In Lieu of Eggs
By JP McMenamin
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Tadpoles dressed in chiffon dresses
Hair extensions, flowing tresses
Bulging, blue, mascara eyes
Fish net stockings to the thighs.
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Papyrus yellow autumn leaves
Rust spots diagnose disease
Ants disappear, without a mutter
Tsunami, round the swirling gutter.
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Oh Molly dear, my heart is breaking
Broken, shattered, sore and aching
I鈥檓 gona face your Da tonight
I鈥檒l have a few but not get tight.
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Listen mister, I love Molly
She鈥檚 the berry on my holly
I鈥檓 asking you now, man to man
Will you give me Molly鈥檚 han鈥?
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Up he jumped with drunken clatter
Give my globes a terrible batter
Knocked me down, just like a dog
Began to rant, a monologue.
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Listen wee boy, wheest your chatter
You have nay job, you dirty clatter
All you do is write draft poems
For boys like you, they should have homes.
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I own twelve acres on a hill
Where sheep can graze and get their fill
You spend your Giro on the booze
You don鈥檛 own the dirt upon your shoes.
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I won鈥檛 give my Molly to a fool
I sent her to a grammar school
I paid good brass for education
And I demand appreciation.
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So keep away from my wee Molly
You鈥檙e destitute, you have no lolly
She鈥檒l marry who I tell her to
And there鈥檚 wan sure thing, it won鈥檛 be you.
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He turned away and left me lying
Sniffling and sort of crying
I saw you with your marker writing
I knew you鈥檇 seen your auld Da fighting.
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You held it to the window pane
I read and ached with lovelorn pain.
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鈥淵ou silly sod,鈥 your message read
鈥淚 saw my father punch your head鈥
鈥淢arry you? Don鈥檛 make me smile
I鈥檇 rather suck on putrid bile.鈥
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You turn my stomach with your ranting
Like a puppy, humble, panting
I don鈥檛 want your stupid sonnet
I鈥檇 rather have a flowered bonnet.
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I鈥檓 going to marry someone rich
Not a drunken poet in the ditch.
Go back to the hungry hills
Rhyming words, don鈥檛 pay the bills.
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Mayflies flutter in the air
Dancing in futile despair
Dragon flies, translucent wings
Transient, elusive things.
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Pint of Guinness, black as night
Foamy top, evanescent-white
Search for coins, in dust-filled pockets
Empty dreams, bookie鈥檚 dockets.
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No more I鈥檒l give my heart away
To Stellas, Jeans or Mollys.
My mother told me long ago
Boys shouldn鈥檛 play with dollies.
鈥淗ow do you like, your eggs in the morning?
I like mine with a kiss.鈥 Dean Martin.
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