COVID this Christmas
Try to imagine a Christmas all alone
Tied to a laptop a tablet or a phone
That’s where I’ll be
Since they tested me
There’s no place I can go
With a double bar
On my PCR
And on my lateral flow
It’ll be COVID this Christmas
Life is on hold
It’ll be COVID this Christmas
Not flu or a cold
It’s not a cold
Oh no
I’m out of the fold
This Christmas
Glockenspiel
Shrouded mist of
Old grey matter
Mixed with untold
Ruthless clatter
Clambers up a
Wooded hill
Lights upon
A glockenspiel
Dancing like a
Wounded whore
Beadles bless
The sick and poor
Hand viands to
Lords and ladies
Sell to beggars
New Mercedes
Spoilers spill
A drop or two
I can see it
Seeping through
Eyes and noses
Ears as well
Fractured faeces
Smears the bell
As the DJ
Plugs his decks
Lenin’s rubber duck
Reflects
Doormen cry
For mothers dear
Monty’s Python
Shifts a gear
Wanton dogs
Of war resume
Slide the leisure
Centre flume
Mast the ship
Peruse the book
Sleep till farmers
Beat the rook
Empath
I know a mystic empath, self-proclaimed,
Who daily posts sickly memes on Facebook;
Fanciful narcissists are named and shamed,
For all bad decisions and paths mistook.
He further claims to commune with the dead,
For whom he’s perpetually grieving;
Relatives and friends, comfort him in bed;
Closer, now ghosts, than when they were breathing.
He doesn’t cling to fake friends anymore,
Ex-lovers no longer injure his pride;
He’s stronger these days than ever before,
His doubters, he ruthlessly casts aside,
For likeminded empaths, self-deluded,
Eager to please and to be included.
Come on over to my place
Jacob, Dom and Pritti,
I see you are Tory blue,
Everybody’s staying home
But that don’t apply to you
Come on over to my place
Hey Gove, we’re having a party
Sajid, Nadine, Kwasi, George, Ben
And Rishi, come on over tonight
Now you all know the address,
Where our do will be,
I spoke to the policeman standing outside,
He said, that’s alright by me
Come on over to my place,
Hey Liz, we’re having a party
Simon, Alok, Oliver, Grant,
And Brandon, come on over tonight
I know you’re tired of COVID,
Let’s have some cheese and wine,
As for the people I’ve been deceiving,
They’re no friends of mine
Oh David baby,
Come on over to my place,
Hey Nat, we’re having a party,
Anne-Marie, Kit, Nigel, Michelle
And Simon, come on over tonight
Blub blub blub
Come on over to my place,
All my Conservative party,
Will be swigging, munching and sniffing,
Allegra won’t you come over tonight
Blub blub blub
Come on over to my place,
We’re blue; we’re having a party,
We’ll be grinning, and next year be spinning,
All our voters are in lockdown tonight
Blub blub blub.
Irrelevance
A failure artist limp-wristed
Decidedly bitter and twisted
Used oratory skills
To top all the bills
And countless admirers enlisted
Luck Of The Draw
Rittenhouse killed vigilante-style,
Went to a protest, shot a pair dead,
Made many a proud Republican smile.
They led him away, put him on trial,
Right-wingers snarled and bleeding hearts bled;
Rittenhouse killed vigilante-style.
Judge Schroeder smearing the victims of Kyle,
(They’re “Arsonists”, “Looters”; not “Victims”, he said),
Made many a proud Republican smile.
Both the deceased thus deemed to be vile;
Crocodile tears stood Kyle in good stead.
Rittenhouse killed vigilante-style.
The jury retired and after a while
Returned, and the verdict: “Not guilty”, thrice read,
Made many a proud Republican smile.
Schroder acquitted the juvenile;
Gave future young-guns a full steam ahead.
Rittenhouse killed vigilante-style;
Made many a proud Republican smile.
