Long Sump Poems
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Have you ever wondered what’s kept in a real blokes shed?
I bet you thought them full of junk, but I’m telling you instead.
I’ve had the privilege to peruse such a shed one night,
It’s owned by mate Kenny, who opened up my eyes.
There was carpet on the floor, compressors by the door,
Nuts and bolts, fishing rods, and Fosters cans galore.
And if you wanted any oil, like sewing, sump, or mower,
Just look around - you’ll find it stored; an ice-cream tub’s the goer.
A pair of boots a little tight, he’ll fix for future toil,
As Kenny’s way to make them fit is dip the toes in oil.
And when I asked, ‘What’s that you have hidden under wraps?’
‘A photocopy machine’ he said, ‘and next I need a fax.’
Oh, what delights this shed had brought, all useful stuff in here,
There are even shiny rolls of foil that hold your cans of beer.
I looked around and then I spied a cot upon the wall
In storage now, he will pass it on to eldest son named Paul.
On the shelf, a yellow cage for a bird he may pick up,
But have no fear Jeanette my dear, the feathered kinds enough.
Next to the cage a machine to sew, a little worse for wear
But Ken still keeps it, just in case his overalls might tear.
Equipment plus and flashing stuff in draws quite neatly stored,
And tucked away a paper too, in case your ever bored.
Although its news has come and gone of what, why, when, and how,
This edition’s old and rare, a collector’s item now.
However, in this shed don’t smoke, no ashtray can be found
It’s tucked away, so if you must just butt upon the ground.
And for those dark and dismal days a torch you may require,
Ken has several he would lend if ever you enquire.
When talking old but useful parts, yes most still have a spare
In case of breakdowns of the first - of course that would be rare.
Ken’s shed has lots of shi….ny gear, some new, quite fit to hock
But parting with equipment here, for Ken would bring on shock.
So, hear now, folks, and listen well - a real blokes shed has all,
Its contents stored on bench and floor and even up the wall.
And if you ever need a bit of this or even that,
Go to a real blokes shed you’ll find every piece of crap.
your Little Wonder
I broke away from all;
all of your little trappings;
God saw to that;
Your eyes;
Eyes seem to have hate (just where is the love);
Yes rights of hate this truth;
Sitting here napping, romancing...
All the negative things;
Being stuck on the negative;
I am small in mind;
Little Wonder
Some may call me a black genesis;
A colored sump even a ***** square;
I find discrimination unfair;
Whites and Blacks differences you see it can only be skin;
But we all have the same soul and spirits you see..
I broke away from all;
All of your little trappings;
God saw to that;
Your eyes;
Eyes seem to have hate;
Little Wonder
Yes rights of hate this truth;
Sitting here napping, romancing...
All the negative things;
Being stuck on the negative;
I am small in mind;
Not to easy to find me today taking all of that racial strife, it's very hard you Yes you, see to live in the sixties
And laugh
So much ridicule and racial spools ;
You see friends if there're any left;
Have refused God and Jesus;
Little Wonder
And I'm here today to bring in all of the thunder;
I yet love those haters of me cause of my color;
I'm your little wonder
And as you and I go under;
The germs of hatred;
As we live our lives bliss;
Just a black boy surmised a fitted boy surprised;
Oh ooh ooh wee guess I just still still your little wonder;
As I wonder, as I wonder through this hate filled world;
Your little wonder
I broke away from all
All of your little trappings
God saw to that
Your eyes
Yes rights of hate this truth
Sitting here napping, romancing...
All the negative things
Being stuck on the negative
I am small in mind
Co created black and I AM...
Little Wonder
9/25/70
Written words by James Edward Lee©1970, 2019
Written @ North High School 1970 for Class assignment
William walks the Thameside path
to skirt the Whitecross public house
beside the bankside boats
some covered by their winter canvas coats
and strewn with planks and dollies
some sitting on their two-wheel trolleys
waiting for the spring to feel
Thames warmer water on their keel.
Facing winter's waining sun,
eyes shielded to the glory of this scene:
the river's mirror-flow
reflecting all this stream of light
from noon's fast fading glow
soon yielding to the cold-moon night,
William's eyes cast low.
He stoops beside a rowing shell
within an upright skiff
both scattered with a jumbled mess
of river planks and sundry bits of winch
and empty cans, discarded bits of litter
from a passer's office lunch,
all thrown and messed within the hull.
