Long Bordello Poems

Long Bordello Poems. Below are the most popular long Bordello by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bordello poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member Riverboat Gambler

He plied the Mississippi River on the paddle wheeler 'Dandy Dame'.
Gamblin' was his profession and three-card monte was his game.
He became very creative at palmin' that elusive ace of spades.
Such dexterity and sleight of hand he had practiced for decades!

He embarked in Saint Louis for a cruise to the town of New Orleans.
On his arm hung one of his gaudily dressed bordello 'queens'!
He wore diamond rings on each finger and impeccably tailored suits,
A homburg hat, pearl studs, gold-tipped cane and alligator boots!

He toted a concealed derringer just in the event there was trouble,
And he took a table near the door so he could lam on the double!
He ordered Jack Daniels bourbon for the dudes he was soon to con,
And sized up the naive and hapless victims who dared to take him on!

The gambler let others win a hand or so to make them feel at ease.
His shill closely watched as the gambler, his moment was to seize!
His winnin's piled up as bettors tried to locate the shiftin' ace.
Losers dropped out of the game and other suckers took their place!

One astute monte player saw the scam and called the gambler's hand.
He drew his forty-fours, chairs toppled and folks fled to beat the band!
The gambler drew his rod but he met his God, blood oozin' on the floor!
His sobbin' 'queen' clasped him to her breast to know his love no more!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Placed No. 2 in Paula Swanson's "Pick A Card, Any Card" Contest - Jun 2011
Form: Rhyme


Her Last Client, Part Iii

...See, when she let her guard down, when she looked deep,
she saw things that left her somewhat disturbed,
Roxanne didn’t know her man’s favorite color,
and that fact didn’t really upset her.

She didn’t know that much of his home town,
or of the dreams that pushed him on in life,
she didn’t feel the need to learn the things
you normally expected of a wife.

And sometimes she imagined, when they made love,
some of the men she knew in the old days,
she even recalled a fine brothel client
the night that their second daughter was made.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her Stu,
there was little to criticize in him,
but could she survive without him by her side?
Yes, she could, she realized to her chagrin.

When she realized this she heard that damn man,
her last client back at the bordello,
the man she had dismissed as a sexist,
now she wondered, had he been in the know?

It took her many months to accept this,
it went against all she’d ever been taught.
Could there be truth in his thoughts on women?
And if it was so, then what had she wrought?

Had her teenage self been so arrogant
to think that she could outwit tradition?
Had she destroyed her chance to truly feel
following her 'free-spirited' vision?

She’d always though the restrictions on sex,
at least those placed on the female kind,
had been oppression, acts of injustice,
but now troubling thoughts came to her mind.

If all this was older than what she learned,
if innate truths had long been in action,
why had she not learned about such a threat?
Why had these ideas never gained traction?

Why weren't women being told how things were?
Why all the half-truths of what lay beneath?
Could she have avoided this emptiness
if she'd been warned of what paths not to seek?

And now, nearly forty, it was too late,
she could not change the girl she had once been,
she had lived as they told her to believe,
and now she never could really bond with men.

Roxanne liked her husband, liked Stu a lot,
but she now knew it could never be love.
She wouldn’t divorce, that would hurt her girls,
she would stay with him, she would make it enough.

How would she live, how could she deal with this?
She didn’t even know where to begin,
but she’d do what she could to make sure her girls
both made it to the altar as virgins.
Form: Narrative

Within This Slice of Bleakmoment

Within this slice of bleakMoment i am pondering my
madness AND do sane people wonder if they are 
quite crazy -- this i cannot know /  but if while
thinking of my insane need for sanity these thoughts
as cold as mountain icy water squirrels through the 
deep rivers of my nut-brain;

   of course the glass box contains a hidden object
that only longNeck banana beating gorillas should
(never cross a mean cockSlinger in a bordello) eat

   now the priest having said his sacrament of 
(i did not do it) confession a youthful thought
flew by the stained window with an oversexed
 persuasion and the bread and wine were not
            entirely enough for heaven but 
                       hell thoroughly enjoyed 

   if fearIs the mindKiller then what of souls;
beyond the third door onThe left near the 
tissue and suppositories says the underlaid
underpaid thinly lipped clerk holding a banana
whistling Ode to Joy__ohboy.

:: 06-04-2018 ::

The Reign of Stormy Daniels

alternately titled: breast damned fallacy hi-jinxed!

In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version

swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically dick cleared
on a stack of video nasties, 
and x-rated 'zines
now she can live rest of life

guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop

with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,

who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)

shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
condom free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird

mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that ass hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ejaculation
of Peter ought to be heard

where sudden sound
sans pubis seams burst 
jock strapped unseen bulging Johnson's 
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
     automatically immersed

within tawdry tabloid pulp pit
whore sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,

NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eyelit 
of trouser snake split)

yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.

Haiti a Basket Case

Haiti is a basket case.