COP 26
Politicians
Have their say
On climate change
Then fly away
In jet planes
Over land
And sea
And consensus
Seems to be
CO2
Will kill us all
Gas emissions
Need to fall
Solar heating’s
Best by far
I should drive
A battery car
Use more trains
Busses bikes
Give up flying
Go on hikes
Plastic is a big
NO NO
Vegan is
The way to go
Light bulbs
Either need
To be
CFL or LED
Only use recyclables
Don’t spray crops
With chemicals
World leaders
Lay down plans
Diplomatically
Shake hands
China and the USA
Put their
Differences away
Congo kids
In toxic mines
Work behind
The grand designs
Choke on fumes
At six years old
Slave away
For Cobalt sold
To mass-production
Factories
Where
Eco cars
And gadgetries
Made as
Cheaply as
Can be
Are shipped
And sold
To you and me
Glasgow
COP 26
Seemed to me
To be a fix
Solar heating’s
Well and good
The poor would
Buy it
If they could
Alas the price
Is way too high
They’d have
To work
Until they die
Nor will they
Afford the fare
They won’t have
For busses trains
And as for cars
Unless you open
Mines on Mars
With robots
Mining cobalt there
And no kids
Working anywhere
And each and
Every billionaire
On planet Earth
Decides to share
In such a way
Folk everywhere
Can eat and drink
And breathe
Clean air
It surely is
As someone said
One more minute
Till we’re dead
Affluence
Is worthless now
Fat cats need
To take a bow
Erasing his hand
A friend of a friend, on Facebook posted:
“A man who hits women is not a real man;
Share if you agree”, the poster boasted,
And put me in mind of when his wife ran
Out through the front door, where I was waiting:
I stood in between them, shielding the blows,
Which ceased, as he stood there hesitating,
Though why he desisted, God only knows;
I being no match for him in a fight;
(We’d had our own battle sometime before),
However, they ceased, and after that night,
She turned him out, I saw him no more,
And now, he's on Facebook, making a stand,
Like a real man, never raising his hand.
Panic Buyers
Lack of foreign haulage
Coming to our shores
Leading to a shortage
In supermarket stores
Migrant workers exit
Crops are left to rot
Many blaming Brexit
As many saying not
On Facebook and Twitter
Keyboard warriors jeer
Typing comments bitter
Recalling project fear
Counterparts retweeting
Eagerly engage
Stubbornly repeating
An opposite front page
Blamers pointing fingers
Lefties refugees
National anthem singers
Liberal families
Followers of Farage
Racist residual
Queuing at the garage
Panic buying fuel
Meanwhile at the pigsty
The farmer ponders fate
After when the pigs die
Sell on? Incinerate?
Though butchery’s faltered
Nigh grinding to a halt
Pigs must still be slaughtered
By way of captive bolt
As ignorance is thirst
The parched and dying beg
Not knowing what comes first
The chicken or the egg
For they are helpless too
Dependent on such powers
With mills to drag them through
Like slaughtered boars and sows
Thoughts on Pen Farthing
An ex-marine became a household name,
As the soldiers left, the cargo plane came,
And Pen Farthing, animal rescuer,
Was left with options, fewer and fewer.
As I understand, Pen Farthing was told,
His dogs and cats were allowed in the hold,
But his staff must stay in Afghanistan;
And so they were left with the Taliban.
Now there’s a commotion, media stirred,
Suggesting that cats and dogs are preferred
To human beings, when push comes to shove;
It’s animals more than people they love.
“They”, being those who crowdfunded the plane,
And even Farthing,
who fought to obtain
Permission to leave, but none could be had
For Afghan children, nor staff of Nowzad.
And speaking of the staff, I also read,
They lent a hand when he haplessly led
His charges to the hold, as Kabul fell
To a Taliban, and terrorist hell.
So, where are we now? It seems we’re still split:
Many deem Farthing a heroic Brit,
And equally, many take a dim view:
He should have taken his staff when he flew.
Personally, I’m on the side of Pen:
He TRIED to take all the women and men
And he TRIED again; what more could he do?
As US drones killed and ISIS bombs blew?
And in case I appear subjective here;
To reiterate: it seems pretty clear;
The Taliban, having the final say,
His staff and their families had to stay.
Now, as the last western soldier departs,
The pointing and the condemnation starts,
And the lies, leaders would have us believe
About all the goals they failed to achieve.
The Taliban, Biden, Johnson, et al,
Add them all up and it’s one epic fail
And if you get mad, as maybe you should,
Don’t blame Pen Farthing;
He did all he could.
Resignation
People falling from a plane
Exiting a world of pain
Turned my mind to those resigned
Leaving burning towers behind
I Stand With the RNLI
Bemoaning refugees, rescued at sea,
Farage disparaged the RNLI:
They’re all but a “Taxi” service, said he,
And GB News viewers took up the cry,
“FUCK OFF BACK TO FRANCE”, to migrants on shore,
And who would be a lifeboat volunteer?
