Long House of ill repute Poems
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In New Orleans for some highjinks.
Here to rally ‘round the flag.
She’ll be open to suggestion
When I’ve got her bound and gagged.
I won’t need to solve the riddle
Of the chicken or the egg
To distinguish first from foremost
While I’m making Mandy beg.
You can bet your bottom dollar
Gonna taste forbidden fruit
On a fragrant bed of roses
In this house of ill repute.
Hog the limelight. Gild the lily.
Need to take her down a peg,
Teach her all the whys and wherefores
As I’m making Mandy beg.
There be rotten things in Denmark:
Humble pie and bathtub gin,
Sour grapes with gall & wormwood,
Magdalena’s Den of Sin.
Gonna need a pot to piss in.
Go and tap another keg.
She’ll be forced to face the music
When I’m making Mandy beg.
There’ll be ample food for thought
When I talk turkey with the cook.
I’ll be tickling her fancy
Till she babbles like a brook.
Then I’ll call her on the carpet
As the juice runs down her leg.
Demon rum, Miss Goodie Two-shoes,
I’m just making Mandy beg.
He rode in to Santa Fe one summer day on a broken-down, sweaty nag.
All he owned was the clothes on his back and the Bible in his saddle bag.
He wore a suit of black, an old slouch hat, both so dusty and frayed.
He was an itinerant preacher man by the name of Jeremiah Slade.
Beneath his well-worn duds he wore a brace of pistols on his hips,
With the 'sinners' in towns he occasionally enjoyed a couple-a nips!
His District Superintendent took a very dim view of his associations,
Warnin' that it might lead him into very injudicious temptations!
He dismounted, hitched his hoss and brushed the dust from his suit,
And strolled to Clancy's Saloon, well-known as a house of ill-repute!
He sauntered up to the bar and pointed to a jug of whiskey on the shelf,
Sayin', "Bartend, hand me that bottle. I'll pour three-fingers fer myself!"
He leaned with his back to the bar surveyin' the riotous scene before him.
The debauchery he viewed indicated reapin' souls looked mighty grim,
But he drawed his guns and hammered the butts on the bar fer attention!
"By Gawd!" he thundered, "I intend to clean up this place is my intention!"
With that the dancin', brawlin' and gamblin' came to an abrupt cease!
"Now, I want y'all to find Jesus and give each other the kiss of peace!"
Forty-two souls searched and found Him that day in Clancy's Saloon!
He praised the Lord, sayin', "That's a purty good haul and it ain't even noon!"
The new saints were shoutin' "Hallelujah!" and he roared, "Now hold on there!
I remind y'all I don't preach fer nothin' and if'n y'all would care to share,
I'll pass the hat and as Jesus said, ''Tis better to give than to receive!"
He gave some to the bartend, sayin' "Set 'em up!" With that he took his leave!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
I strolled through the local cemetery the other day
And here are some epitaphs I observed along the way:
Cletus O'Toole lies herein
Too much boozing done him in!
Here lies a gambler molding in his crypt
Odds are he was shot by a chump he had gyped!
His spouse spotted him leaving a house of ill repute
In short order she done him in during a heated dispute!
Clyde raced down the mountain and failed to swerve
Meeting his doom on an S-shaped curve!
His plea to the judge was ruled to be moot
He was sentenced to hang for fencing some loot!
Buckaroo Bob was throwed from his horse
And was buried with his boots on as a matter of course!
The town ruffian was our late friend Keith
He met his match and was interred sans his teeth!
Pilot Pete's final radio message was, "Oh! Shoot!"
Seems he forgot to don his parachute!
Farrier Fred was a premier cobbler as a general rule
Alas, he was kicked in the head by an unruly mule!
Butcher Bruce was expert at wielding his knife
But in a fatal spat he was out-wielded by his wife!
POTD 24 June 2021
From Nabob of Junagarh, or the Nizam—
Collecting tax on cotton and its kind,
The taxing job having strained all my calm,
I stayed at a quiet place, though haunted
And scary—a lovely place no less still.
