Long Bouncer Poems
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They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
Prime Minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau,
was born on Christmas night, I think under a star;
and became the 23rd Prime Minister of Canada,
and leader of the Liberal party;
son of former Prime Minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau.
Justin is a kind, polite, fun loving man,
he was a snowboarding instructor, night club bouncer;
was a teacher, a boxer when younger,
and legalized marijuana in Canada to shut down illegal sales;
he wrote his memoir in 2014, a bit early Justin.
As Prime Minister, he apologized on behalf of Canada,
to the Indigenous People for wrong doings through history;
and also to other communities for transgressions of the past,
he has no fear to stand up to the USA President, any leader;
during his election campaign he always remained the gentleman.
Some, may find him too passive- I see his inner strength,
he is a wonderful representative for Canada;
with his movie star good looks, easy smile and laugh,
I love his upbeat personality and positive attitude;
and I am proud to call him my leader, my Prime Minister.
______________________________
February 5, 2020
Poetry/Ode/To Prime Minister Justin Trudeau
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1223-268-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Ode To A President, or Politician or Leader,
Past or Present, sponsor, Sheri Fresonke Harper
Fourth Place
They wait in the night-lit brightness.
I watch them from an over-magnified telescope;
youngsters and older
some dripping a scent of latent maturity,
a furtive effort to blend and not offend
the judges
who have sly thoughts
in their searchlights eyes.
The bling, the gewgaw glints,
the small of fake gold,
the shot passions of high skirts.
They form ordained disorderly lines
eager to bow before the bouncer,
to pour themselves
into the melee and scrum
the jumping pump of ecstasy.
Night life is wanting, is waiting,
it needs to club together,
to sweat the music,
to throb with the sound
of aortic rhythmic impulses,
to dance upon a crushed floor
breathlessly offering upwards
their erotic prayers,
on baited hooks of desire.
The young must,
they simply must,
and we trust they will be tired one day,
too tired, too busy, too distracted
as we are
to dance death away
while drugs snack on their meat.
Hitler accidentally bombed his nephew's house in Liverpool
So his nephew joined the U.S. to fight with the Allies
A blue whale's tongue weighs more than an elephant
Now, aren't you really glad you tuned in?
There are two hundred million insects for every human
Wouldn't have gone camping if I knowed that!
We weigh slightly less when the moon is directly overhead
Due to the gravitational effect
Too bad the moon doesn't shine all day
100 lightning strikes occur worldwide every second
Stay indoors!!!
Humans grow about 8mm every night while asleep
But revert back to their normal height the next day
Oh so glad, otherwise we'd spend a fortune on new clothes
250 people have fallen off the Leaning Tower of Pisa
Guess they leaned a little bit too much
1 in 28 American school-aged children
Have a parent in either state or federal prison
Holy crap! A really great example to follow
A single healthy human male produces enough sperm
In two weeks to impregnate every fertile woman on the planet
Uh! I volunteer my services... no charge!
Although gold is a heavy dense metal
It is generally considered non-toxic
Gold flakes may even be ingested in foods or drinks
No wonder restaurant meals are so high
Pope Francis once worked as a bouncer in a Buenos Aires bar
“Doing God's work?”
Mozart wrote a canon entitled “Leck mich im Arsch”
Which loosely translated means “Lick my derriere”
Nuff said!!!
Time
doesn't fly; it sashays right on by.
More magician than albatross.
Playing shell games with dreams.
An endless cosmic comedy
starring the damned and the lost.
I've degrees in procrastination
earned a P.H.D in missed opportunity.
Raised kittens to become lions-unlike me.
Steering them clear of black holes and ravines.
Around those that promise gemstone and flower.
But only give slag, weed, and sorrow
I thank my gilded father who gifted bushels of love.
And the thorny step for every black period of snappy discipline.
I thank the bouncer who stitched my runaway lips.
The silver cop who shoehorned me onto a straight and narrow ship...
without blowing me up or in.
Now I pause to thank God, the farmer.
Who watered and fed us during drought.
I thank the false prophets and haters.
Who never bothered to turn our satin hearts to rust.
(Sometimes there's nothing more important
than a spray of indifference and a burst of great luck.
...as the end draws closer,
I lay down regret and failures in full light.
In the form of a pyramid.
At the base lies a tangle of selfish snakes.
In the middle is abused and misplaced time.
At the top, a magician juggling sprinting dreams.
That I was never fleet nor clever enough to overtake.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2026
The bars are all closed and I’ve got a full tank,
So we could idle all night.
I’ll buy us breakfast at the Swamp Pike Diner.
We’ll welcome dawn’s early light.
It’s been seven long years since the tire plant closed.
Right now the job I got sucks.
I only feel alive on Saturday night
When I can hustle some bucks.
My attitude’s the kind that suits
These tattooed arms and steel-toed boots.
Yeah, I grew deep blue-collar roots in Spring City.
I scored us some crank from a dude they call Slim.
He’s on probation; it’s cool.
He was a bouncer down at Banker’s Tavern;
Busted some guy with a stool.