Deemed to be aiding those breaking the law,
ALL LIVES MATTER, being not the case here,
Insults and cans were hurled, without shame,
At our fellow men, who fair nearly died,
Fleeing from terror, to more of the same,
Their human rights dashed, devoutly denied,
By the riotous, righteous, Farage brigade,
Fuelled by hatred and the statements, he made.
Scars and stripes
He figures himself a peaceable man,
Makes others happy whenever he can,
Goes out of his way, tries not to upset,
He’s friendly, agreeable, chatty and yet,
If you take a closer look at his face,
You’ll see faded scars all over the place;
I asked him one time, how they came to be;
Those cicatrices and he said to me:
The ones on his forehead and on his nose,
Came after somebody randomly chose
To pick up a bottle and viciously
Ram it in his features maliciously.
Being by his features compelled to stare,
I observed a deep indentation there,
Between the marks on his nose and forehead,
Of which the cause has already been said.
The indent came via a sovereign ring,
A big burly bouncer brandishing bling,
And five bully beefs, more bouncers indeed,
Assisting their friend in his hour of need.
My interviewee was pushed to the ground,
Subjected to kicks and punches face-bound,
His nose pulverised, was crushed like a grape,
Hence healing permanently out of shape.
Just underneath his bottom lip, I saw
A mark from when he was given what for;
Why what for was given he had no clue,
But a hole was made where a tooth went through.
He ran to his house, gave the wound a clean,
Unwrapped a plaster, applied Germolene,
Couldn’t recall an action or word
Of provocation to what had occurred;
His lip was split, with a hole underneath,
But he felt relief having lost no teeth,
Before he retired resigned to brute force
And ignorance, being par for the course.
In subsequent years, he was derided,
Fists and bottles with his face collided,
But wary of rhymes exceeding distance,
I’ll cut straight to the piece de resistance;
For so I considered the five inch scar
I saw on his neck, the largest by far.
I begged of his pardon, asking him how
And why, but he was fair talkative now
And he told me a tale of terror, pain,
A dice with death and a jugular vein;
A horror story, worthy of mention,
Hopefully bound to keep your attention.
He said he got it in the Falkland’s war;
A shell exploded as he came ashore
And then, he admitted, that was a lie,
It was a stray bullet, a gangster drive-by;
Oh no, sorry it was a terrorist,
In Syria: a female jihadist;
And then again, maybe, it could’ve been,
Something that happened when he was a teen;
A would be killer, never convicted.
But in truth, it was
A self-inflicted,
Drug-related, attempted suicide
And the night it happened,
He nearly died.
Of deep neck wounds and other things gory,
A random stranger, from out of nowhere,
Hovered by the table, pulled up a chair
And with an air of vexation and hate,
Said to him, your stories are bullshit mate
To which he replied, by turning his cheek,
Adopting a look decidedly meek.
Abruptly he left, said, goodbye my friend,
Thus bringing our interview to an end;
The stranger retreated back to the bar;
In short, the event was very bizarre.
He figures himself a peaceable man,
Makes others happy whenever he can,
Goes out of his way, tries not to upset,
He’s friendly, agreeable, chatty and yet…
…There’s something about him, I know not what,
That seems to ignite, more often than not,
Aggression and anger in certain types,
Resulting in injuries, scars and stripes
And dear audience, though in the end,
My interviewer is one of pretend,
The interviewee’s a truthful design;
The scars and stripes and beatings, are mine.
The Tempest
An artist, caught short in the park,
Accidently made his mark;
Ariel, upon that spoor,
Turned the canvas blank once more
Fly logic
A blue bottle, in my field of vision,
Buzz- collides against the sunlit window;
Exacerbating, with indecision,
It lands and takes off in a pointless show.
I watch, irritated; how I despise
Its incessant buzzing and restlessness;
Am I fly- logically seen through its eyes
Objectively, equally meaningless?
Its three sixty vision is scant defence
Against a copy of the Big Issue,
Rolled up in my hand, with which I commence
To dispatch, prior to wrapping with tissue,
Its battered body, leaking yellow puss;
Primed thus for binning, with minimal fuss.
