Compatibility of the Sexes



When a good girl and a bad boy get betrothed,

he glimpses heaven while she catches hell,

their sex life is fast, furious, sporadic, and fleeting,

and the only heavenly treatment she’ll ever get

is during recuperation from her injuries in Saint something-or-other Hospital.

When a bad girl and a good boy get hitched

it is heaven up front but hell in the end

when he finds out the “good” sex was only her way

of gaining financial security through divorce of another love-struck fool.

When a bad boy and bad girl get together

their marriage is hell on Earth… but

with a sex life so heavenly satisfying

it must inevitably damn them for eternity.

When a good boy and good girl join as one

their marriage is the perfect union, heaven on Earth

with a sex life so hellishly boring

it can actually earn them sainthood…

unless, of course, they pretend to be bad in the bedroom.



© JW Thomas


They hung him twice



William Wilson was a gunman,

the lowest kind of all:

A no-account bushwacker,

who shot his ex-boss from behind a wall.


They hung him once and cut him down,

he awoke and said, “I survive.”

So they hung him again and he woke up in Hell

claiming, “Hell, I’m burning alive!”


© JW Thomas

John “Liver Eating” Johnson



After the trek from Missouri ta’ Montana,

John Johnson made a name fer’ himself

as both sheriff an’ mountain man.

He took ta’ the hills an’ set his traps;

beaver, deer, bear, an’ buffalo,

all sayin’ “Catch me if ya’ can.”

He loved the life,

even took an Indian wife,

who bore him a healthy child.

But while Johnson was away from home

a band of Crow came callin’,

an’ did things that would make him riled.

They didn’t just take what they wanted,

they killed what was left in the end.

So when Johnson came back,

an’ saw the aftermath of the attack,

he emotionally went over the bend.

He stayed there alone,

warmed by the hate

that countered the cold of his heart.

His private war had begun,

an’ many would fall,

the Crow would pay dearly for their part.

Whenever a Crow came into his sight

it was like steppin’ into a killin’ zone.

Whether man-ta’-man,

or even outnumbered,

Johnson’s skill fer’ killin’ had been honed.

With rifle or knife,

hatchet or rock,

anything at all could be used.

He would never see a human

when he looked at a Crow,

on account of how his wife had been abused.

He saw only animals,

an’ animals were his trade;

ta’ be caught, ta’ be killed, ta’ be eaten.

He even acquired the strange moniker

of “Liver-Eating Johnson”

after a witness saw him kill ‘um, cut ‘um,

an’ then sink his teeth in.

Score upon score of Crow bit the dust,

for ten years his hate found its foe.

Then down from the mountain

ta’ carry a star,

Johnson did finally go.

He put on the badge in Coulson, Montana,

an’ he ruled with a rifle an’ fist.

He never did carry a six-gun,

an’ never started a “Dead Man’s” list.

With his mountain exploits

an’ peculiar peacekeeping,

even Buffalo Bill tried ta’ hire him fer’ shows.

But Johnson had tired of civilized life,

an’ took off ta’ where nobody knows.

He had no need fer’ fame,

but his legend still grew,

even faster after he up an’ disappeared.

“What a crock,” he must think,

 of his legend nowadays,

it would be funny if he suddenly appeared.

His name has been changed,

an’ facts rearranged,

all fer’ the sake of a film.

Just remember what he ate,

after he began ta’ hate,

an’ he stuck in his knife ta’ the helm.



© JW Thomas

A steer branded Murder



Gilliland feuded with Henry Harrison Powe

And one day they decided to go toe-to-toe

Powe went to Boot Hill

Cowboys say, “A clean kill”

And the steer with the brand tells the law what they know


A steer with the “Murder” brand

For years did wander the land

An odd Texas mystery

But true to its history

When a posse of Rangers killed Fine Gilliland

JW Thomas ©

Anatomy of a Hoax


[Another poem in the Taboo series inspired by Cornelius Eady’s book “Brutal Imaginations.”]




November 28th, 1987,

Joyce Lloray, of sober mind and body,

did witness something quite bizarre.

A black teen girl,

three weeks shy of sixteen,

sneaking around the corner, ‘cross the way.

She opens up a trash bag,

slips herself right down in it,

her cue to start the game of ‘possum.

Lloray’s hubby investigates,

‘possum girl stays mum,

a 9-1-1 is made on account of the loon.

Her body, hair, attire

are smeared with smelly poop,

cops match it to her neighbor’s dog, Remi.

“KKK,” “BITCH,” and “NIGGER”

are scrawled upon her skin:

charcoal used is underneath her nails.

First she blames a white cop.

Next, there’s three to blame,

but the vague description stops at one.

Then after getting counsel,

Maddox, Mason, Sharpton,

the perps soon multiply to six.

And so convenient to blame a dead man,

when death is at his own hand,

no thought of innocent family raked on coals.

The color card is played,

the deck is quickly stacked,

and what ain’t stacked is marked blatantly.

Sharpton, Mason, Maddox,

socio-political puppeteers,

manipulate the strings of Brawley clan.

Golden rings are promised

when unholy trio speaks,

just sign the dotted line with your blood.

