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Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Nobody should believe you
You’re a world class liar.
You’re going to burn your ****
‘Cause your pants are on fire!
You’ve always been a liar
Even back in your youth.
The only thing you fear is
Having to tell the truth.

If you shake hands with him
Count your fingers right quick
Be sure you still have them all.
Never trust his sneaky tricks.
He can stand right in front of you
And baldfacedly he can lie
While smiling like and angel
And looking you in the eye.

Olly, olly, oxen hook
This guy is a nasty crook.
Keep track of all he took
Then sentence him, by the book.
Heckley, Jekylly, criminal
He prefers to be subliminal.
But mostly he’s a bad motor scooter
A cutpurse and a poorhouse looter.

He would rob widows and orphans
And claim he was aiding charity
As if he is the only person who
Sees the world with clarity.
He calls it redistribution work
Of the world’s hard-earned wealth.
But he is fooling nobody, really,
Or he wouldn’t need to use stealth.

And when he runs for office, he
Can refine his art of playing *****
By hiding behind closed doors
And stealing from us covertly.
He will join the political machine
That is already firmly in place
And work in his mirror every day
To hone that public smiling face.

Olly, olly, oxen hook
This guy is a nasty crook.
Keep track of all he took
Then sentence him, by the book.
Heckley, Jekylly, criminal
He prefers to be subliminal.
But mostly he’s a bad motor scooter
A cutpurse and a poorhouse looter.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Tired of waiting at windows
Walking floors like widows
Peeking through the blinds
Waiting ‘til the sun shines.
Missing the sound of your voice
But it’s not that I have a choice.

I am bewitched, that’s all
I fell to your siren call
I gave up my soul to you
There’s nothing I can do
I’m mesmerized
By your **** eyes.
I’m bewitched, that’s all
I didn’t know I’d fall.

Some people think I’m crazy
Others tell me I’m too lazy
To go out and try again.
Try dating some other men
But they don’t know what I see;
A guy who is perfect for me
Except for not coming home
And letting me cry all alone.

I am bewitched, that’s all
I fell to your siren call
I gave up my soul to you
There’s nothing I can do
I’m mesmerized
By your **** eyes.
I’m bewitched, that’s all
I didn’t know I’d fall.

I know I’m a fool in other eyes
They tell me he’s a shallow guy
They tell me this ain’t what love is
To be so gone on one man’s kiss
But they weren’t there, cannot know.
Sometimes that’s just how it goes.
They say I’m doing something wrong
That I let you fool me all along.

I am bewitched, that’s all
I fell to your siren call
I gave up my soul to you
There’s nothing I can do
I’m mesmerized
By your **** eyes.
I’m bewitched, that’s all
I didn’t know I’d fall.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
You can sing it to the tune
Of I Shot The Devil,
But I totally did it
Strictly on the level.
No, I didn’t know it when,
For another night of ***,
He asked me to his den
Under the spell of some hex.

It was like he was to me
The hottest guy ever seen.
He was built like a star
His hair had a fine sheen.
Body and face were fine;
Toned and masculine.
I’d never seen him before
Though I had often been.

He used his elocution
And handy circumlocution
Better than a Rosicrucian
Sentenced to an institution.
He could twist the moment
Out of a frenzied foment
Then to a crazy torment
With muted arcane comments.

We met in a bath house
On Melrose, West L.A.
And somehow that night
Things seemed to go my way.
He gave me the eye
And I returned it in full.
I am fairly certain that
We both felt the pull.

It was all about debauchery
And he was calling the shots
Making me see I got stupid
Whenever I got that hot.
I let my **** do the thinking
And he seemed glad to show
That I would flirt with danger
And then, not even know.

He used his elocution
And handy circumlocution
Better than a Rosicrucian
Sentenced to an institution.
He could twist the moment
Out of a frenzied foment
Then to a crazy torment
With muted arcane comments.

So, I went back for seconds
At Hedda Hopper’s apartment
Across from Mae West’s place
Fueled with no armament
To protect me from what
Would turn out to be, for me
The scariest ****** encounter
In my busy, young history.

