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Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
Dating gay guys works
For women now and then.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.

After dating all those jerks
You’ll surely wonder why
You never had the idea of
Going out with a gay guy.
You can dress pretty and
Never need to wear a mask.
He won’t make a move on you
No matter how you ask.

Dating gay guys works
For women and gay men.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.

Your girlfriends will see you
With a guy who is lava hot.
And if he isn’t to femmy
They won’t ask whether or not.
They’ll just see you at bars
And dancing the night away.
They’ll never think to ask
If that big hunk is gay.

Dating gay guys works
For women and gay men.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.


And the girl talk you can have
About all the smoking guys
About their gorgeous bodies
Their smiles and their eyes.
If you pick the right guy
You can find out right away
Which other guys in the club
Are actually secretly gay.

Dating gay guys works
For women and gay men.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
Downton Abbey’s going off the air.
I’m not through yet, it’s just not fair.
Nothing before that show ever had
That kind of class, that degree of flair.
Life without my weekly Downton
Is too sad and inordinately scary.
What will I do without my frequent fix
Of the elegantly snarky Lady Mary?

And will the feckless Mister Barrow
Ever develop a true human soul?
I am sure this handsome actor fellow
Will never again get such a meaty role.
And the Dowager Duchess herself,
She is not someone easily done with.
She is, after all, tradition incarnate,
And under all that, she’s Maggie Smith.

Bates and his Anna filled my heart
With alternating sorrow and great joy
Almost as much as a lady of nobility
Marrying the handsome chauffer boy.
Dresses and hair lengths shortened
And nobility began to get real jobs.
All this was before ****** flared up
And turned starving folks into a mob.
I never missed that we were seeing
The transition from ‘la belle epoque’.
That time was running out for that
In the worlds ever-changing clock.

It was a yesterday we never knew
We of the age of electric equality.
We got to look inside and see it
In all its grandly overdressed reality.
I had begun to recognize artwork, in
Lovely strolls through baronial halls
And huge family meals at table.
I am sorry that it is over for us all.
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
Not a lot has changed inside
From who I used to be.
I’ve gained wrinkles and gray hair
But that’s just humanity.
It doesn’t change the facts at all;
I am still who I always was.
It’s the packaging that changes
And that has a reasonable cause.

When I forget something
Folks call me old and senile
But, the fact is that I have
Been doing that for quite a while.
Ever since I was a kid
As a matter of pure fact.
So, don’t mislabel something
That is not an aging fact.

And when I groan a bit
When rising from my chair
It’s a bad habit I learned
Long ago, some bad where.
It is laziness and whining
And that’s the pure truth.
It has nothing to do with
My distance from youth.

When my eyes get misty
At something I may see
It’s not that old age has
Has totally overtaken me.
It’s because I’ve been around
For enough of these years
To recognize the feelings
That go on behind tears.

So tip your hat to me, my friends
And you surely won’t go wrong.
There is a bit of credit due
For sticking around this long.
It has given me some vision
Due to plenty of hindsight,
To make better decisions now
And to make most of them right.
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before,
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
As hand in hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.

I’d revel this all with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

But clouds don’t talk out loud
And tell you all this about me,
Or rout me out of my dream
Not as real as they seem to be
These illusions often delight me
But rightly, dissipate in the breeze
Then, on my knees, I pray
There will be another day
That is just like this one
That has just begun.
Until then, I thank my luck
That what a buck can’t buy
Has just passed me by
Bringing good fortune
And a clear sky
To weary eyes.

I’d revel this all with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
I am now so old
I only remember things,
Whenever possible,
That please me
From days “back then”,
When my **** was where
It was supposed to be
Now it walks along behind me
Like a lady in waiting.

My **** is like bunting
And my hair is hunting
For new territory
Up my back and shoulders;
It happens when men get older.
The hair on top thins
The stuff below begins
To reupholster my anatomy.
It’s so irritating to me
This whole aging thing,
This “being a senior” stuff.

It’s really rough on someone like me
An eternal teen, new to the scene.
But now I have become
That eccentric old fellow
In plaid pants that looked dumb
In the seventies and before
And forever after.
But I can’t join the laughter.

Because it’s me, you see.
All I need now is to pull them up,
My pants, my belt
Right under my man *****
And I’ll be the guys on YouTube
In the video gag reels.
That’s how it feels.
But, it’s not funny to me.
It is, however, reality.
I will just have to make the best
Of the good and bad, the rest
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
Hand and hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.