Deluded
History is a malleable thing,
Fair often moulded beyond all recall;
Whether a beggar, queen, pauper or king,
The same rules apply for one and for all:
When writing an autobiography,
If one doesn’t wish to do oneself down,
The glory should outweigh the infamy,
The hero should overshadow the clown,
The journal should brim with sagaciousness;
Amazing quotations, worthy of stone,
Predestined for shareworthy statuses,
Via a tablet, laptop, or smartphone,
And I share these pearls of wisdom because,
The older I get, the better I was.
Curry and the wind
How many beers can a man sink down
Before he can no longer walk?
How many hot chillies can be consumed
With prawns, lamb, chicken or pork?
Yes, and how many leakages can be stopped
By plugging the source with a cork?
The answer my friend, is curry and the wind,
The answer is curry and the wind.
How many dumps must some people take
Until they need to no more?
How many hours before they’re pain-free,
Relieved and no longer sore?
Yes, and how many times can a liquid run
Before it ceases to pour?
The answer my friend, is curry and the wind
The answer is curry and the wind.
How many times can a drunk be banned
From restaurants and bars in his town?
How many pans can be pebble dashed
In shades, variations of brown?
Yes, and how many bed sheets will spouses change
Before they desert their old clown?
The answer my friend, is curry and the wind
The answer is curry and the wind.
Botox
Cynthia with a syringe
Shot Botox into her minge
Then just for a lark
She streaked in the park
And gave an old todger a twinge
A Girl Of Nineteen
In a French castle’s keep of yesteryear,
Rapists, guarding their prisoner, dwelt,
I fancy ghostly memories here;
Echoes of pain, both given and felt,
Where once a heretic, so deemed to be,
By pro-British triers, spent her last night;
Only an adolescent was she,
Dressed in male clothing, lest the guards might
With unbridled lust and demonic desire,
Commit outrages of sexual incline:
She, for those garments, was put to the fire
By bishops and earls with politick design.
As the flames touched, imagine her pain;
I’ll wager nobody perusing this can:
Posthumously, she was tried again,
Found innocent, and after a span
Of four centuries, they made her saint;
An irony striking me as obscene,
Pondering rulers who showed no restraint,
When burning alive a girl of nineteen.
Birthday surprise
“Darling, put this blindfold over your eyes,”
Said Cynthia to Cecil, her tired spouse,
For she had prepared a birthday surprise,
Upon his return from work to their house:
He was led to a room, then to a chair;
“Sit down here darling, keep the blindfold on,
Don’t take it off, and don’t go anywhere,”
So saying, she left, and while she was gone,
Cecil let rip with a very loud fart:
For many a second, he without cease,
With a leg raised and with bum cheeks apart,
Gave to his gasses abundant release,
And in the midst of their rancid smell,
Cynthia returned, said, “Take off your blindfold,”
Hence Cecil became embarrassed as hell,
Removing the blind, for low and behold,
Now crowding the room, as if from nowhere,
Were colleagues from work, family and friends,
Each chocking, gagging and gasping for air
Much like a diver suffering the bends,
Nobody sang, “Happy birthday to you”
And Cynthia took a very dim view.
Philip fixed my WC
A lady I met, out walking one day,
Was eager to tell me an anecdote
Re Philip, who’d recently passed away,
But in truth, her tale was nothing of note:
Mine was much more than a royalist’s thrill;
To be brief: the toilet was blocked, and I,
Being lumbered with a limited skill,
When it comes to repairs and DIY,
Phoned up a plumber; thereafter appeared,
A man, well past the age of retirement,
Wearing a highlander’s kilt and I feared
He was lost, so I asked his requirement,
To which his reply proclaimed him to be
The plumber I’d called, though I’d never guess;
As before stated, so ancient was he;
His face rather like Prince Philip’s, no less!
And after he’d told me his name was “Phil,”
I would’ve died, if surprises could kill.
“Tell me the way to your WC,”
Said he, with an accent, fair upper class,
And as he went up, I offered him tea,
To which he replied; “No thank you, I’ll pass;
I can’t stand the stuff, though coffee I’ll take,”
And so for Phil, I a coffee prepared;
A couple of ticks it took me to make,
And as I was pouring it, he declared,
“I’ve cleared a blockage, not overly large;
It really was quite a minor repair,
And I feel inclined to waiver the charge;
A hot beverage seems perfectly fair”,
I offered him cash, but he insisted;
“I’ve plenty of money, much more than you,
Please don’t persist, my arm won’t be twisted”.