We were doing the deed again
But this time things had changed.
His appearance began to alter
Into something scary and strange.
His canine teeth grew longer
And his body turned fiery red.
I quickly dressed and left that place
And stumbled back home to my bed.

He used his elocution
And handy circumlocution
Better than a Rosicrucian
Sentenced to an institution.
He could twist the moment
Out of a frenzied foment
Then to a crazy torment
With muted arcane comments.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling sorry by myself.
Waiting and watching and pining away
Wasting what’s left of a miserable day.
Humming the sad songs
I hear in my head.
I can do nothing but
Lie in my bed
Feeling sorry, just feeling sorry
For myself.

I sit in the dark wondering
What I did wrong
Or asking myself what I
Left so undone.
It has to be my fault
So I take the blame.
I doubt that I could be
More tired of this game.

Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling sorry by myself.
Waiting and watching and pining away
Wasting what’s left of a miserable day.
Humming the sad songs
I hear in my head.
I can do nothing but
Lie in my bed
Feeling sorry, just feeling sorry
For myself.

Why do the rules have to be
So stinking unfair?
Is there a referee
Hiding somewhere?
One who can come rule
On how this has gone?
I m stuck with the clues
I just stumble upon.

Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling sorry by myself.
Waiting and watching and pining away
Wasting what’s left of a miserable day.
Humming the sad songs
I hear in my head.
I can do nothing but
Lie in my bed
Feeling sorry, just feeling sorry
For myself.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
While not everybody naps
Simply everybody craps.
If you don’t you’re a goner
I swear by my honor
There’s no substitute for it
So just get used to it.
It’s like boogers, you see
It’s not talked of openly.

The public has an allergy
Of what can be said honestly.
You can admit to burping
But must do so excusing
As if you had taken a dump
Instead of expelling a lump
Of non-poisonous gas.
Society is a ***.

And while we’re at it
We live in a world here
Where ******* are reshaped
And formed by a brassiere
But no crotch bulges for men
Especially not big shaped ones.
As I have already implied
Society is a mean son-of-a-gun.

Breastfeeding an infant is
Seen as some kind of ****
But under-aged girls in bikinis?
That is why men were born.
They were put on earth to see
And love nature and its gifts.
But women in public should
Not show uncovered ****.

Just remember this and
You will do very well.
Being natural is for sure
The best way to go to hell.
You must always look to
The bluenosed of society
To shape your fine sense
Of decency and propriety.

A natural person, as God made
Is surely just the Devil’s work.
Because the Devil is more
Important that that God ****.
God and Santa make lists
And punish us by and bye
But Satan does it right now
And then spits in your eye.

So, be the proper citizen
And don’t do what is natural.
Following on nature’s bent
Will do you no good at all.
Even though the Bible won’t
Agree to this simple plan
Just look around you to learn
What is in society’s plan.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Buddy Buzzkill
Waits ‘til nobody’s home
Jimmies a window, sneaks in
And is free to roam.
He smokes all the dope
Drinks all the alcohol
Eats all the food
Until none is left at all.
Then he sleeps in your bed
And sneaks back out again
He comes back; hears you moan
How somebody broke in
And robbed him when he was not home.

Buddy Buzzkill
He’s a special king of louse.
He pretends to like you
Then, sleeps with your spouse.
He’ll hit you up for money
Then he’ll borrow your car.
And you lend it to him
That’s the kind of sap you are.
What is it about this guy
That makes it hard to say no?
Why does it not occur to folks
To look at him and say, “Blow!”

Buddy Buzzkill
He’s a master at telling tales
Of people he has laid
And the times he was in jail
For some ludicrous reason
That is always the fault of others.
He tell you how much you mean
And that you are like brothers
And then one morning you rise
And your stereo is gone
And so is Buddy Buzzkill
It’s time for him to move on.
Haven't we all known at least one of him? Sometimes he is a relative!
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
He’s a social chameleon.
He is whoever you want
Whenever you want it
And he’s glad to flaunt it.
He serves me Doctor Pepper
In a crystal champagne flute
And whistles heavy metal
In a double-knit pantsuit
Since he dresses from yard sales
In cheap period clothes
Everybody seems to know him
Wherever he goes.