Reaching down to rummage litter in this boat
all damp and drowned within its rain-filled sump,
William spies a bottle, which, lifted to the sun
before his squinting eyes, reveals a drop or two
of amber dregs, like gold from silty river beds
made sun-bright treasure to his eyes
soon tucked beneath his coat.
In shame he takes his find
and makes the lesser path behind
the arch where shadows grant his hope
of drawing this to thirsty throat
and drowning out his troubled mind.
With bottle held in trembling grip
Will tilts this nectar to his lips,
with care to spill none to the ground
til no more drops are found
and then he slings this empty vessel
to make an echoed river splash
beneath the bridge's shadowed arch
to sink and meet more river trash.
And never more was glory marred
than by man's hopeless misery,
Nor all God's good so greatly barred
as by Will's shamed iniquity.
Our prez is now Donald J Trump
Who has promised to clean out the sump
Well he's certainly no wussy
When groping a pussy
What more to expect from a gump?
In charge of the Vice, Michael Pence
Said some things that embrace little sense,
"Global warming's a myth"
But's now taking the fifth
In attempting to straddle the fence
We all recall general Flynn
Put in charge of security spin
A trained atomiser
No more Trump's advisor -
His deal with the devil's his sin
The billionaire Betsy Devos
Making plans for a school albatross
Hating free education
Backs private castration
And kids will be bearing her Cross.
The Congress approved Jeff B. Sessions
Ignoring his racist obsessions
He seemingly cares
More for foreign affairs
While forgiving Klan's toxic transgressions.
Chief strategist Stephen K. Bannon
Develops the Great Again Canon:
The Goldman Sachs Bankster
Turned yellow rag gangster
Flings crap from the New Order cannon
Says EPA ruler Scott Pruitt
"Instead of dry facts, we intuit..."
(His work as denier
Keeps profits much higher)
"... If everything dies, well, just screw it"
The war whoops of Mad Doggy Mattis
Awaken the death apparatus
With boundless expense
For a doomsday defence -
Armageddon administered gratis
The magnates no longer need lobby
Or fight regulations thought snobby -
Now set in the saddle
They're herding the cattle
And pulling the strings as a hobby
Now the Don can start wielding the axes
Truncating the tariffs and taxes
The Mafia boss
Is dismissing the dross
And poverty's pain as it waxes
The face that launched a thousand dredgers loomed above,
With tin-foil hair and bucket rusting smile,
Proclaimed with tongue of carbon paper endless love,
Fingers crossed behind her back awhile.
And as she rocked and rolled, let loose a frantic moan,
Caught in her funnel till it softly screamed,
I felt my charnel soul slip to a twilight zone,
Something from a nightmare I had dreamed.
The sump of engine oil was seeping from below,
Slithered as an epileptic snake,
Lisping as she shuddered with electric glow,
Naked Nordic flesh began to quake.
The face that launched a thousand dredgers combing hair
Vampiric, no reflection in the glass,
Visceral lipstick rose up like a signal flare,
With fire engine red slapped on her ass.
All that I have done equates a target range
China ducks emblazoned with regret,
And even though in living death I find it strange,
I shoot her down but sort of love her yet.
All that I appear is something cold and flat,
A semblance of a being that would dwell
Within a fleshy slum, a ghetto autocrat,
A sitting tenant in this empty shell
The face that launched a thousand dredgers getting dressed,
The blood of Ripley running in her veins,
All that she inspires within is un-confessed,
And secrets kept inter with my remains.
I bet on a horse and it won
50 quid is not a huge sum
So I bet again and still won
But 100 quid is still a small sum
So I bet again and guess what?
Yes, I won
But 300 quid is still not a big sum
So you know what I did? Yes u do
I bet again and yes I won
But 500 quid is not a big sum,
So I decided to go to the zoo
to buy a gorilla who had flu
I got him cheap, but he was big,
bigger then my 500 sum
I bet he could swim, jump, play
polo and clean out a sump
He did all this with much glee, but I
am still not rich you see
My poorly gorilla costs me a lot, the
vets are an expensive lot
So my 500 quids are no more, and
my gorilla looks sad even more.
So I sold my pet to my vet, cus he
wanted him as a pet
Now I have 500 to bet, and yes on a
horse. I bet
My horse was called gorilla in the
mist
Gosh what a fantastic twist.
