If I Could Talk To My Younger Self I’d Say
She’s Not Going To Kill You, Nor Her, Or Even Her-
Or Them Over There, Either
She’s Not Going To Kill You, Nor Her, Or Even Her-
Or Them Over There, Either
But they will try,
which will set you up nicely
for Winning Triumphantly
in the long run,
which is the only thing
that ever, really Matters.
which will set you up nicely
for Winning Triumphantly
in the long run,
which is the only thing
that ever, really Matters.
© Paul Tristram 2015
You Don’t Die When You Want, You Die When You’re Wanted
“I’ll be 82 years old next week!”
He stated with defiance
in his old but keen and eager eye.
“One of 13 children I am,
buried all of them bar
my youngest sister
and she’s in a nursing home.
Drank beer, cider and wine
since I was a young teenager,
smoke a pack of 20 cigarettes a day
and I’m very proud to say
that I can still, on rare occasions,
get almost a full hard oN.
Don’t you dare come in my home,
with your Nursing Degree
which the ink hasn’t yet dried on
and tell me that I should eat eggs,
bread n’ dripping and bacon anymore?
I spit crap down the sink
every morning that has been around
a lot longer than you
and doesn’t have half the cheek, neither!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
The Highwayman’s Daughter
She is a far better catch than most!
I am free to be myself, warts and all
and have found well-paid work
with her Dear Old Father.
The nocturnal hours suit my insomnia
and I’m a natural rogue and a brawler
through and through, just ask anyone.
A brace of pistols and a pair of rapiers
are the perfect work tools I find.
She stitches my wounds and bathes
my bruised body as I drunkenly lay
in a tub by the fire, soaking the dirt
of Shooter’s Hill from my skin.
Amongst saddlebags of stolen coin
pillboxes, and magpied jewellery
in the top floor back of a seedy Tavern
down on Cheapside with a different
interior each and every wicked night.
I’ll happily dance with the Devil,
I’ll dance constantly with danger
with a sly grin upon my thieving face.
For they’ll never beat nor thwart me,
unless Lady Luck decides to leave me
and clapped in irons my last dance
should be the rough old Tyburn Jig.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
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