My face is ugly
My legs are short
But she leans upon me
For her child support.

What flies higher and faster than an eagle;
Moves in underwater distances greater than a whale,
And quicker than a shark;
On land, makes the chetah look immobile;
Can burrow deeper, and more effectively than a mole;
Is more powerful than elephant, rhino;
Has a higher perspective than a giraffe;
Presents with more audacity than a monkey;
Yet has the discerning powers of a gnat,
And the future longevity of a fruit fly?

I'm not a somebody
You would know.
I'm a nobody, really.
And, as a nobody,
I don't win or lose,
Cause nobody does a **** thing.
I didn't arrive or leave,
Thus nobody is here.
Nobody says anything.
Nobody was accused, so,
Nobody admits to the act.
Nobody was saved.
Nobody deserved it more,
Or less.
Nobody spoke up,
Yet nobody would shut up,
So, nobody was chosen.
Nobody wants to go,
Yet nobody desires to stay.
Nobody was blamed,
And nobody got the credit.
And,
While it's common knowledge
That everybody is born,
We would be wise to remember,
Nobody gets out alive.

The omnipotent
Doesn’t lead seminars.
The Universe is real.
Believe.

Many times in my past,
My take on life
Was a puzzling grasp
Of truths and lies.

In my mind,
In my heart,
I thought I was middling smart.
That's what I've depended on,
Yet I was phished by the con.

It comes from the side
Of your weakest eye,
While you think you're helping
This other guy.

The hit is done with such aplomb.
That's the beauty of the con.

I'm still as smart as I thought I was,
But wiser now,
Just because,
I was the victim of a scam.
With reticence now,
I'm the lesser man.

He was slick;
I was tricked
When I let my guard slip
By a con's phishing trip.
But never again.
I promise this.

Whew!
Glad I live here,
And not there.

He's senile, incoherent,
Out of shape,
Out of date.
He tips forward
Cause he blows back wind,
And when he mugs
He waddles his chin.
He smiles and squints
Those beady swine eyes,
Above his lantern-like
Satanic grin.
And it's never about you,
When it's always about him.

Flies follow his brimstone smell,
Like sulphur leaked
From the gates of hell.
The vermin covet
His dependable fill
From a shart attack
While he's standing still.

He's a fake from the toe lifts,
That stop forward tipping;
As fake as orange highlights,
And his mental slippings,
He's glued a fake coif of  fluff,
And, if that's still not enough,
He spews lies,
Framed by his wee hands flailing,
His fetid breath exhaling,
Pouty lips wailing,
And his fat *** trailing
Far behind.

Roll over a rock,
And what will you find;
Someone not
In a rational mind.

Where do we find them,
These  sad sacks;
Standing with placards
In the pumpkin patch.

Holding up fists,
Ready to fight;
A left jab will settle
The flails from the right.

They hang around schools,
Ogling their chances;
Using bibles as tools
For sexing defences.

They call themselves patriots,
Heroes and martyrs;
They're blowing hot air;
They're political farters.

Those two are so often seen,
That one might see them as one.
One wouldn't, one said,
And one would be wrong.
The other said, Yes, one would.
One won't.
We know.
It's all show. Civility. Cruelty.
One knows.

We were here first.
     I seriously doubt that,
     but, for the sake of argument,
     let's say you were,
     here first.
     So?
     I was here second.
     This isn't a race.

In my 20's
In the 70's
I was long in hair,
Donned vests and jeans,
From Goodwill Stores.
But I spent hard cash
On calf-high boots,
Raven black platforms.

Now in my 70's
In these 20's,
They threw me a party.

Hello 70's.
You Are Invited
To a 70's Party.
Groovy attire welcome.

Was I obliged.
Soon compelled.
Nearly obsessed.

Then the epiphany.
The Bard,
Reminds this walking shadow
In the long, gray-haired rented wig.