What blew up, and as soft
For its suggestion
Lady's, shyest, shivery-nerved
Months ago hereon
To set out respond as such now
Pushed, provocative.
Know that lout! The hand thereof!
Autumn. Falls contrive.
I implore,I implore the westerly gust
To take me or at least my pendowned ink
Many a time-my fingers are encrust
Traveled never so far, barely within a page's brink
In a chilling hour when the candle shines bright
And while the poor soul begins to sway
I snug a pen like a primed gallant knight-
To beguile my darling; possibly fanciful any-way
O I implore,I implore my fanciful maiden
You were,ever were to whom I indite
Gals of ink and bales of pages are laden
Untill the lantern bug took their earliest flight--
Though the countless letter I engraved
The means and will of it was never heard
Every is being trodden and depraved
In every swarty night mine visions are blurred and Interred
I was,never was the flower that sprung about
But the gloomy cloud of June;what I was merely a lout
( ( ( ( BACKATCHA ) ) ) )
MR PRESIDENT
Black, brown, white, a colored quilt unites us no doubt
Red states, blue states, sees only green our chief lout
Racist humor, filled with glee,
makes not a monkey out of me
Obamas envied, no master race three Reichs you’re out!
For President's Day (early)
2/16/26
Superbowl Sunday
Winter Olympics
2/8/26
seductive Galway gal would not stay
such savage beauty she went astray
whether Corrib, whether Mask
Connemara man to ask
to Inishbofin she played away
Leitrim lout took drink by the flagon
very short coast, very short wagon
went inland to buy a boat
all-aboard, beer for his goat
so raised a glass, Carrick-on-Shannon
wild west playboy from county Mayo
did for his dad, very own say so
holy mountain, dreaming star
left the pub at Castlebar
shoe hanging out his Ford Mondeo
Roscommon culchie, gangly and rare
hung out near Boyle with spindly long hair
web below her knobbly knee
bank to bank across lough Ree
wrapped up her men, eight legs in the air
our Sligo boy, no good at countin'
he spied some girls down by the fountain
one, two, three, how many more?
his favourite to adore
he chased her up Benbulben mountain
He is boorish, churlish, an overbearing lout
my old maiden aunt introduced him all about
he’s my man, she announced, with a giddy shout
they are a matched set, I have no doubt
I know a funeral when I walk into one
I can tell between a funeral and a burial
They are two entirely different artworks
One is done on grand canvas, with drunken strokes
Of sashaying brush and bleeding paints;
The other is done on mere sand, with foot and hand,
Forming sandcastles built by toddlers.
I know too well because I have my senses
Intact after the last funeral I attended on a gambolling coast.
I should know because I participated in the burial of a
Village lout, a wretched lord, so grand with contumely.
Funeral lasts for days and contains the sounds of cannons
And other elements of ceremonies, so loud, so eloquent,
So ceremonious —full of man and illiterate beasts.
A burial, on the other penurious hand,
Reeks of haste, attended by a teething crowd —
And at times comes with thunder that speaks in jest
And a lightning whose light flickers on all things subpar.
Please tell me it’s summer every day of the year.
Please tell me that Aerosmith plays from the sky.
Please tell me that heaven’s a basketball court.
Please tell me that everyone’s life has a point.
Please tell me that no one is ever alone.
Please tell me that dying is easily explained.
Please tell me that broken birds get back their wings.
Please tell me the tooth fairy isn’t my mom.
Please tell me that people are just as they seem.
Please tell me “I’m sorry” is always enough.
Please, Adam Sandler, you loveable lout,
Tell me that everything always works out.
(Inspired by Stevie Wonder’s “Part-time Lover”)
The cheating man believes he is so clever.
He makes up lame excuses to go and see
his mistress, yet he does not want to sever
his marriage, for no decency has he.
He doesn’t seem to realize his wife
can possibly be “onto” him. The fool
prefers to have two women in his life.
Ignoring marriage vows just makes him cruel.
Those cheating ways can blind this kind of man.
Some wives can feel the vibes this guy gives out.
Such wives can also come up with a plan.
He thinks he’s smart when he is but a lout.
She can find a lover too . . . or perhaps
get evidence and make his world collapse.
Drive down a highway and look left or right
And I can, for sure, guarantee
By the side of the road, resting there in plain sight
Will be plenty of garbage to see.
Plastic bags strewn around or entangled in trees,
Cans and bottles and wrappers and such,
Plus so many containers and papers – oh jeez!
