Long Pubs Poems
Long Pubs Poems. Below are the most popular long Pubs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pubs poems by poem length and keyword.
Back in the eighties, wild and free..
A golden time for you and me.
We'd ride our bikes through streets unknown..
No screens, no apps.. just flesh and bone.
Vinyl spun and cassettes played loud..
Walkmans made us feel so proud.
Sunday sessions, pub lights dim..
Happy hour.. middies brimmed.
Beaches burned with summer’s glow..
Boardies, sunburn, sand in tow.
Bonfires crackled, smoke rose high..
Underneath the star-lit sky.
Dating boys with puffy hair..
Lipstick smudged but didn’t care.
Waiting by the phone each night..
Waiting for a call, he said he might.
No ATMs—our cash was king..
Hard-earned dollars, ching ching ching.
Weekend drives to hunt for fuel..
Breaking our parents curfew rule.
Holden Kingswoods, Toranas too..
Panel vans with wicked crews.
Number Three Carpark.. burnouts spun..
Late-night laughs and endless fun.
Roller & Ice skating, ice so slick..
WAFL games and goal-side kicks.
Live bands shook the pubs at night..
Fake IDs for the bouncer to sight.
Ravenswood drags and bogans galore..
No respect for the rules or law.
Chiko rolls and Fast Eddys feeds..
Hangover cures.. a friend in need.
Fireworks lit the sky so bright..
Parties raged through endless nights.
Australia Day, we stood so proud..
Singing anthems strong and loud.
Sunday roasts with family near..
Good mates laughing, ice-cold beer.
Life was simple, bold, and fast..
A time we knew would never last.
Now we look back, hearts so full..
The eighties had that magic pull.
No likes, no texts.. just love and grace..
Those were the days, our golden place.
SCOTLAND'S MONSTER DINNER
walking upon the moors of Scotland i saw a sprite who
became a unicorn -- she mated with Kelpie: kissing
therianthropy --> she rode the unicorn: shedding her skin--
saltire!
I when to Restaurant Andrew Fairlie --
manager said someone got mutilated late last night -- upon the
moors of Scotland! Oh no!
Glad I ate Haggis! Sean Connery in drag -- like a werewolf
kissing Gerard Butler. Princes Street spending howls
shopping in the street in the capital! Edinburg makes
nice suits and covers all things of humans and beasts. but i
prefer Lothian Road in the west; near Leith Street! In the east!
oh ah Aaoooooo!
Like Lon Chaney drinking a pina colada!
:: 09.09.2020
You have an Alice band, keeps your hair in place,
Dum and Dee said you're so modern, have an interface,
long time since Terry"s tea party, we were timeless,
the Mad Hatter said: 'Poof!' Couldn't care less.
The Doormouse nudged himself awake, for Godssake.
'Can't you let me sleep, I'll decide when I wake,'
The Queen had decided on independence for Barcelona,
'Can not be, ' they wailed, "Shut up, ' she said, 'You're another bloody moaner.'
The tortoise taught us how to make love, mimicked
the Queen, clapped his hands and said: 'Off with his head,'
Tarts were ready but black as the ace of spades,
brought uncerrmoniously by a train of waiting maids.
The King chastised everyone including the seven of clubs,
decided the whole lot were boring, went on a tour of Wonderland pubs.
Footnote: The Queen admonished the knave
and said: 'You"re not alright Jack.'
Lie to men, but not to God,
I'm sorry for those I'll hurt,
For this is what I must write,
I'm not writing because I'm holier than thou,
Neither am I better than thou.
I know I'm better than nothing.
Lie to men, but not to God,
You call yourself Christians,
Ready to go to heaven,
Just because you go to church,
Every Sunday ushering in church members,
In every mass you are the altar boy.
Lie to men, but not to God,
You crucify others,
That they do not go to church,
They are always in the pubs,
Drinking and taking the roles.
You crucify them,
Isolating yourselves, at times quarantining,
Didn't Jesus associate with them?
Lie to men but not to God,
In the village and the streets,
Fornication and adultery,
The clergy eating from their flock.
Is sin better than sin,
Every church going day you go,
Well and good I appreciate,
But can you recall the last sermon?
In your phone using the church WIFI,
WhatsApping and facebooking,
From Twitter to Instagram,
From Ticktock to the pornhub
I tell you again,
Lie to men but not to God.
I have no apology for this,
Love me or hate me,
You say you are a church girl.
From Monday to Saturday,
In your bootyshort and bikinis,
Yes we appreciate the fashion,
On a Sunday a dera to church,
Your body is the temple of God, remember
Lue to men but not to God.
Your neighbor dying of hunger,
Your store full of foodstuffs,
At times going bad,
An ardent Christian you claim,
Quoting verses and even chapters
Where do you practice your words?
It's preaching water but taking wine.
Lie to men but no to God.
I see no heaven, I see no paradise,
All have sinned and fallen short of glory,
Forgive us God remember we're your children.
Forgive me more, for I have done my part,
From the talent you gave me I speak to the masses,
Even the deaf I speak to them,
Even to the stones I'll speak.
Tha Formidable Cheru.
#themonk.
Raggle Taggle gypsy boy
born somewhere different
in the countryside, though
not far from a big city.
Hanzi, at the age of eight
he used to live as a gypsy boy,
going from here to there
and everywhere.