The coffee he drank, thus taken as due,
He bade me farewell, saying, “Mum’s the word,”
And left me perplexed at what had occurred.
“You’re pulling my leg sir,” the lady said;
“Philip would never have done such a thing,”
And as she became quite angrily red,
I told her of William, our future king,
Attentively waiting behind the wheel
Of a land rover, to take his man back,
And I must confess, it gave me a thrill
When Wills, as Phil, with an audible crack,
Hoisted himself in the car, said, “Hallo,
Bravo, Tally-ho, cheerio, goodbye”
And as he drove off, there was a great show
Of waving flags and a forces fly-by;
A rousing rendition of “God Save The Queen”
Drowned out the jets, and the neighbourhood sang
With patriotism, joyful and keen,
And I fancied, as my alarm bell rang:
If ever a dream turned out to be true,
The Windsors would make a great plumbing crew.
Spare a thought for the hapless wildebeest,
Who, after migrating for many miles,
Is fated to be a predator’s feast:
A live meal for dogs, lions or crocodiles,
And as he dies, in unspeakable pain,
The herd, in a massive majority,
Rushes on by to inhabit the plain,
Heedless of the tiny minority,
Being sacrificed, to keep it alive
In vast numbers, seemingly unaware,
That nature, allowing it to survive,
Deems a few casualties perfectly fair,
And people, these days, are labelled herd too;
Hence, spare a thought for the hapless Gnu.
Legend
Telling tall tales of tearaway teams,
Top-boy antics and criminal schemes,
Painted over with poetic gloss,
Glamorising the villain he was,
Embellishing exaggerations,
Living up to great expectations,
Exchanging banter with hooded youths,
The legend signed his book of half-truths.
And from the book, a feature was shot,
Scripted and loosely based on the plot;
His role, by an Oscar winner played,
Ensured our boy was very well paid,
And with the royalties, he bought a yacht,
Much like the one Sir Philip Green’s got;
He and Sir Philip are friends it’s said;
As thick as thieves, out there on the Med.
If karma’s somewhere, having a look,
At things not said in the legend’s book:
Things that can ruin lives and cause hell,
Maybe he’ll end like Robert Maxwell,
But for now, karma’s yet to be seen,
Pensioners are being wiped out clean,
The sea’s two shades of turquoise and blue,
And an old villain’s writing book two.
Dog Snatcher
If I saw a dog snatcher set on fire
And I was in reach of a water source
I’d be very tempted to leave the pyre
Allowing the flames to follow their course
Burst pipe
A burst pipe on a winter’s night
The mains tap was jammed up tight
I grabbed a can of WD
Sprayed it very liberally
Still the handle wouldn’t turn
Dialled a plumber in concern
Out on an emergency
He said he’d get back to me
Phoned another one instead
Sorry sir the message said
All the staff are out on call
Nobody’s available
Leave your number and your name
Three hours later no one came
A burst pipe on a winter’s night
Enough to make your hair turn white
Water on the kitchen floor
Bailed out through the back door
Outside it was minus ten
Made me think of homeless men
A burst pipe on a winter’s night
Not a very pleasant sight
I was feeling sore depressed
Freezing cold and very stressed
Tried to turn the tap again
Fingers thumbs and wrists in pain
Then I with a hammer tapped
Nothing turned but something snapped
My wife very angrily
Screamed a loud profanity
A burst pipe on a winter’s night
A.K.A. a crock of shite
My endeavours came to naught
To cut a mundane story short
The water didn’t cease to pour
The Kitchen was a sea shore
The piped sprayed ceaselessly
The plumber came eventually
Stopped the flow charged a mint
And according to the small print
On the insurance policy
The water lost was down to me
Consequently all the spill
Was added to the monthly bill
And presently I’m wishing I
Was handier at DIY
A burst pipe on a winter’s night
It cost the earth to put it right
False prophet
Lauded lies electrify
Captivate the desperate eye
Flickering with fearful flame
Faraway from whence they came
Theories scribbled on the wall
Symbolised beyond recall
All the more to make them seem
Scriptures of an ancient scheme
Plastic shamans claiming truth
Full of ego stand aloof
Careful lest unmasked they be
Fallible like you and me
Presently behind the veil
Lucifer and Gabriel
Plan for better or for worse
From a far off universe
Falsehood mixed with gospel curd
