Do or die got to perform in the eye of the storm
Noise from the boys remember we did deport
Another loss 3 nought a new boss will be sought
The depravity of gravity the reality of this sport
Big Ben’s men finally hold court our Last Resort
Insult beaten twice has the Bazball loon cult lost its spice
Starc’s legend hewn from chumps stumps in clumps strewn
Shredded in the dreaded Ashes vice Last Throw of the Dice
Bogged down in a twit pit will be flogged if we just slog
Stokes spoke about going for broke showing a bit of dog
Aussie boon.. Over the Moon In the Clover lagoon
The Barmy Army will still croon their afternoon tune
As another buffoon’s marooned OZ media swoon
Sucking on their silver spoon our Last Chance Saloon
Last ditch on the pitch must bewitch this is High Noon
Writer’s write
Speaker’s speak
(and never)
— the twain shall meet
(Ketchum Idaho: August, 1983)
Porky Pig and Dairy Cow-Moon
did up X-mas at the local saloon
Where Olive Oil and Pepe le pew
had already downed more than a few
Porky Pig and Cow-Moon
joined in by singing a tune...
But when they courted disaster
by all getting plastered
They were tossed out on their keisters
~ and didn’t get sober ‘til almost Easter
Who are you
Dan McGrew?
You sound quite mean
If rumours' true
You lodged yourself
Inside his head
Some seventy years
Still, now you're dead
A tale of love
Of bars and booze
The wheel of fate
Alas, you lose
The west was wild
Back in the day
As danger framed
Each male afray
But what of Lou?
The lady fair
Of unkissed lips
And tousled hair
A broken heart
May never mend
A scar unhealed
Until the end
So as our story
Precious told
Still held in head
Though tired and old
A life not lost
No shooting here
Just words uncovered
Crystal clear
By man with joy
For life, 'tis true
May soon reunite
With his own lady Lou
In the club, everything is the same:
Lounge, tables, chairs,
music playing..
Only people weren't
the same... They went to
to the salon, longing...!
Jenna’s Saloon on Soup Creek
Tania, Deb, Kim, Constance, Belle
Darlene, Connie, Paula as well
Work for Jenna in her saloon
Waiting on tables in fine tune.
Singing as customers are served
All things abnormal are observed
The gals listen to what goes on
Reporting all to Mayor Tom.
The saloon’s a place to relax
Where the regulars meet and chat
With plenty to drink and to eat
A night at Jenna’s is a treat.
Sheriff Koplin, David the Ranger
They watch over any stranger
Who is maybe looking for loot
Or someone they may wish to shoot.
Onto trouble, sharp as a knife
Is gambler Milton, faster than light
Deputy sheriff Michael Tor
And Prospector Pete on his horse.
Of Blacksmith Rees rogues be aware
He's got ultra hot furnace where
They'll find themselves burnt if they dare
Bestow folk mischief or despair.
But hey ho when the day is done
Everyone is out to have fun
Laughter, singing, it’s never bleak
At Jenna’s saloon on Soup Creek.
*+*+*
1st September 2022
Which Cowboy bites dust tomorrow at noon,
Fighting duel to end, to death the tune,
The sun at noon shows no glare,
Bystanders, time of day fair,
Outside the saloon, a hot day in June.
Poetry Competition Entry: HIGH NOON POETRY CONTEST
Sponsor: Joseph May
Date: 07/05/2022
In my dream I wandered into a basement piano bar because someone told me it was the secret place to get great waffles. Sitting at the piano was Beth Hart crooning sorrowful songs, no other accompaniment, just Beth and a piano. It was like this tattooed lass just wandered down the stairs and sat down and started playing with only a few present to share a glorious hour in our lives. I sat at a table near the piano eating a thin waffle with whip cream on top, a scattering of walnut pieces, and no syrup, with a shot of Effen Black Cherry Whiskey on the side, blissfully listening to Beth. I could have died, my life fulfilled.
It was summer on a Saturday afternoon.
With a few bucks, I went to a saloon.
I made some decent progress with my third beer.
All of the sudden, a vision of loveliness would appear.
She was a brunette scantily clad in a bikini colored pink.
This girl looked young; not even old enough to drink.
Aroused men seemed to want to swallow her whole
as she erotically slithered like a snake around a pole.
The guy sitting next to me told me her name was Denise.
She just happened to be the bar owner's niece.
Closer to the patrons came this sweet little honey.
Denise pranced on the countertops as she collected money.
That's when I thought I should vacate my seat.
This girl might think I was a deadbeat.
To the nearest exit, I made a prompt dash.
I would have stayed longer, but I was out of cash.
After rounding up some cattle
I headed to the saloon
To have a drink or two
And hear a bawdy tune
Cowpokes were gambling
And guzzling up their beer
The women were upstairs
Their bosoms amply filled
Waiting to give us all a thrill
After a couple shots of whiskey
A poker game I did seek
Hoping I'd soon be on a winning streak
My luck was going good and
The cowpokes I was beating
Until big Jim accused me of cheating
A fight broke out and turned into a brawl
Big Jim got hit, and took a mighty fall
When it was all over I was still standing tall....
The cattle would be rounded up tomorrow once again
And I would be right there, ridin' on the plains
1-26-2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
in the city of York, an English town
odd old buildings of russet brown
surround damp streets of cobblestone
pathways finding the party zone
jesters strike around half past noon
slapdash fellas crash the shambles saloon
with a splish splash, they dab a bath
the last stop on their dead-beat path
zag scalawags like to rally
at a mish-mash mosh pit sally
peaking the patter of jibber-jabber
through chit-chat and blasé blabber
the tip-top flip-flop clip clap crowd
are to the man vocally self-endowed
their tight tongues tied in a tangle
wag with rhythmic jingle jangle
hip hop beats on the radio
shadow rhythms entwine in stereo
with tic toc crisscross tapping toes
lift a cadence from depths below
when two pass noon at the shambles saloon
the characters mirror a black cartoon
days pass and quietly echo
dark portraits show tin art deco
I opened the back door
And was startled at what I saw
For just a fleeting moment
They were arguing to a great extent
Suddenly there were guns and shots rang out
And the whole scene disappeared with a shout
There was no more for me to see
A ghostly apparition disappeared easily.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Bringing country-report go barber’s shop, read that place newspaper called `Ittefaq'. Comic of Tarzan is printed Ittefaq everyday, not like to read that but I see. Listen talk of various type of topics by barbers. It looks to me, many making livelihood by cutting hair of the world. Once asked to Bihari barber, how tons of hair are cutting every day in the world, is it take to receive the data in internet? Laughing the Bihari barber said, `If not can swimming man can die drown of papa’s pond’!
I enter internet in cellphone. My gray hair is turn black. Abruptly arrives Tarzan’s shout. Tarzan is shown on TV of saloon.
i can quiff
you can
queef
but we
both
can
quaff and
so toast
i to you
and you to
anyone
you
want
to
thought resolution
is noticeable depth
in reality
alien programs
we don't see live hidden deep
below the surface
mortal knot aspects
mixed with unseen answers sought
not of human kind
just things to be seen
but remain mysteries and dreams
outlooks not for us
stan sand
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