The special section in The Times,
Intended for the rich,
Showed real estate available
If homes you’d like to switch.
You need a fitness room or pool?
A chamber for the maid?
Six bathrooms and a terrace
Showing Central Park displayed?
Imported marble in the baths?
A cellar for your wine?
The latest in technology
And elegant design?
I don’t require all that stuff;
There’s nothing I am missin’
Especially compared to those
Without a pot to piss in.
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.
I’m living on the street, that does not make
Me yours to feed with food I do not eat
Though I may lay my hat before your feet
My history is not your tale to take.
I’m old, I’m poor, I’m ill, I haven’t got
A pot to piss in, or a welcome mat
You still don’t get to patronise, or pat
My head as if you think I’ve lost the plot.
I’m pregnant, I’m in prison, I’m alone
I’m lost, I’m frightened in a foreign land
I’m vulnerable, but not, you understand
Your *****. My mind and body are my own.
So touch me not, nor tell my tale for me
For I am not your public property.
© Gail Foster 17th May 2018
Warrior
Ain't no rock bottom where I'm from
I've yet to sell my soul
For what I'm worth
Only the Heavens above me know
Kicked rocks and ate dirt, no socks nor pretty shoes
Embellished my calloused feet
Never had no silver spoon in my mouth
No pot to piss in
Yet look at me now
I've been high, and I've stooped low
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but
Strong hurricane force winds amongst the sea
I welcome in
These waves I surf
Back away now
I've found my turf
When I come around
Rain turns to sleet
I don't give up
For I'm that warrior
You could not put to sleep
24 yeara old and still not a pot to piss in
They're quick to judge and swear some things missing
Wonder why I'm loosing faith in humanity
Einstein said repetition is the defitiom of insanity
If that's the case why would I even try
But if that's the case I'd fall over and die
Stepping on the world just to win
The only one I trust rests within
So focused on what's fake and artificial
When I've bleeding this whole time
The things I've given up feels sacrificial
WHEN YOU WANT TO HUNT
Which is worst, being on Board of Directors
Or did become dissectors call building inspectors
And no matter what they may ever do
Up everything seem surely to screw.
Have some humor heard someone say
Don't have pot to piss in or can pay
For how much they wanted for a huge lot
Which would take away all I have got.
Some say a beggar should not be a chooser
And may at times look like a lousy loser
When it is God who you really want
He is right here and don't have to hunt.
Until you had met some smart loan shark
Who will sell you a house in a trailer park
Be careful and examine paper work
Making sure the person was not a jerk.
Some say rules were made to be broken
Are without any money down to last token
My pleasant realtor heard me make a plea
Maybe we should rent a house in RiverSea.
James Thomas Horn
www.poetrysoup.com