happy birthday me when i'm dead...
all those balloons had helium in them,
and all your celebratory  encores
and choir fancies were but chipmunks
in my imagining how,
otherwise, the celebrations took place:
i told the Japanese army to
bomb that ******* Tsunami...
did they listen?
                           noo.
                                     for ordinary
people like me, the only chance to see
organised crime, is to look out for
Jehovah's Witnesses knock on doors...
ginger!               ginger!              Swahili in Haiti!
that's the closest we'll ever get to seeing
the Italian mafia in practice -
and who the hell writes poetry in order
to wait for an interview?
  she publishes me... she ends up in hospital
with water in her lungs.
        you heard of the fascination
with those old migrant to the English coast,
central European pelicans on these isles?
took them over 2000 years to come back,
and they're shy creatures...
   whoever thought about writing poetry
to not utilise their shyness by otherwise waiting
for media interviews: is a ******* potato-head
stump worth a piñata bashing.