It's a doggy-dog world and a b*tch of a life.
Nobody gives you a break.
So I don’t give a f*ck who likes me or not.
At work, I’m known as The Snake.
My dad’s a drunk; his wife’s a sl*t.
Did Satan curse this town, or what?
It’s hold yer breath and bust a nut in Spring City.
Check under the seat; I stashed two quarts of Bud,
A pint of Peppermint Schnapps.
We’ll do a line and then we’ll light up a blunt.
Just keep an eye out for cops.
Gotta numb down the pain ‘cause this town’s a disease,
Self-medication’s ok.
Don’t ask the doctor what you already know.
He won’t have nothin’ to say.
If drugs don’t get ya, gambling will.
There’s layoffs at the knitting mill.
Sometimes I think I’ve had my fill of Spring City.
The poker game wuz progressin' purty well 'til Iron Mike started a ruckus!
Seems he had some spare aces up his sleeve, that dirty, sneaky cuss!
One-Eyed Pete didn't cotton to them shenanigans and drew his forty-four!
Iron Mike jumped up, toppled chairs and tables a-skedaddlin' fer the door!
That started the biggest brawl that the town uv Buckskin Joe had ever seen!
The mob wuz yellin' fer Iron Mike's head but he had prudently fled the scene!
One-Eared Earl, the barkeep, fired his rods a-tryin' to restore some order.
Meanwhile, Iron Mike wuz racin' on a stolen hoss fer the Mexican border!
The pianner player kept playin', "A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight!"
('Twas Three-Fingered Clyde who tickled the keys fer free booze ever' night!)
Big Nell, who belted out bawdy songs each night, wuz involved, fists a-flyin'!
She busted some noses and shattered some teeth, and I ain't a-lyin'!
A dozen er so uv Madam Rosita's soiled doves joined in the fray as well,
A-kickin' and a-scratchin' and pullin' hair and generally raisin' 'ell!
There wuz so many shots fired that night, it seemed like war had started.
Many drunks awoke the next day to find that thar hair had been parted!
Studs Flanigan, the bouncer, wuz trampled as the fight spilled out on the street.
This sensitive affair caused a deeper rift between the rabble and the town's elite!
So as not to hear the fussin' and cussin', moms covered their kids tender ears.
Old-timers claimed they hadn't enjoyed sech a show in Buckskin Joe fer years!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
~ All My Life a Waddie…
I have lived the life of a country bumpkin
matter of fact I came into this world where
Every day was lived hand to mouth so to speak
poor as a church mouse with not a crumb to spare
I’ve lived among the bright lights of the city
just doing the nine-to-five job everyday
Worked my ass off for less than minimum wage
took a few odd jobs for whatever it paid
Been a soldier, farmer, manager and cop
dug ditches, cleaned toilets and worked in a bar
Business owner, cashier, bouncer and a bum
laid highways, built bridges and washed people’s cars
I’ve flown through the sky and sailed over the sea
worked on mountains, the beach and in the forest
All through my life no matter the job I had
I have always tried to do my very best
Always lived the life of a hardworking man
never given a silver spoon that's for sure
I want you to know that I feel still quite blessed
and I would never ask for anything more
Now that the end of my working life is done
time for this old man to quit roaming about
Find a place I can sit and write poetry
until my final flicker of flame burns out
Patrick O’Flanagan’s covert shenanigans
Make people ask where he gets to at night
There’s a perception that Patrick O’Flanagan
Visits a door with a glowing red light
What people don’t know about Patrick O’Flanagan
Is he has only one goal
Each night at ten to ten, visits his gran again
She does a dance with a pole
Old Ma O’Flanagan dances for Stan and Ben
Over in County Kildare
The nurses and carers all turn a blind eye
As Stan sticks his pension ‘down there’
Pat’s her announcer, he's also her bouncer
He keeps them old fellas in check
Old Ben can get frisky and that’s a bit risky
Unless he desires a sore neck
These is the rules says Patrick O’Flanagan
That shrivelled todger of yours
Grandma will make that old thing come awake again
And you place hard cash down her drawers
But Ben said those wrinkles don’t pep up our winkles
We only watch her to rehearse
For what we might see on the CCTV
When you nip out back with that nurse
A story in The Times about
Admittance into clubs
Discussed the people who’d get in –
No luck for average schlubs.
You have to dress in certain clothes
And have the right cachet;
If not, you’ll not get past the rope,
No matter what you say.
What really got to me the most,
Describing women’s dress,
Was mentioning the shoes they’d need
To guarantee success.
Of course, they must be “Christians” -
That’s Louboutins, soled in red;
Or else Manolo Blahniks
May be strutted in, instead.
In either case, the shoes should have
No less than five-inch heels!
I wonder if the bouncer at the club
Knows how that feels.
‘Cause even in my younger days,
When cool styles I’d embrace,
If I wore five-inch heels, I’d end up
Flat upon my face!
I hate the whole idea of clubs
Where bouncers pick and choose
The patrons they’ll allow inside –
Based solely on their shoes!