I'd like to start with an I in this,
But we shall start with We,

We are not being philanthrophic,
There is no poetic gesture,
We are old and starting to grey
And we hope this ribble rabble be our new poetic pray.

Nobody reads our poetry my dear,
Nobody looks at the sun no more
We cannot write about politics
Or women scrubbing the floor

What should we write about?
We are a sad bunch, you and I,
We are not the romantics
Who will somehow make it about the daffodils and the sky

At this lunacy, it's a therapy session,
Not that we can afford being sane
Sane is for ***** willows,
We'd rather drink in disdain

This time it'll be about the penny
And about how we have none
It's not a man, it's not a job,
It's my selfish needs, it's about corn on a cob,
We are using negatives to affirm what's really runing our lives
Baby girl you had big dreams,
let's make it poetic about that lady who wrote about flies
I keep missing out and forgetting who wrote what about their pain,
All I know life's messed up, gambling's fun
But I am not new to the game.

/Here's to us, drama queen,
That's right, it's your new name/

C'mon, set your alarm, you have a shift at 7.

I wish it could be simple as that,
An old man wearing a hat

And yet, I am stuck with his pension funds,
And the way his sons and daughters run;

Like an old age home stuck with seizures,
I like my paints measured,

My skin itches, it cannot set me free
Like water colours are meant to be.

I like control and precision,
Just like their parent’s decisions.

Beyond the east the sunrise,
Beyond the west, the east;
There is no wonder, thirst,
Only monetary schemes,

The traveler in me seeks no streams;
The mind only hops on taxes and pills
Scheme, Marry or ****

BLOWHORN, BLOWHORN HENRY!
Anne creeps up in your philosophical nightmare
The headless chicken,
The world is in despair!

My shoes, these shoes,
Not biblically on wine,
Give me another soul Balthazar,
I'm running out of time

Balthazar, my Balthazar
Dear, Dear neurotics!
A cat and a mouse shall not make the house!

Dear Michelangelo,
shape David again,
maybe my nose, maybe my head,
Maybe my eyes!

Tell Da Vinci I am running out of my mind!

Do I have teenage hormones?
Because the inadequacy is kicking in,
It's the same old hour, the familiar claustrophobia
Of a dead moth

As he pushes the rock against the mountain,
I too am the same
Familiar faces in new carcinogens,
Familiar tasks, familiar name;

A black hole for the soldiers
As between the Russians and Ukraine,
I fight with my livestock
I fight to stay insane