But, they don’t know his name
Only his audacious style
That either runs people off
Or makes them smile.
He only cares for opinions
That make him happy inside
And assumes any criticism
Is because somebody lied.
He dances like a club kid
But is well into middle age.
He knows all the song lyrics
That are the current rage.

He makes his money painting
HIs canvases of chaos
Covered with a thousand splashes
Of house paint in gloss.
He says they are like music
Each color has a separate tone
And if you can’t enjoy his art
Then leave him the hell alone.
He’s skinny, but delicate
With the bone structure of gods
You’ll not have seen his type before
I will lay you bookable odds.

His one solid weakness
And everybody knows
Is that he sings all the time
And everywhere he goes.
That would be quite lovely
But he can’t carry a tune.
So he looks like an old photo
And makes noises like a loon.
I really knew this guy, but he was not African American. He was pale pasty Caucasian. But, this guy looks so much like him and the way he dressed, I had to use this photo.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Just in case you wondered
I love all my fellow poets.
Even if you blundered
I think you should know it.
You have taken me places
That I have never been
And unless I read more from you
I will never get there again.

You have painted the insides
Of my mind in psychedelics
Or showed me galleries
Of otherwise forgotten relics.
You let me walk with you
To your personal locations
And taken me on trips
Of twenty-line vacations.

You have used your words
Like brushes full of paint.
You have shown me clarity
And pointed out social taint.
You’ve shared your family
And the lovers in your life.
Some were Lochinvars
And some were a fishwife.

You parsing and your cadence
Helped put shyness aside.
You encouraged me to know you
Where others try to hide.
It’s amazing that in one page
You manage to become a friend
And then you stay with me
Long after the poem ends.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Neener, neener, neener
Your daddy is a wiener
A peener, a geener
A ***** magaziner.

Nanny, nanny boo boo
Stick your head in doo doo
Your granny has got put in jail
For practicing at voodoo.

Olly Olly Oxen Fee
I see you, you can’t see me.
I am smart, you are not.
Just how stupid can you be?

Waka, waka, waka
You look like an alpaca
Your mama should have taken you
And stuffed you in a locker.

Zimmy, zimmy, zim
Your luck is getting slim.
Bad Luck Billy says you’re
You’re almost bad as him.

Hardy hardy har
You think you are a star
But an extra in a walk-on role
Is what you really are.

Clunkety clunk clunk
Your dreamboat has sunk
You think you smell like roses
But it’s more like a skunk.

Sniggley, sniggley snurt
The truth is bound to hurt
You invested in yourself
And then you lost your shirt.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
You’re a smack down
Kick-around, clueless clown
That tells unfunny jokes
And runs with the blokes
That put up with your antics
And your busted semantics
Because they think someday
Things might swing your way
And they can profit by association
With a human abomination
That enjoys investing atrocities
With scarifying velocity
On the halt and the lame;
Running opportunistic games
On those who cannot defend;
World without end, amen.

But heaven forfend
That you might have a friend
Who seems a holy prophet
But does not seek for profit
And acolytes to their cause;
A bogus Santa Claus
Who leeches from the people
In his church without a steeple,
Just microwave towers
Sprouting like ugly flowers
To spread out the message
So we can read every passage
That boil down to a sermon
To send money to this vermin
Your bund proclaims a messiah
When he is really a pariah
Nobody has yet recognized
He’s so well disguised.

But, be aware, polecat
Some know what your at
And what you are doing
I nothing more than accruing
That which you can bank.
You have nobody to thank
For the outcome you inherit
From the outcome you assume
When your calumnies bloom
Into the realities that appear
When the truth draws near
And tars and feathers you
And when your victims do
What they should have done along
Was reject your ways gone wrong
And found a rail lying around
To ride your **** out of town.
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