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Those red-hat doffers
Are the blood-thinning vermin.
Shoes of all colours and sizes
Shuffle by my North American Middle Class House.
We are temperate, they walk in all seasons,
Down here, between the Great Lakes.
These S-Westerners look haggard;
Even the young...
All waiting... waiting for the veil to lift.
Smiles are cracking, making new lines
Like road maps to happiness.
And yet, it's worse
In Talibexas, Loseiana and Floridistan,
Where there are fewer paths.
My love has been soundly tested.
It is not wanting.
It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness;
Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire;
Polished mirror-like by reciprocity.
I display my love on high,
Where it glimmers
Under sun and scimitar moon.
Love is my defense held against all detractors,
For I too am loved,
I have been tested and found not wanting.
I am worthy.
I am Love.
I've been exposed.
Many have witnessed me,
And more have noticed it.
The ones I taught to use a spoon,
Tie a lace, ride a bike,
Arise from a fall.
Those whom I've instructed
On when to listen,
When to question.
They've acquiesed to the knowledge.

The colleagues I once cornered with
In serious situations;
When our decisions effected others' paths;
Those who recognized my signature.
They've acquiesed to the knowledge.

I meet less often with friends.
I ask for less favours, and return fewer.
I don't stand holding meaningful conversations,
Sipping strong drinks.
I wear a cap indoors sometimes  (I once condemned this).
But, here you have it.
They've acquiesed.

I'm on my own now,
Hoping my memories are real and are mine,
And my ideas are new and genuine
(I change my mind a lot).
I seldom check the weather;
I've cancelled my cable (and this is a milestone).

I've enroled in a new world order.
Ask anyone you can find around here.
I no longer run the world.
Francie Lynch Nov 16
Donald has a comb-over,
******, a funny moustache;
Hair Donald?
Heil ******.
Sound the alarms!!!
Edit and repost.
Francie Lynch Nov 10
We heard, in general conversation,
It costs an arm and a leg, now,
Just to see a game.
To join in the comaraderie and cheer.
To eat a dog, to have a beer.
It's a rip off
He closed.

I agreed.
Then something else occured to me
About money and time,
(and what grows on trees)
How they interact to corner us;
To keep us from shows,
And stage dramas
That help us forget
Our real life traumas
(the causes of our nightly insomnias).

There's plenty to spend our cash on
(when older. like me, not when you're young).
So I tell my friends to purchase tickets
For games and concerts,
Plays and trips,
Meals and tips,
And gifts for giving
While above ground with the living.
Cause when you’re gone
You'll wonder why
You didn't spend
Before you died.
Die broke. Spend and enjoy.
Francie Lynch Oct 30
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.
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