I’d revel in this with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

I’d breathe in the sea air
Sharing the breezes with you
Doing nothing but strolling
Unrolling a memory for two
Who both understand this
Is what it is; a beginning
Winning a celestial prize
For eyes that celebrate
This date as only ours;
These hours our dedication,
A presentation to us both
And loth to walk away
We so want to stay.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
I sleep in my cardboard cottage
That is my current job.
I keep it neat and clean as I can
I am not a slob.
I have my own place staked out
Everyone knows it’s mine.
It keeps the wind off as I doze.
It isn’t perfect but it’s fine.
Part of my job these days is easy;
I set out a cup and sing.
It doesn’t make me a million
But it is something.

When the weather warrants it
I sleep in the park
In the bright warm sunshine;
Stay awake in the dark.
It seems the citizens and cops
All leave me alone
Even though they still talk to me
With condescending tone,
Tsking at my laziness in general
Give the charity buck
Or maybe a quarter when they see
Since I’m down on my luck.

There’s this guy Hay Soose
But he spells it Jesus.
He could spell it that way
If he so pleases
But that don’t keep him dry
Whenever it rains
And it doesn’t stave most of the
Deep arthritic pains
From sleeping under cardboard
As his only roof.
Watch him shiver in winter if
You want some proof.

People have gotten to know me
As I’m here every day.
Some of the even come by with
Nice words to say.
And, I am used to the noise here;
The horns and the noise
Of the workaday world of these folks;
These grownup girls and boys.
Some tell me to go find some work,
I don’t get mad and shout.
I understand they have some hostilities
They have yet to work out.

Some of my neighbors here in cardboard
Dwell here because they
Can’t seem to work life out for themselves
In any other way.
People fire them from any employment
Because they act weird.
Some refuse to bathe or maybe it is
They refuse to cut their beard.
As for me I have had enough of it all;
The rattle and the hum.
I know society has a lot to offer but
I already had some.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
Whimsy plays too big of a part
In what we call normal life today.
All the Gods the snobs invent
Have these expensive feet of clay.

You can put a monkey in a cannon
But that don’t make it incendiary.
Anyone can smoke a camel, but
That doesn’t make it a dromedary.

We need to have a nursery rhyme
That warns us about politicians.
Specifically how to disarm them
And turn them into electricians.

You can’t roll a joint properly
While surfing on your Sea Doo.
You have to ask the questions
But the answers might mislead you.

Unlike an elephant who remembers
Who knows what the thing recalls?
Voters forget every fourth November,
The outcome far too often appalls.

Bringing popcorn to a media circus?
Plays too much like a bunch of selfies.
The humor there is out of service.
Leave that movie on the shelf, please.

You can sing a song of sixpence
But it doesn’t buy a flipping thing.
It’s hard to find an honest man
When artful liars get everything.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
Fools blather about the glory of the fight
And don’t hear the mothers crying at night.
The wives of those marauders on the roam
Cry because their husbands can’t come home.
The children of these battle-addicted men
Go away, eyes ashine, never to return again.
And still the moneyed few, urge on toward
Yet those godlings never pick up a sword.

Mandates from government palaces abound
But not as many as the dead on the ground.
People are expendable to the military,
There are no pensions in the cemetery.
It’s all about honor they tell the press.
Leaving someone else to clean the mess.

Fight for liberty and freedom, they say.
They really mean die for them every day.
It’s all about profit and always was.
It’s that and no more noble cause
When a nation not being attacked
Falsely claims they’re striking back.
Then goes on to leave thousands dead
So they can wear a crown upon their head.

If you see no words of shame in this
Then you have found what is amiss.
These people are not motivated by grace.
They have the look of evil upon their face.
They already own most of what is here
But they keep a running tally all year.
As too much is not enough they crave,
Even if that puts us all in our grave.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
Making excuses
With hundreds of uses
All kinds of ruses
To cover up abuses
By venal national leaders
Upscale liars and cheaters
And well-armed bush-beaters
Feeding the meat-eaters.

The uptight Right
With its narrow eyesight
Calls daytime night
And loves a grudge fight
So, they create enemies
With deceitful homilies
And live up to the parodies
That leave us on our knees.

They ignore the Constitution
And make new resolutions
To offer no real solutions.
To our national destitution.
All that matters is monetary
So, they bribe the constabulary;
Call civil rights revolutionary
And laugh at those they bury.

The point is, make no mistake
These reprobates always take
They never take a break.
They cut nobody a break.
They steal and call it rights
And love it when the poor fight.
And while we sleep at night
They steal even the street lights.
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