Now Lady Justice has had
her blindfold stripped.
Someone lent his opinion
on a two year old mystery,
A day now ordained
to be written in our history;
This day it was proven
you can be, too big to fail,
For a free pass was given
that have sent some to jail.
Delving into the past
I see a greedy politician,
Service wasn’t about country
but mostly about a mission.
The promise to minorities
and the poor was the same,
Mark the ballot for me
and you’ll get in the game.
The story given women
was you’re being abused,
And many didn’t see
that they were being used.
Untrue things were said
just to garner our vote,
With one hand on our wallet
the other on our throat.
Many votes will be garnered
due to promising free stuff,
No self serving Politician
would even dare to rebuff.
Their mirror reflects lying,
potty mouthed, boozers,
And that, according to many,
will paint these folks losers.
Being morally corrupt,
will be their legacy, and fame,
I hope they repent before
God whispers their name.
This family always play
by a different set of rules,
And those who can’t see that
are just plain fools.
So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
The Rot Gut Incident
Tumbleweeds blew into Town
Rolling two bearded cowpokes with them
Looking for some action and the sheriff
The Bloody Mary is the only saloon in Rot Gut
I reckon this is a proper place for the ornery
For a couple of horny no good clowns
They didn't come to sing a song or read the bible
Revenge was on their mind
Along with other assorted kinds of crime
They wanted ugly Molly for some nasty sport
And whiskey to wet their whistle
After a spell the drunken foe came down
From playing with their whore
Staggered on the stairs for lack of balance
Demanded me, Sheriff John, served up for their amusement
I killed their brother Bob last year in this here very bar
For starting troubles with the patrons
And stealing from the tip jar
I happened to be there with hat in hand
When they called me out
And made me take a stand
Then drew their guns to shoot me down
If they hadn't been such drunken boozers
Slower than molasses
I’d be telling a different kind of tale about these losers
And they wouldn't be planted six feet under ground
In the cemetery just outside of town
Used as fertilizer for the flowers
In Rot Gut that’s just how things go down
7/13/14 A Town Called “Rot Gut” contest
The bloodshot moon merged into the dark, hazy night.
People wandered aimlessly, avoiding a fight.
A sultry bar still open, dispensing hard stuff.
Bootleggers were abundant till the game got rough.
A man sat in a corner observing the scene,
The boozers drank too much like goblins dark of mien.
The quiet man went to a phone booth and whispered,
The platoon was ready, their commands were answered.
A large police squad arrested the offenders,
All were fined, and none offered any false contenders.
Did they learn their lesson and mend their wicked ways?
Go to nearby villages and consider their days.
The Small Cafe
Waiting...
for a friend.
I asked her to coffee,
she did not look well.
It is hard to say how.
A little disheveled,
perhaps heartbroken,
worried,
concerned,
flawed in some way,
self doubt,
illusive perfectness...
trending against the tide.
Soon she will be here.
One of many.
We are a club,
unknowingly joined,
some of us,
voted to higher levels...
of pain and rejection,
allowing for the service,
to others.
While others are too weak,
to recover without help,
and assistance.
Mentoring those that are hurting,
from cheating and lying spouses.
Abusive friends, that over stay,
and demand more then they are due.
Lovers that are users,
boozers that are losers...
What would your life be like free?
What if the idea although scary,
offered less pain,
and more gain.
If it gave more power,
and less abuse.
Control of self,
and the acceptance
by those that count.
The ones that always...
loved you.
If a new path were set,
would you take it?
If a different world were possible,
would you dare?
Skagway, Alaska in the late 1890s was sure a rowdy place alright!
It was seethin' with humanity a-raisin' hell all through the day and night!
'Twas the gateway to Chilkoot Pass beyond which lay Klondike gold!
Why! You could scoop up nuggets by the bushel, or so it was told!
Jefferson Randolph 'Soapy' Smith 'owned' the town and was so very brash.
He came up with nefarious schemes to relieve newcomers of their cash!
Madame Gertie arrived with her soiled doves and set up houses of ill repute.
Among the ladies were Ethel the Moose, Mollie Fewclothes and Maude the Mute!
Tinklin' pianos and screechin' fiddles played in saloons invitin' boozers in.
Hordes of horses whinnied, dogs howled and mules brayed addin' to the din!
The Home of Hooch, Red Onion and Mangy Dog saloons flung open their doors,
To sate the thirsty sots before they tried their luck at diggin' by the scores!
Hawkeye Blevins, notorious gambler, grabbed a table at the Hungry Pub Saloon,
And with slight of hand relieved many gullible rubes of their moolah all too soon!
Even preachers tossed aside Bibles and grabbed shovels to join the endless queue,
To foolishly struggle up Chilkoot Pass in the dead of winter with that motley crew!
A few hardy stampeders found their Eldorado but many more came to naught!
Death, disillusionment and starvation stymied the quest for which they sought.
Many a hapless feller lies beneath that frigid land never more to roam.
Infamous Soapy Smith lies at rest in Skagway Cemetery, there, his final home!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Grouin up in Glesga wis nae mean feat
Pleyin in the back courts an dreepin the wass
Plouterin in puddles manky water sploshing aboot,
Searching in yon mucky middens fur treasure
Thrown oot by the families in the closes.
Fur a fitba a pile o rags weideh doon wi aw sorts o things
Or a tanner ba made tae test yer skills dribbling roon
Bricks, holes an buckets burnt through.
Some wi nae shin baries wis the thing
An naething caught except wee beasties in the hair.
Holy jumpers an maukit breeks like a uniform
Worn tae mark ye oot as livin in tenements raw.
Aye aww wis puir always skint fur buying scran
Except faither oan a Friday nicht at the boozers
Getting fu wi his pals forgettin the weans,
Crying at hame an when he came in mither
Wid aways get the blame .
Aye the weans o glesga wur a hardy breed,
All ways stervin an needin a feed,
That wisnae allus therr a feast wis a jeely piece.
When they grew an produced men o valour,
Or men o wealth an fauncy cars,
Ne,er forgot that they were a Glesga wean.