Short Cots Poems

this spot
is hot
it  alot
no cots
am not jokeing
its for
NON SMOKER...

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was hot had cots
we dance a lot
 it  was years end
old friends
new year about begin
we got started
it was
BOAT PARTY...

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winter comming in
hats coats and friends
windor shopping
cots stopping
eat things that bust
its that  it rings my bell
the 
SMELL OF CHESTNUT...

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let ma make you alert
where i work
its around
down town
those vender cots
sell alot
some the or cute shute
they sell ring bells
all you need some loot
buy
BEET SOUP...

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let ma make you alert
where i work
its around
down town
those vender cots
sell alot
some the or cute shute
they sell ring bells
all you need some loot
buy
BEET SOUP...

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Mt style is styless
words made from smudges and dots
like cots of baby robots
fraught with thought
a despot naught
stop
the game is afoot
is forever endless ?
or will this pain not stop...

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Cuddled from afar;
Love at first sight.
Not for what, cheeks would mark
Bites wild, in the fox!

Content left snowed on;
Heart-melting quite.
Not for what, cots would ditch
Runs wild, in red sox!...

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from that day
 i can say
my people  was free
they won't me to be
 on top of the lot
some push cots
 to earn
they had to be stren
some walk picket lines
so  our life would shine
 no days off to play
THEY PAIDED THE WAY...

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O, Mighty King of Igneous and Summer,
Cape the earth within an icy quilt
And freeze the damned in their cots.
All without enough covering
To remain warm,
Yet enough food alone to remain strong ---
Freeze, mighty King.
Let their knee caps grow frigid
And their lives cease to exist,
Then tomorrow
They’ll wake up in some fancy mansion of nothing
Where trivialness is everything and
Everything is trivialness....

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COPLA VEINTIOCHO : This Bad Guy World

Bad Guys with bad girls squirt at will
Since sexual revolution:
Plague emotion

The intellectual love kill
Learn from Left-drilled safe permission:
Drug-filled Dick-tion

Kids who rampage on exposed thighs
Quote Beauvoir and Sartre as of right:
Leak-minded sots

They who let babies suck on lies
Heroic mothers out-of-sight:
Who rock the cots

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014...

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THE PITY PARTY
The husband of a working woman
Oh! Poor man
Coming home to rooms so dusty
Coming home to air so musty
Coming home to sinks so rusty.

The husband of a working woman
Oh! Poor fella
Arriving home to empty pots
Arriving home to unmade cots
Arriving home to loo with dots.

The husband of a working woman
Oh! Poor dude
Wishing he could get very rich
Wishing this home he could ditch
Wishing another’s house he could pitch....

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She opened the door
He opened the door
And smelled the turkey
And smelled the waste
Her heart grew warm
His blood ran cold
As they looked around.

The garlands were up
The walls were stark
In rows upon rows
The cots were in rows
The tree was all lit
Their eyes were dark
It was Christmas day.

The children were laughing
The children were silent
Hands trembling with pleasure
Bodies rocking in sorrow
Toys unwrapped and cuddled
Baby girls rejected
All made in China....

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