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Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
How can you feel holy
By enjoying the pain of others?
Where is your righteousness
When you deny starving mothers
And brothers and fathers
And sisters and all others
Who need your help the most?
Does it add fat to your roast?
Is compassion some kind of crime?
Does it rob you of a dime
When you have so many millions
And not enough time to spend them?

Your logic is totally illogical!
It’s just short of scatological,
And adds up to the villainy
Of a well-armed sworn enemy.
This abhorrence of equality
Is your standard normality.
It often seems that being smug
Works on you like a kind of drug
That makes you see your neighbor
As nothing more than slave labor.
You who won’t throw dogs a bone
Did you get where you are alone?

How can you feel holy
By enjoying the pain of others?
Where is your righteousness
When you deny starving mothers
And brothers and fathers
And sisters and all others
Who need your help the most?
Does it add fat to your roast?
Is compassion some kind of crime?
Does it rob you of a dime
When you have so many millions
And not enough time to spend them?

You are taking a word such as liberal
And making a synonym for criminal.
You seem to want freedom to choose
As opportunity for religious abuse.
How are these oppressions you do
Good for anyone, not even for you?
For sure it might gain you some gold
That won’t love you when you grow old.
Unless you intend on buying affection
You won’t get much from an election.
The people who will applaud are shallow
If they let the world’s fields lie fallow.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
I’m going to solve my problems
By fixing you!
That sounds like the perfect thing
For me to do.
Life would be fine for me if you
Did not insist
On carrying on all the time and
Getting me ******.

You keep on ignoring me when I
Tell you what to do.
Everything would go just right.
It’s up to you.
Do what things like I tell you to
It’s best for you.
You never manage things as
Well as I do.

I’m amazingly organized and
You are not.
You haven’t the gift for it like
I have got.
You’d just mess things all up
For me to fix.
I’m not stupid, you know, I’m
Onto your tricks.

You get the wrong thing because
You did not hear
What I was saying went in and
Out of your ear.
Things always need to be done
A certain way.
And they would be if you would just
Recall all I say.

I swear I don’t know what you’d do
Without me.
You’d turn into some kind of major
Chaos factory.
We’re much better off if you just
Do as you’re told.
This petty bullheadedness is
Getting rather old.

Because all that is wrong with me
Is the stuff you do.
I would be a success story if it
Wasn’t for you.
You manage to ***** things up by
Not following rules.
Nothing would ever get built without
The proper tools.

But things will get better soon,
I promise you that,
Because a hot new slugger has come
Up to bat.
I’m taking over everything so
You just lean back.
In no time at all I’ll have your life
Right back on track.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
First, let’s talk about some of the lies
Uttered by the nefarious and unwise
Of a peculiar type of mindless insanity
Created and backed by the inanity
Of the Madison Avenue careerists
And hordes of conspiracy theorists
Who have taken the issue of a ****
And buried it in misconduct and greed.

It is important not to fall for the joke
That it is quite all right to smoke
Because smoking anything you pass
A dose of something called cyanic gas
Into your lungs, and perhaps minimal,
It’s the gas they use to execute criminals.
But, other uses for this homegrown stuff
Can help people whose lives are tough.

But the whole shooting match is a dodge
Started out by rich men in their fancy lodge
Fueled by ignorance and false piety
Written into law by a strangers to sobriety
That somehow had no problem with drinking
But thought being ****** was stinking thinking.
So they created movies and legends galore.
But repression is all the lies were ever for.

(There’s an old joke about a boss’s decree
About employees drinking ***** daily.
He issued the rule on the smell-free *****
That was drunk at lunch time by his crews,
Because he didn’t want customers hazy
Thinking his employees were going crazy.
He preferred they know they were inebriated
Rather than a staff full of the grossly pixilated.)

It was that kind of thinking that created
A fervor that up until today has not abated,
That named an easily grown garden plant
Into some kind of major anti-***** rant,
While opiates are endorsed by the AMA.
And hundreds of versions are here today
To cure the same ailments as cannabis
Without the side effects that are a nemesis.

Medical science is finally ignoring
A sacred cow that needed goring;
Suggesting to the country as a whole
That this simple plant can play a role
In helping those who need relief
And are being criminalized by a belief
That, accompanied with such sadness,
Was the true definition of ****** madness.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.

Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.

Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.

Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
The hippie days were rather hard
For a young guy just starting out.
Off- brand jeans and crew-cut hair
Didn’t carry all that much clout.
I was into show tunes and Elvis,
The Beatles were great and new.
I lucked right into the Troubadour
And fell in love with Elton too.

One of my ladies loved Airplane
The other loved the Monkees
The problem was that only one
Was ever approved by junkies.
But I was so squeaky clean
That I was only into cheap coffee.
I swear I could get high as a kite
On Russel Stover’s fine toffee.

But something changed for me
The day I first heard David Bowie.
It sounds kind of childish now
But he was special and so glowy.
He pointed out some dichotomies
Between what was said and done.
At that time we needed something
And Bowie was obviously the one.