Surely my horse should win this
race, and yes he did, at a casual gait.
Now I have 1000 quid to my name,
so back to the zoo, for some other
game.
I brought a giraffe, with my stake,
he had a long neck and he smelled
great
But my story ends here as my Dr
appeared.
Come on he said to me, what have
written on your pad?
Wow said my Dr that’s just great,
now time for your medication date!
Ok stop nagging, you twisted me arm,
Ill tell you a true story that caused me harm.
My wife and I ran out of petrol on the motorway,
It was the second minute of the third hour of the day.
So off I walked to the BP garage to get some juice,
On the road are two women shouting verbal abuse.
Their hummer was leaking a lot of oil,
Under the car I went with my shirt black from the soil.
While busy tightening their sump plug,
I heard a loud bang; I must have looked like a mug,
The most excruciating pain in my trouser I felt,
When I found I was suspended under a lorry by my belt.
I was doing sixty mph holding on for dear life,
Crying, calling out to my wife.
The lorry went on for two hours non-stop,
How the hell I hung on and didn’t drop?
Then by luck it stopped, this was my chance,
I rolled from under the lorry to find I was on a boat to France
My nuts were the size of basket balls,
I thought that was it for the future generation of the Halls.
A week later I returned with my balls in a wheel barrow,
And my ---- the size of a full grown marrow.
My wife thought I was dead and she almost choked,
She didn’t speak to me as her life insurance claim was revoked.
© 2000
The Heart
1 The heart has many chambers it is just like a small pump
2 Tyrones’ is getting full and needs cleaning like a sump.
3 It’s a difficult thing to clean a human heart
4 With what to keep and with what to part.
5 A double pump.
6 The heart is not like an EYE
7 The heart is what lets you live or die
8 Look after your double pumped heart
9 Or from this world you may have to depart.
10 England has a high rate of heart disease
11 Blocked arteries do not appease, doctor agrees, eat more berries for good hearts and good bodies.
12 Our hearts are our life line
13 “Anyone who has a Heart” will be fine.
14 Happy and upbeat all the way along the line
15 Exercise is laborious, difficult, fatiguing and arduous
16 But you can sing out in divine chorus
17 Happy eyes are what we see a when we have a fit body
18 Not our lives running on empty
19 Take a grip and live life while in your prime
20 But perhaps not it has now lost its prime. (My Birthday Suit)
©4/06/2012 ~GG~
Competition entry for Tracies Mish Mash contest
Form:
Blasted through the arteries of great wide open spaces
like fuel-injected bullets from some laser-sighted gun,
over-priced and deathtrap built, nothing cars to nowhere places,
trailing prisms of bleeding sump oil underneath the cooling sun.
From the money-grubbing fingers of a travel agent slaughter trip,
thrown a pitch in shadows of a power station pleasure park,
where sheep are glowing green at night with radiation flavoured dip,
the very soul of Mother Earth succumbs unto the leeching dark.
Rabble rousing bodies spill their flesh upon the mosaic floors,
a crunch of black sand sticky feet through hotel foyer abattoirs,
these patrons clutch at local maps, get lost inside revolving doors,
then dance around the nuclear core in plastic palm-tree disco bars.
A haemorrhage of bleeding skies damped down with streaks of sulphur grey
is fused onto the dark horizon by a deeper shade of red,
yellow bikini beachwear melts leukaemic on the judgement day,
the swallow cardiac arrests, the last of summer drops down dead.
The holidays are history and winter settles in with
its pain-in-the-rear wind chill; a light covering
of snow finally brightens the mood for a day or two
until it’s washed away by rain. The sump is broken and the
north end of the basement floods.
The overdue heating bill on the desk screams at me,
telepathically, for attention; a red circle on the
calendar says a check is coming and my crusty eyes
begin to widen. But since it’s already been spent,
they quickly narrow and re-crust.
The soothsaying marmot sees no shadow, and my mood
stays low as the thermostat stays high; hey folks:
it’s February and things are supposed to get warmer,
right? Pitchers and catchers report, but I’m not there,
so I might as well be in Helsinki.
Things should get better in March, but we’re greeted
by a mother of blizzards; however, the next day it warms
and snow drifts disappear like vanilla ice cream on hot
pie. By six-thirty, the sun still hasn’t set. Sump’s still broken,
but I have wide eyes and a smile.