When they are born
it's hard to know
what your children will grow
up to become

The sad fact
for some parents;
their children will grow up to be ****.

Nasty little cowards
who swan around
a tiny town
and pretend to be Ronnie Cray.

Perverted ****** predators
who creep around the beach
on a beautiful hot sunny day.

******* little waste men - waste of *****
who think they run the place
then throw pathetic insults
when you stand up to their face.

They might be from a broken home,
I do try to see the best
But their father would have done us a favor
if he came on their mum's chest.

So when I become a father,
I don't want a rude little runt.
I hope that it's happy, hope that it's healthy
and I hope that my kid's not a ****.

There are many different walks of life
some are twisted, some are nice
and some are just plain cruel.

A Baker with a wheat intolerance
An actor without a part
A farmer who’s afraid of sheep
A banker with a heart

A politician who cannot lie
A Doctor with a cold
A clumsy loud mouthed loose lipped spy
An origami exhile – out of the fold

A discharged army general
turned red faced personal trainer
Or the local park bush lurker
who’s found his nitch as a social worker

The violent ******* criminal
released from behind bars
now spends his weekdays
putting tickets on parked cars

But the worst walk of all,
the most hopeless and empty
is to sit ideal at home
and watch daytime tele.

Welcome to the self centered,
health center.
A hospital treating,  
ailments of the ego.

A patient with a bruised pride
having been chastised,
a marred mojo
and a hubris overblown.

X-Rays uncover,
the damage caused
by humiliation and regret.
Bones fractured by
that 'thing' he shouldn't have said

Miraculously, he did not die of embarrassment.
He's expected to make a full recovery

Didn’t Obama look great
In two thousand and eight
But by god, he looks tired now.
The weight of the world
Has since then been hurled
Upon his poor lonely shoulders

Two terms in power
And stacked sleepless hour
Has started his hair to fade
The stress trying to fix
A world as broken as this
Has left lines under the poor man’s eyes

Obama looked great
In two thousand and eight
But my word, he needs a rest now.

Loud noises. Bright colours.
Rush and gush of comers and goers.
The western world is a bit
too much for me today.

Because last night,
I saw the stars through shaky eyes,
felt the cold air against my numb face
and told a stranger what you mean to me.  

I sat on the water’s edge for hours,
my bare feet hanging off the side.
I saw the stars. I saw your eyes.
And felt ******* great.

Have you ever heard the tale of Granny Flack?
Who slaved away in steam and rattle and bang,
to feed her two boys with hands callous and black
and when finally they were all grown,
they went to fight and never came home.

**** about face, I seem to get things,
Always putting my foot in my mouth.
I’m do-lally tap as me mum always says.
A great big apeth, just like my dad.

But you my dear, help me think clear
you’re the only thing seemingly right.
I may be a wally, I may be a ***
But I want to dance with you tonight.

The Hippy Life,  
I tried it twice.  
It was peaceful,  
it was nice.  
But I couldn’t help feeling
I was wasting my time,  
sitting in fields
and making up rhymes.  
I tried to be free
in spirit and love,  
and to give myself over
to the fairies above.  
But what was the point?  
What point could there be?
When you didn’t have
any free love for me.

The Hippy Life
I tried it twice.

I live in a tin *** house
with clatter and clutter
and not an ounce of living space
my tin *** house is sad and sorry place.

Junk piled on furniture
and muck on the walls,
my tin *** house doesn’t get
many visitors at all.

The fence is falling down,  
the flowers dying in the heat.  
My tin *** house is such a mess,  
a tip could not compete.

The spider’s webs’
are the only thing that grows
and from the taps,
it's only cold water that flows.  

So yes, my tin *** house
is a sad and sorry place
and my tin *** family
is in a sad and sorry state.

If I’m going to die in my twenties,
then I’ll die at 27.

Death by misadventure
is the most fun way to go,
a drug fuelled ****
or champagne overdose.

I’ll burn out like the greats
Hendrix and Morrison
Joplin and Cobain.

I’ll leave behind my mates
to sit, with sneers and snub
at their reckless friend who became
a member of the 27 club.

I wrote to my MP  
to protest a motion
allowing a business  
to purchase the ocean

The Ocean Corporation
should not charge for waves
or the soft rhythm
of the water’s gentle touch,

Should not charge us to sail
off the edge of the world,
which is where we escape when
we’ve been charged enough.

They have to charge
wrote back my MP
Do you want the bill
For the Ocean’s upkeep?

Do you know what it costs
to hose down the wales
and shine up the sharks?
It’s not like a railway
or a national trust park

So I write back,
and with four letter words
express my distaste
at the answer I heard.  
The Ocean’s been fine
for millions of years
it needs no shine.  

The stunning mystery
that soothes troubled souls
who sit at the edge
and wait to grow old.
The beautiful sight
That accompanies lovers
On a beautiful night.  

I ask you again
please
do not privatize
the sea.  

(I am awaiting his next response)

I used to think
All that mattered
Was to be remembered
When I die

But now I’ve realised
There is beauty
In being swiftly forgotten
When life passes by
I won’t be anything then
Except dirt on the ground
My life, my love, my misery
A gift – shared only with you