You’ll be set for life Tawana,

if you just deny the truth…

we’ll even toss some crumbs to Mommy and beau.

But never sign the papers

to officially accuse,

and never tell your fairytale in court.

Say often that you’ll be there,

but never once show:

we’ll ignite the whole damn city with your lies.

Mobs don’t care if it’s the truth,

they just want something to kill for,

and Tawana has been shown the benefits.

You’ll soon be one of us,

a hero to your race:

look beyond the fact these careers are built on lies.

“Hell” is just a word

these reverends don’t believe,

or they’d know they bought a penthouse in the Pit.



Celeb’s are just as duped,

or have they just shown their true colors?

Bill Cosby puts up twenty-grand plus five

(and look how he’s turned out many years since).

Allegedly for “the truth,”

which might’ve been believed

without the vile crap about all whites.

Mike Tyson gives Tawana

a diamond studded Rolex:

showing lies pay better than the truth.

How ironic it did turn out,

when Tyson was convicted,

for doing what Tawana fantasized was done to her.

Pete Seeger kept things boiling

at Sharpton’s PR rallies,

I guess “this land is your land” if you lie the loudest.

Phil Donohue and Morton Downey Jr.

broadcast lies nationwide,

more PR for their liberality.

Like Tawana, soon did Downey fall,

words and symbols on body parts,

claimed by others, but did themselves.

The Nation of Islam leader,

Louis Farrakhan, never sits idle

when he can bellow – at the establishment.

Like a circus clown,

parading through Newburgh town,

with a thousand strong approval for the hoax.

The stars, how they fall,

when true colors are exposed,

hundreds claim a piece of the Ace of Spades.

This color, not of skin,

it’s the color of their hearts:

sacrificing truth for the golden goose.

The faithless religion of

Mason, Maddox, and the ill-reverend Sharpton:

a comic book trio DC and Marvel will never print.

Intent on filling coffers

at the cost of Brawley souls:

quickly dies integrity, for a chance at Midas touch.

Like pimps they played their parts,

whoring client ‘cross the nation,

and Tawana only spoke when they said “speak.”

Witch doctors do their spinning

in a hellish racial cauldron:

bubble, boil, and trouble’s all they know.

It’s all for “little sister,”

they swear before the lens –

but screwed her more than her imaginary men.

Branded fool forever,

to all with common sense:

her only friends are fellow acti-bitches.

She’d be flushed in a New York minute

if she ever told the truth –

no more flights, and no more limo rides.




“Pray tell us please,” some say,

“what’s out of whack?”

Why think so many, ‘tis but a hoax?

All who’ve seen the facts,

without a racial looking glass,

come face-to-face with Truth easily.

Like perps that start

with one white cop,

then jump to three, then six.

Remember “BITCH” and “NIGGER,”

the charcoal torso tags?


by her own hand,

only she of all involved

had trace evidence under nails.

Claims of rape – savagely.

Claims of rape – repeatedly.

Four long days – Six burly men.

Yet not one bruise,

not one scratch,

not even a single sperm.

She swore to violent sodomy,

many times, “in two different ways.”

But anus ain’t been touched the experts say.

She says attackers smeared the poop,

the poop from Remi the pooch,

who lived next door to Mommy.

Not in the woods

where she claimed to be,

four days raped and beaten.

No leaf fragments —

not any plant matter

on her clothes or on her person.

Only debris

from vacant home

Brawleys recently vacated.

Forget not the cotton wads,

plugging nostrils,

to ward off the poop perfume.

Are we to believe

six monster rapists

did this out of kindness?

Consider well the first eye witness,

who saw Tawana sneaking,

and place herself inside the bag.

Had Tawana been white

that fact alone

would’ve stopped the hoax.

Instead, millions of tax-paid dollars

were once again wasted

on another racial witch hunt.

Shame on you Tawana,

and your Pied Piper PR Pimps:

showing you’re no better than racial rats.



[Pictures acquired from,, and]

Meet My Hoax-tess


[This is part of a response series inspired by Cornelius Eady’s “Brutal Imagination.”]

Brother Victim,

hear my tale

that’s much the same as yours.

Though without the applause,

no awards or elation,

for speaking out on my behalf.

Susan Smith,

you say,

made you who you are.

Tawana Brawley,

I say,

made me just the same.

Though you, at least,

were an only child.

I, apparently,

am one of a litter.

But am I

one of triplets?

or one of sextuplets?

Tawana first say this.

Tawana next say that.

Tawana wanna say,

whatever she say,

at time she say,

is still a fact.

Were we cloned

from three to six?

How did we multiply?

Am I each life?

Or just my own?

The rules forever change.

Pacify the politics.

Pacify the pocketbooks.

Pacify the publishers

who love something so juicy.

The need for open-mindedness

to take away the brain.

Espouse intelligence –

remove common sense –

only left with nonsense.

Tawana wannabe

little lost Dorothy

in the racial world of Oz.

Her dream world saves

Maddox, Mason, and Sharpton

from slaving away on the farm.

What a scarecrow…

What a tin man…

What a cowardly lion.

No brains.

No courage.

No heart.