It is more than a little too much.
Though it’s rare to see somebody tossing it out
It quite naturally had to be pitched,
So the question is really, what kind of a lout
Can’t just wait for his trash to be ditched?
If you can help yourself.? And yet not harm another, you're doing real well (dear sister dear brother!) If you can resist the pressure.? For it seems always to come.?? It sort of pops
Right up.' Then it's slander' And to spare..Also advice on how you might be missing out? Then some' and its
Because of the selfish..The cooker; larrakin' or lout.? And who got hurt?? Well many roundabout..!!
All normal people (the type who'd?) Well give it a go.' Ya know, that seems like me.?
Or even you.' Not evil just mis-guided.' When we think it through?? And so? who got rich? And
Like honoured and such? grubs like joyce, Andrews, adern, mcgowan..Thats rough.) Yet wer're clever enough don't worry bout that, the real Aussies' ll sort it, and that makes me feel glad' i reckon ten million; are now wide awake.' Bet they're fuming at that joke in 2020.?
Yeah it wasn't that great.' So now clear your minds, help the injured, protect young minds it's
A Billy a brewing, you can almost taste the outpour, just keep working untill the cavalcades
Roar.' Thank God, He is patient
Christian quote: He who mistreats the most unfortunate among us, mistreats me—Jesus
Cruelty On Parade
He enjoys mocking the severely ill and lame
Cruelty unbridled that's his game
The Good Book he'll tout
"Don't dare call me a lout"
How dare he campaign in the glow of His name
—Robert Gorelick
The fool should hang his head in shame
For mocking those who’re ill or lame
He’ll get just reward
When facing the Lord
It’s simply just a waiting game
—Beryl Edmunds
Just like George Jones when
He Stopped Loving Her,
death, the only thing that could occur
To enact what only this loss could secure
(Killing the love he had for her)
I've counted and underlined in red
each time an “I love you” was said
Until the pages, written in blue ink
Resembled nothing more I think
Than a passionate patriotic prose
Red white and blue superimposed
Over words of love and promises not kept
Sprinkled liberally with the tears I've wept
For you were not nearly as noble as
That great country singer gentleman
For whom only his untimely death can
Erase his love and promises.
All it took for you, Great Lout,
Was a younger face and lips that pout
They always say that sin will out
One who for others don't care about
And the keeping of your word you flout
So although now I know the truth
I act more like George than I care to do
How I wish that I could forget you too
For all these letters I won't send to you
Are filled with my love in red white and blue.
She did it again,
Surprises me to no end!
Quietly walks over to the bag,
Puts her nose in.
Helps herself,
To the treats within.
Not that she didn't tell me before,
I was too busy getting out the door.
Packing all our stuff to camp out,
How could I be such a lout?
Leaving my pup to do without!
Well, she showed me,
Laying now under a tree,
Chewing on a treat.
No thanks to me!
*A very loose form of Limerick,
but Mabel deserves lots of syllables.
There once was a waitress with the name of Mabel
Who used her bosom as a restaurant table
Beneath her double chins
Mabel flaunted her twins
The one on the right, Cain and the left one, Abel
The locals knew not to make fun of the lady
Ol' Teddy swaggered in, looking kinda shady
He taunted her with smut
She punched him in the gut
That's the last we all saw of Teddy O'Grady
Mabel looked real nice in her crimson ruffled gown
Two cups of coffee; 'pon her boobs she set 'em down
And when I smiled at her
She said, "Thank you, sir"
I left her a satisfied tip of a half-crown
When eating lunch, Mabel never uses a plate
Don't insult her by declaring she's overweight
Cause she'll call you a lout
Chew you up, spit you out
If you tell her she needs a train to move her freight
Mabel's knockers would put the Grand Tetons to shame
But they're the reason she's in the town's Hall of Fame
She wins beauty contests
With her grandiose breasts
I think 'Melons Mabel' is a comely nickname
I have conversed with the common man
in warm and well-worn pubs.
I have been a ribald, and a leery lout,
a seducer of barmaids.
I have been common,
the way a city pidgin is common,
its scabbed claws a common sight,
slipping in and out of poorly lit doors.
Poets are born poor, poorly treated,
and poorly thought of.
The wealthy used to be poets,
but their intelligence
was pawned and loaned to them
by the winking, wicked streets.
They made daffodils out of dog,
many swooned,
but the common people,
we spat out their perfumed souls
for they were distasteful,
much more so
than the knowing fools I talk to
in the most common of pubs.
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