SHAKESPEARE IN THE ALLEY WITHOUT SHOES
With Marilyn beside me on the floor
I loved her with no idea where I’d been
And sirens all around me out the door
I thought some fuckhead went and turned me in
Real peace it greeted me quite 3 by 3
And 18 kittens tumbled by my head
The Tsars of Russia also on my couch
Shakespeare put a finger to his mouth
Some bugger beat the tambour to the south
I held a meeting of the council the next day
“Why you fuckheads treating me this way”
Sweet sister cut off half my hair
Before I put a footsie on the stair
Now melodrama’s happening in the trees
And some fuckhead in the bushes’s name is Jesus
And Geronimo is driving in my car
And Nurse Annie’s stripping on the bar
Fuckee, fuckee. fuckee, that’s my way
I got this real sharp car too fast now
for the roll
I had to head around to Mexico
And Charlie MacNacracker …has my ho
Now I know the Circus came to town
She’s the majorduomo, I’m the clown
While Paddy’s now a bird, no casket yet,
Aunt Edith fucked my daddy in the net
I didn’t really have to fall this far
I only have a bike, ain’t got no car
We blew the doors right off the storage room
Owner tried a kick at my balloons
Miranda has an ass that makes me think
AS I am goatherd of the town
And all my hair she cut just blocks the sink
As fuckheads from the foundry walk around
It’s lucky I have liquor here with me
She turned off all the lights and the T.V.
Ivan he’s sleeping on the couch
I’m trying to be quiet, shut my mouth
Polonious knew just where we’d met
Shakespeare in the alley won’t confess;
As Ruthie and her doggie got me wet
While sleeping on her couch, the best one yet
Adolpho has her mysteries to be sure
Saramanka’s real sneaky with the cards
Last night she had 4 aces five more times
I had to beg some gold from a silver mine
It’s very clear to me I need a drink
Not been here long before I hafta think
Some kitties dancing riight now on my car
My booze-bag’s hidden smart beneath the floor
Nagasaki was a terrible event
My best pal Yama cut off Freddie’s head
The judges and the lawyers in a car
I sing the Marsaille* good now from afar.
*((pronounced MAR-SAY-EH))
who knows what this means
W.G. Milne
September, 2016, Fraser St
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Ha! Ha! This one breaks me up! William S. Burrroughs liked automatic writing. This poem had to be automatic, because I was unconscious.
Yeah, Baby!