A poem about a girls´night on the town.

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Evening Out

I should never have gone out to Bingo
It really was doomed from the start
But Corrie´s not on of a Tuesday
And my hubby´s a boring old fart.

So I set off with Nora, my neighbour
She´s Irish – her dad´s name is Pat.
But she´s lived all her life here in Handsworth
And wouldn´t change any of that.

When we got to the hall it was crowded
And no-one had saved us a seat
So off we went down to the local
And downed a few large whiskies neat.

We then moved on to the chippie
And bought some meat pies in a bag
Then tottered out onto the pavement
 To eat them and light up a fag.

But Nora came over all maudlin
And started to sing ´Danny Boy`
Then she jumped on a passing policeman
And asked if he´d be her sex toy.

The copper had no sense of humour
So she was banged up for the night
Then I was tossed in the cell with her
When I threw up and started to fight.

The next day we both had hangovers
And wished that we´d never been born
The Beak found us guilty of lewdness
And seducing a policeman at dawn.

So the moral to learn from our story
Is never to sing in the street
But stay at home watching the telly
Or go off on a package to Crete.

An Apology

Since I couldn´t come up with anything to write about this week, I wrote an apology.

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                                         So Sorry!

It´s happened again – my back´s to the wall
No inspiration to write at all.

I´ve had a bloody awful day
Things have gone wrong every which way.

The circle should be pure balm to my soul
But my creative spirit´s on cruise control.

Foot-licking grovels to Nik and the group
I know what I´ve written deserves a poop scoop.


                   

               

Life Sucks For Some

Had the weekly Writers´Circle today - always a highlight in my week. The topic this week ( if you wanted to write on it, though not obligatory) was "Stepping Stones". I wrote a rather pessimistic poem on the subject. Probably influenced by the situation I`m in at present with a broken-hipped husband. Here it is.

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                                                         Stepping Stones


There are those who skim on the river of life 
They wheel and cavort in the breeze.                 
There are others who swim, take their time, reach their goal.
Once achieved, then they do as they please.

Most people must wade, fight the current or drown
On their way many sink with no trace.
A few use the stones for help as they go
Take a grip, stop and rest, breathe a space.

But some are unlucky. They make for the stones
In the hope they can stay there a while.
But find they´re not stones, not a refuge at all
But cow pats in a great pile.

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With that miserable thought, adieu!