In the melting pot is stirred
Tiny morsels each will get
Hanging from the internet
Someone with a grand idea
Types in CAPS to make it clear
Morning afternoon and night
Trolling with inhuman spite
Thus he reads his dogma now
Amplified by people power
Unbelievable yet still
Handling his flock with skill
Promising the time is near
Meant for everybody here
Followers inside the keep
Labelling outsiders sheep
Plastic
To the beat one toe
Said the Brummie DJ
And deluded minders
Of a fictional show
Posed in the way
Of the Peaky Blinders
Shantytown
The poorest village in our land
Is Jaywick by the sea
And every year it’s in the band
Of least prosperity
Hey ho the potholes grow
All the shacks need pulling down
But the bar is low
And there’s no cash-flow
In a seaside shantytown
There’s sewage in the kitchen sinks
And rats are everywhere
I wonder what the landlord thinks
Alas he’s never there
A profit he is making
With the minimum expense
Five hundred pounds a month he’s paid
For every shack he rents
Hey ho the cold winds blow
There’s no warmth to be found
Cos it’s too much dough
And they’ve got zero
In a seaside shanty town
By Daily Mail and Sun despised
Now filmed by Channel five
They’re demonised and stigmatised
And many say they skive
Anxiety and poverty
Regarded with disdain
Their tragedy’s made comedy
And so they entertain
Hey ho the seas of whoa
You can watch the poor folk drown
In the undertow
On a TV show
While you’re warm and safe and sound
Hey ho the MPs crow
And the welfare workers frown
Not a one they know
Ever funds skid-row
In a seaside shanty town
Brad Pitt
Nigel, one night, while lain in bed,
Patted Laure on the shoulder and said:
“Darling, I love you with all of my soul;
Please would you lower your flag on my pole?”
“Nigel” she said, I’m too tired tonight;
My sovereign banner’s folded up tight”,
So saying, she drifted off into sleep,
Leaving poor Nigel awake counting sheep,
And as she slumbered, content with a snore,
He tossed and turned, till his pole was no more.
This scene was replayed all week and the next,
The weeks became months and Nigel was vexed;
His petite amie had lost her desire;
What would it take to re-kindle the fire?
He picked up the Mail, smiled at the news,
(Filled as it was with pro-Brexit views),
Then noticed an ad that took him aback:
An item he needed, delivered fast-track.
Without hesitation, an order he made,
And he, being Nigel, was offered free-trade.
Two nights later, he said to his beau:
“Close your eyes darling, I’ve something to show”,
“What is it Nigel?” She asked in surprise,
For he had placed glasses over her eyes,
On opening which, she near had a fit;
Nigel was gone; in his place was Brad Pitt!
“Darling, don’t fear, it’s really just me;
Nigel’s still here, though it’s Brad Pitt you see,
The glasses you’re wearing are making it so,
Now unfurl your flag and watch my pole grow”.
Oh what a glorious time Laure had;
So much the better, now Nigel was Brad.
Her flag was hoisted to wondrous heights
And lowered again with equal delights.
Nigel lay back, most pleased with himself,
Fearing no more his place on the shelf,
As for the glasses; he’d donned his own pair,
Presently, Laure was no longer there,
And flying the Jack, on top of his stump,
Was lovely Ivanka, daughter of Trump.
The Devil
In an indeterminate equation,
He is the x that forever will be
A source of half-truths, blame, accusation,
A herald of doubt and conspiracy.
His is the envy of emerald green,
The need to acquire material things,
The shadowy veil, obscuring obscene
Grand puppet masters who pull on heart-strings,
And rally with cries to a prideful cause,
Backed by theories malicious and vague;
Opponents besmirched to boundless applause;
The more so in times of turmoil and plague,
Denying which, tyrants fall on the meek,
And who but a saint would offer their cheek?
Lost for words
My Muse has gone, and my
frustration
Is found wanting, in
terms of expression.
And, looking at the state
of the nation,
I can only convey the
depression,
Sadness and angst I’m
presently feeling,
In a rhyme (or rant) of
limited scope;
As a poem, this isn’t
appealing;
It conjures up anger;
offers no hope.
When I see lies
masquerading as truth
And liars being followed
and revered;
When I see denial
refuting proof
And free will into
stupidity steered,
All I can do is look on
in dismay
And silent despair, with
nothing to say.