I didn’t stick there with his genie
But his genius opened some doors
And affected my art and my poetry
Way back then and forever more.
So then it was Prince, The Doobies,
Aretha Franklin and Annie DiFranco.
And, of course, the one-hit wonders
About eighteen hundred or so.

It wasn’t always about music
This social code of mine.
But music underscored it all
Made even politics toe the line.
We made changes in civil rights
And even affected an evil war.
There is no reason to doubt it.
Music will continue to change more.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Don’t bring me those bouquets
Don’t clap me off the stage
Because my tour is not yet done
Some parts are just begun.
That would just be so wrong.
I haven’t sung my last song.
You must never forget,
I’m not quite done yet.

I need no one to carry me
It’s not time to bury me
In celebratory flowers
I’ve still got a few hours
Left for me in the spotlight
Tonight is not my last night.
Thought I’ve had my regrets
I’m not really done yet.

There are so many songs inside me
And melodies that will guide me
They want to come out whole
From deep inside my soul
But one thing I am certain
Don’t bring down that final curtain.
I’ve got more numbers to do
And I worked them up just for you.

As long as the crowd is willing
As long as I’m still killing
As you can still hear the applause
There is plenty of righteous cause
To keep the orchestra playing.
That’s all that I am saying.
I promise you won’t regret
That I am not quite done yet.
I’m not quite done yet.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
He was the only guy I met
Who wore a genuine fedora
And for all he struck a figure
He turned out to be a horror.
He was Satan with a swagger
A thin cheroot hanging in his lip.
He got into every nightclub free
I never saw him leave a tip.

His voice was like his words,
Smooth and slick and few.
When he talked everyone listened.
It seemed the proper thing to do.
But later when you remembered
It seemed he didn’t say much at all.
You just remembered his affect
His posture and that he was tall.

I don’t mean to imply he was a loner;
He had his choice of friendly fare.
And, it seemed the were both genders
So, there were lots of us out there.
We entertained, or at least we tried,
Just to keep him where we were.
And throughout the evening’s fun
Competition is what we all were.

So, we flirted and we flattered him
And we kept his cigarettes well lit.
Once in a while one of the silliest
Of our sycophantic group threw a fit.
Most of the time we stuck to our goal;
Some girl went nuts we’d ignore her.
For some mad reason all we thought
Was to please the man in the fedora.


I never heard anyone talk of him
And mention his accent or race.
In fact nobody seemed to be able
To remember aspects of his face.
And he never seemed to walk away
He just faded back into the flora.
He was like a will-of-the-wisp;
A Flying Dutchman in a fedora.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
At the risk of being critical
You’re nothing but a criminal.
You take what you want
And even stop to flaunt
You thinking you are pretty
Makes you have no pity.
You take all personal pride
From how you look outside.

You’re as deep as a saucer
And before I go further
Let me lay this fact on you
Most of us are on to you.
We expect so little of you,
It makes it hard to love you.
There’s so little more to see
Than your superficiality.

To be sure your looks served
To attract me so I swerved
And ran along beside you
To learn what was inside you
But imagine my great surprise
To find nothing behind your eyes.
As far as I soon came to tell
It was like I was talking to a well.

But it is okay, cutie, it’s all fine
I’ll just move on down the line
And find someone with a soul;
A personality that is whole.
I will find a person who cares
About more than clothes and hair
You can move on and have fun
With some other image-oriented one.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Often, perfection is a reflection
And you are looking into a mirror
You might need to see clearer
To realize you are staring
At a glaring projection of you
And not someone in front of you.
Now you have something to do.
You get to see if illusion
Causes so much confusion
You don’t know who is who
And who is they and who is you.
Sometimes, it’s not fun to do
Because new doesn’t always mean
Best, or wonderful or fun.

It reminds of the a certain elf
Who fell in love with himself
But he was looking in a mirror.
A lady elf called to him, but
He couldn’t hear her.
He was listening to poetry
Of love and praise of beauty
And felt it was his duty
To listen in total rapture
Not realizing he was captured
By the words he heard.
He felt he had no choice.
But it was his own voice.
He was listening to himself.
Silly elf.

So, if you work in Santa’s home
And look rather like a gnome
You might be excused
When you get accused
Of falling for your reflection.
This is just a suggestion,
But it seems it never misses,
Just remember old Narcissus
And don’t follow this whim.
Don’t be like him and the lake
Loving this reflection so thoroughly
You lose touch with reality
And make a conscious decision
To fall for a warped vision.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
You’re just a voice on the phone
Flickering lights on a screen.
I don’t mean to be mean
But you’ve seen how upset
And how lonely I get
From missing you
When you do that smile,
That twist of your lip
And I slip into wishing
Pushing reality aside
And wanting to reach
Each time, greedily
Into the phone
And no longer be alone
Missing you.

And now, with Skype
A new type of missing
Has appeared in my world.
Now the curl of your hair
Is also down there
Where I can see it and
It’s grand to lust after it;
To get to sit and dream
Though it seems naughty
Somehow ******
Since it is you
What else can I do?
It feels better than crying
And trying to pretend
That on this end
Everything is fine.
I don’t mean to whine.
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