Deserted now, it was a grand retreat:
River Suista telling in many ways
With babbling tales through every single pebble,
Leaping like a skillful dancing damsel—
What unforgettable and fateful days!
I still recall that flight of a plenum
Of hundred fifty steps down to the river;
A solitary marble palace, plumb
Along the bank, and etched as deeply ever
In my mind, amid sprawling green foothills,
No soul around to whisper of its ills.
The palace, over two centuries old,
Built by a ruler of a Muslim mould,
For private pleasures, luxuries enrolled:
Jets of rose water from the fountains spurting
To cool rooms amply made of marbles cold,
Young Persian nymphets there entertaining,
Mohammad the Emperor, too tired, blasé,
Arab maids rendered disheveled before their bathing,
Their soft, bare feet upon the water splashing,
Singing, and trying hard to please him in odd ways,
Whilst wine poured forth as ample as water,
Afar, tears poured forth from a lost daughter.
Fountains no more now found, songs too have ceased,
Nor snow-white feet ever gracefully step
Upon the white marbles that remain cold.
The vast halls now filled with some cess collectors,
And men like me, oppressed with solitude,
Deprived of all the warmth of womanhood.
My old office clerk had me amply warned:
‘Pass days there if you like, but never nights
If you care’. But I had waved him off with a laugh.
Servants agreed to work only till dark,
Which I ignored, a tusk as does a stray dog's bark.
The house of ill repute, spared by all thieves
Like a bad nightmare, I sneezed at that as well,
And worked hard for long hours till lights grew grey,
Returning at night, too jaded and tired,
Sinking deep into bed, unto sleep mired.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
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
ILL REPUTE
It was a house of ill repute
And though the occupants were cute
(Or so I gather second-hand,
I haven’t visited, you understand)
The local residents agreed
That, though such places served a need,
They really didn’t think it should
Be sanctioned in their neighbourhood.
Theirs was a clean, God-fearing town
And this would drive house prices down.
That really wouldn’t do at all
And so they marched on the town hall.
But that all ended in despair
(The Mayor was a client there)
But, in the end, they won the day;
Corona virus came their way.
And to the joy of all the town,
They had to close the brothel down.
They could no longer ply their art
With everyone six feet apart.
19th February 2021
They Closed The Brothel contest
Sponsor - Kai Michael Neumann
The fun at a house of ill repute
I sat down with the best intention to write about flowers
love and bees, this made me think the whore house had plastic flowers
and that is apt as it is
not a place for romance, red roses and chrysanthemums.
I have had much fun at these places, not only the sex part
but also, the laughter and dancing.
The women liked a sailor and the possibility of further romance.
I know of seamen who married former prostitutes and
their marriages have normally been happy ones.
Time has changed, the women are victims of men’s sexual advances
and buying and selling of, flesh other than pork is outlawed.
Just as well, now girls in this trade are called sex workers
compared with the cleaning ladies and so forth.
Cold cash on the table, the price depending on the position
like asking the char to go out and weed the garden, well you
have to pay extra for that.
The Failure
When I was bored with sea life
and walked ashore in Santiago
I could find no work except in house of ill repute
throwing out the rebellious and for some reason
became a father confessor to the women, not a good start
No one wanted a book- learned man who had read Nietzsche
so when the money was gone it was back to sea.
any ship would do as long as I was paid so I could leave and
try my luck. I got a job on a Liberia type ship that looks as
it was ready to sink – it did after I left- for some reason
the ship was going to Norway it is a mystery we got there.
After years of self-disgust, I had a heart attack and the state
gave me a sick benefit which was not enough to live on
in Norway so I want to Portugal and stayed, there deep in
the interior and spent my time walking or writing
alternative poetry with little success, which disappointed me
that not being knows, until I realized it didn`t matter
I had found my Shangri La and that in the end is my goal in life.