matin

mini boon
got you
so soon
this lit'l
boo to
suit and
end the
blues with
petunias that
bloom with
smoke in
their room
and nocturn
with owl
matin was
in the
red house

You know the song
So bring it on.
Football is the theme,
And England is our team.

We invented the modern game,
So losing is a shame.
But we are going to win.
Let the celebrations begin.

Bring on Croatia,
We know we can outpace ya.
As for France,
We’ll lead them a merry dance.

If it’s Belgium we’re happy too,
They always let you through.
Though nothing is ever certain,
Until the final curtain.

We’re owed (a lot) from Lady Luck,
But so long as we win, I don’t give a…
It’s time we won again,
Making boys into men.

I really hope we win:
Prepare for quite a din.
History could be made
That will never ever fade.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

Hypocritical catastrophe,
Irreverent duplicity,
Luminarial ludiocrity,
Nonsensical impetuosity.

Flippy floppy, slippy sloppy,
Blamey gamey, shame, shame, shame.

Constitutional incongruity,
Jesuitical dictatoriality,
Oxymoronic partiality,
Nepotistic surreality.

Materialistic abnormality,
Monetaristic conviviality ,
Ritualistic mediocrity,
Histrionic philanthropy.

Gotten rotten, misbegotten
Seldom truthful, lie, lie, lie.

Misdirection genuflection,
Malefaction justification,
Incarceration implication,
Resignation profliferation.

Prevarication reiteration,
Damnation indication,
Malefaction direction
Undetected discretion.

Flippy floppy, slippy sloppy,
Blamey gamey, shame, shame, shame.
Gotten rotten, misbegotten
Seldom truthful, lie, lie, lie.

I went out poontangin’, just the other day.
I only did it so my friends won’t think I’m gay.
I might like the tang, but the **** not so much.
I much prefer the guys, but am afraid to say.

Two, four, six, eight:
Ain’t it great to deviate!
Seven, eight, nine, ten:
What so great about being straight?

I am tired of what some people say about my life
How I should settle down and get myself a wife
But sooner or later she will choose a game to play
That I don’t want to play, you see, because I am gay.

One, two, three, four:
I don’t want to hide no more!
Two, three, four, five:
I’m here, I’m queer, and I’m alive!

I want to come out, but I don’t want to suffer;
I have to be the true person that I am.
Acting like a rapacious macho lady’s man
Is simply a pose, a body language scam.

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen:
Please accept the truth you’ve seen!
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and more:
People pleasing is a crashing bore.

Brain in the freeway.
Synaptic processes.
Love and care.
Swindles and cheapskates.
A quick review of the perception of your existence.

And....
here comes the cadence as the chant of defeat comes again.

This winter wonderland puts me in a trance;
Imagining a life not yet lived; a little glance.
But slumber keeps calling my name.
Snowflakes kiss the air, and glitters all around.
But slumber keeps calling my name.
Seeking the comfort of all things warm; you will find me under blankets and with coffee for days...
But slumber keeps calling my name.
And soaking in the moments I have with those, whom I adore,
I look to brush time away once more,
But slumber keeps calling my name.
As the evening creeps in,
I am pensive as the bustle slows down, and the silence inhabits the cold,
Slumber inhabits me too...