Details |
Mark Grossi Poem
Our story takes place in the mid sixteen hundreds,
Filled with (not so) fresh corpses and newly beloveds.
The stench of Black Death had choked all of London,
Moulding its streets into plague ridden dungeons.
As parents and children lay weeping and rotting,
Behind closed doors the perverts were plotting.
A young married man named Edward C. Brock
Felt his dear wife wasn't enough for his
Cocksure and creepy and lacking real wealth,
He'd also just recently suffered ill health.
On one sordid night he was in bed with a maid,
She was unconscious and blotchy - been struck with the plague.
Then in burst his wife upset and aggrieved,
'You wretched little man - this time I shall leave!'
'But, darling!', he cried 'There's no need to be laconic!'
'Her relationship with me is purely bubonic!'
She screamed and stormed out, slamming the door,
'Good riddance to you and your riddled young *****!'
Edward turned to the maid and stared into her eyes,
smirking and twitching as he fondled her thighs...
'How come you're so wet yet so steady and calm?
Oh wait, I know - its burst boils on my palm'
Nevertheless he wiped the foam from her lips,
Ran a hand up her top and wrestled his zip.
'What the dickens!?', he spluttered, 'I'm sorry my nymph,
It seems all this commotion has made me go lymph.'
But a short while later,
Both were quite stiff.
For a bed with no action
There was one hell of a niff.
The bells won’t be ringing for their wedding of glitz,
They’ll be signalling to them that love is the pits.
Copyright © Mark Grossi | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Mark Grossi Poem
They say what doesn’t kill you,
Only makes you stronger.
Well if that really is the case,
I’ll let you cook for longer.
You said your name was Patrick,
But you look more like a stew to me.
Although so would a Frank or Virginia
When cooked to the nth degree.
More at rhymesforswines.co.uk and facebook.com/rhymesforswines.
Thankyou :)
Copyright © Mark Grossi | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Mark Grossi Poem
My dearest love Amy,
Why didn’t you tell me you’d leave?
You sentenced my heart,
And denied it reprieve.
Now I sit here alone sifting sands of dead times,
The ocean a witness to the hurts of your crime.
Its depths would hold me…for how long I don’t know,
But one shan’t die here,
No, I really must go.
Far, far away from the haunt of this beach,
I’ll wash away the memories with a bottle of bleach.
Copyright © Mark Grossi | Year Posted 2012
|