They marched him down the gangway by 
the feared Tonton Macoute, armed men dressed in Hawaii shirts
and slacks, partly concealing their guns
The young thief shivered, I thought they were going to kill him.
At the pier, they spoke friendly to him and told him to run away
he ran and ran, as he was running to the corner of a warehouse
thinking if he got around, he would be safe they opened up the fire and 
shot him dead, his feet still running on the ground.
I have a vague recollection of seeing Peter Ustinov, but I think
was because of Graham Greene’s book “the Honorary consul”
I was an avid reader when young and tended to put myself in
the action, one can say I was captivated by the book I was reading.
even Micky Spillane was on the menu.
I had given the Tonton people cigarettes and whisky they saw
me as a good guy and invited me to go with them to a bordello
I found an excuse for not going, I had a great fear of these 
murderous thugs.
Haiti is in the news again, gangsters have taken over, but
the country has always been run by gangsters the biggest
problem is the access to US guns; I do think the USA will
end up like Haiti if America loses all discipline and lets hatred
often combined with race, take over the country.
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.


a shipmaster in love

a shipmaster in love

The boat that left at sunset didn't have red sails
but fading sunlight painted grey sail red
even though the vessel was not going to China 
not this year or any other year, the Oriental 
wanted to know why he lost two wives 
in, the short span of seven years
His third wife sees the boat disappear from 
the safety of her verandah she doesn't like 
a vessel moves and stays at home
She is secure, and pregnant, a feat his other wives 
managed, hence that's why he sold them to
a bordello in Tashkent
the boat is a brigantine made of Canadian wood
the timber has the habit of groaning when 
sails have no wind and days appear longer than
when a storm is brewing
The captain has a shopping list for his third wife 
gave him, about buying figs in Sumatra and 
coconuts in Congo, the captain smiles, his wife
 she has never seen a map
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

The Day They Closed the Brothel

 Homeless, destitute with nothing more then a backpack and cigarettes 
down the rabbit hole she went, no linen tablecloths just stricken wood,  
in a house of ill repute;.
She could not refuse the hunkering of a horny man who lived by threats 
so she counted her bills and tucked them in her brassiere with a tear   
She cringed when glass smashed and grinded her teeth when she was cold 
it was a bordello made surreal by alcohol mellowed Johns who were so old 
A bawdy crib, (bagnio del innocente)  bath for the innocent...
a knocking shop that foiled the linen and gave shiners to young girls, 
no one cared   
in this disorderly place, where the stew was watered down with whiskey float
Then came the raid that brought everything to a halt,  
in a gestalt moment she found freedom, perhaps  her prayers were answered?
Down to the river she went for a bath and a rest,  
it was then that she remembered her first time, it was incest * 
The wild caged bird had no other place to hide but in this fortress 
she slept for days on the grass beside a great big boulder, , 
all the wild animals in the forest thought she was a Princess.  
They let her sleep, and fed her pine nuts from the trees.  Until this day,  
Gianna never mentioned the brothel to anyone, no even herself. 

Feb. 20, 2021

Premium Member The Queen of Repentance

On the morn of the eve of infinity
Saw the eyes of a stranger I knew
As she danced to the tune of the Devil
By the silvery light of the moon

I said " Lady I came here for drinkin'"
But her burning gaze finished my sentence
She said " Sir! Won't you tell me your secret
And I'll be your queen of repentance"

So soldier or sailor live life to the last
Believe in the truth of expectance
For in some dark tavern or shady bordello
You may meet her the queen of repentance

Then her hand held mine like a grape to a vine
With a promise of pleasures untold
And this angel or wraith was to replace my faith
And shone light in a soul turned cold

So soldier or sailor come tell her your secret
For she's your last chance of redemption
Let the black in your soul be replaced by the light
Where no sin is too great for exemption
Form: Lyric

An Original Story

The day after I was birthed,
God and a bunch of sassy angels
played Irish fiddles in a beery bordello,
a place not yet colorized into reality.

The next day,
squealing in my two-day-old
tight Rubenesque pinkness,
I was immortalized in a Brownie Box Camera,
the guys in the men's room
pissed themselves with a teary laughter.

On the third day of my fleshy ascension
a thin women said she was going to love me
for a little while only.
I took the deal.

So many days have fallen away now.
Sex saturated, love begotten, a damaged
dance of a life,
but there was always wine.

An old, white-beaded gent,
has bequeathed me two holy relics,
iconic images of Santa,
and Michealangelo's painted finger,
when I hold them up to the light
I can almost see through them.

Premium Member Equal Time for Ladies

When asked to write Limericks about ladies
I said, "Oh, no. There's no way in Hades!"
Too many are my friends
I'd have to make amends
Not even for a brand new Mercedes

Then, I gave the matter a bit more thought
And chose women closest to my heart
The ones in Milton Creek
Five who are quite unique
All lovely women who are very smart

Jan holds ownership of the Manx Saloon
Where two lovely ladies sing a fine tune
It's where Milt played poker
But do not provoke her
Jan has been known to throw a mean spittoon!

Tania now runs the bakery in town
Her Whiskey Whoopie Pies are world renown
Come to Kitchin's Kitchen
She might let you pitch in
to help her make the best pastries around

Deb manages the Manx with extra care
No outlaws allowed, so you'd best beware
If you're packin' a gun
Or maybe on the run
She'll call the lawmen and they'll be right there

Two recently hired ladies fit right in
Caren tends bar, pouring jiggers of gin
Anne-Lise is the town flirt
Servin' drinks in ruffled skirt
Fine ladies, living at Aces with Lin

There's a few others at the Bordello
I hear one's sweet on a certain fellow
Maybe just a rumor
A tale told with humor
The Creek's calm enough to hear cows bellow

Residents will keep it free of all spats
No bad hombres who'll be wearin'  black hats
More ladies will arrive
Our little town will thrive
Mayor Tom will have more to say 'bout that
© Lin Lane  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Limerick

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