He has never had the chance
to go to school, but he loved to dance,
sing and playing the bagpipes.
His father used to take him to the pubs
on the back of the horse up and down
drinking and singing until the dawn.
As his father was usually drunk,
Hanzi used to take him home
one night after night.
Engaged to the instruments he
practised every day when time
gave him the chance.
Poor raggle taggle gypsy boy,
he was so depressed but
talented as nobody.
He was an adult boy at his early age.
He left his routine and went
to the outskirts of Glasgow
as a raggle taggle gypsy boy.
He played his music begging
on the streets, violin, pipes, flute
and more, only for peanuts
and applauses.
Hanzi wanted another life,
far from the one he had before.
Many years after dancing
from here to there,
he was playing in a pub in Glasgow
when he met this princess.
Leah was her name,
very rich lady lost in the night cocktails,
looking for youngsters
gypsies to spend her live with.
Hanzi embraced her as a friend,
never as a lover, he was poor but honest.
He was only twenty and he wasn't in love.
Leah didn't care,
she saw a raggle taggle gypsy boy
going to somewhere in his life
and she joined him to follow his star.
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.
God Save the King! So echoed round
the village halls, the pubs, the streets
the day our Charlie Prince was crowned.
Homes decked with bunting, cake, and treats.
We celebrated with a rave,
or knees-up, as my grandma said;
with piped music via short-wave.
At two pm, it went ahead.
They closed the street the coppers did.
Then out came tables, plates, and chairs
lace runners, doilies, too, amid
assorted china tablewares.
The caravans and four-by-fours
were parked elsewhere to clear the way,
they even shut the local stores
and closed the schools, hip hip, hooray!
Outside of number seventeen,
twixt the sausage rolls and jelly,
rested a crocheted King and Queen
removed from atop the telly.
Not to be beat, at twenty-two,
they placed a lifesize photo out;
which overlooked the cheese fondue,
soused herrings, and some sauerkraut.
Betty and May sang old-time songs
atop a shaky stage, arrayed
with bunting; made from their spare thongs;
while Ruth, the ukelele, played.
The Aussies were there, well, on screen.
Bobby, Kenny, and Aunt Maud too
to toast the King and mourn the Queen
with tea (and a tinny or two!)
Simon and Peter went all out,
made a spread called L G B tea;
with brightly coloured cakes throughout.
Open to all, as it should be!
Douglas and Rex from forty-eight
sat with Lil as she won her prize;
for the most original plate,
coronation jerk shrimp surprise.
Prizes too for best-dressed table,
front door, and garden gate, won by
Teddy, Fred, and Aunty Mable;
all well-deserved, we can't deny.
Captain Brett (self -titled we think)
gave a roaring one-gun salute
sporting a coat of dazzling pink
over his Royal Navy suit.
Thalis, made by Shrimati Nath,
were such a delicious hit they
caused a queue up her garden path.
(They paired well with Andre's Cabernet.)
We kids, long past our sugar high,
so full of cake, shrimp, nans, and stuff,
were told to say a quick goodbye;
we'd been awake quite long enough.
As the sun set on our nation,
Old Fionn Byrne began to sing,
a joyful amalgamation;
Danny Boy and God Save the King!
* * * NOT HEADED FOR A CONTEST * * *
Jolly Holly wanted nothing more than to fish
In her entire life, she had made only one wish
All I need is a boat
One that will stay afloat
She had never been described as a sexy dish
Holly had other attributes. She sure could cook
And no one else was better at baiting a hook
With minnows and grubs
She stayed out of pubs
Because most men never gave her a second look
There was an air about her... not a pleasant one
It was a fishy smell that fellers liked to shun
Then one day she met Gus
A man, big as a bus!
He looked at Holly and said, "Take me fishin, hon."
Wasn't long, 'fore Gus moved in with Jolly Holly
The fished all day and made love each night, by golly
He married that lil lass
On a boat, catchin' bass
Got a collie and twin girls, Molly and Polly
Many Christmas Trees are seen
around the Yule Season in my city;
they all are very tall and beautiful,
but the Rockefeller Plaza's Norway spruce
is the most gigantic and spectacular
with its multicolored lights that resemble stars.
Christmas is a wonderful experience on New York's City busy streets:
stores, pubs, restaurants and shops dress up with decorations so dazzling;
where else can you find a Santa ringing a bell and spreading good cheers...
wishing New Yorkers and visitors a Merry Christmas with a tone so thrilling?
On Christmas Eve, Saint Patrick's Cathedral echoes with joyful hymns,
and Child Jesus smiles at children as they caress His soft and divine face.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Some wake up in cardboard boxes.
Some drive around in silver boxes.
Cops in Irish pubs drink whisky
with black morning coffee.
Who will be first to climb the dawn light?
Daybreak stretches its long gray tendons
to high windows
where dim reflections mirror
strings of geese leaving.
There’s a virus crawling around they say.
Some wake up dying,
some night-walkers go home
to their daydreams.
The town will wear a different mask for a while,
on the freeway rubber rolls to elsewhere.
A limp light wallows in roof guttering’s,
shadows run low, scuttle into dank corners.
The last skein of geese has passed by.
I am at my window watching,
the concrete cells are waking,
some will not sleep again,
not before the next gasping night
steals their breath away.