Congressmen, police and ministers
All can be particularly sinister
When they take it upon themselves
To think of us as shoemakers elves
Fairytale beings who then madly
Exist only to work for them gladly;
Drudges to work for them out of sight,
Creatures that give in without a fight.

A sense of privilege causes this.
As fate is always rather hit and miss
It’s not granted by common sense,
More like a caprice of something dense;
A dark deity that is impressed by wealth
Without regard to someone’s right or health.
And the scary people the malady infests
Seems unaware of the evil it ingests.

Limelight and spotlights are the energy
That often drives their ***** perfidy.
But just as often, these fools don’t care
Who knows of their arts, no need to share.
They while away at greed and perdition
And certainly need anybody’s permission.
They only live to gobble and acquire
And never need anyone call them ‘sire’.

The most frightful of these lustful ones
Are those who ply their will with guns.
They decide the good from enemies
And few seem good to these entities.
They only plot their murderous plans
Without regard to the rights of man.
If you get in their way, you are foe.
That is as far as their thinking goes.

For that is the point here, after all.
These creatures ignore propriety’s call.
And the same with society, it is true.
Those needs, for them, will not do.
They work sorcery behind the scenes
And create acts that are truly obscene.
It matters not what is wrong or right
They are ever-vigilant, day and night.

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me all her secrets
She could not speak, she could not hear
Her fingers spoke, her eyes heard all

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me to always walk straight
Crooked things she said are bad
Unless they're crooked body parts

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me to always speak straight
Crooked words she said plant doubts
Unless they're crooked with natural fault

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me to always work straight
Crooked ways she said dig graves
Unless they're crooked by form

Grandma with her crooked fingers
Told me how to live a life-
With her crooked ways and crooked words;
In a not-so-crooked manner

~Moniba.

Sing a song of slick men
Pocket full of lies.
Four and twenty fat cats
Terribly unwise.
When the truth was spoken
They don’t even try.
They’re immune to reason
And they get all the pie.

Sing a song of no sense
And how they persevere
How they get elected
Year after year
Still they have no scruples;
Ethically impure,
They still win out in the polls.
Why is still unclear.

We should build a big fence
And lock them all inside.
Then impound their fortunes
Wherever they hide.
Let them see for sure how
Crooks we can’t abide.
See if they can stand each other
Living side by side.

Sing a song of statesmanship
Nearly gone extinct
Senators and gangsters
Not so distinct.
The rich still had their millions
We lost the kitchen sink.
Brought us all to near defeat
And pushed us near the brink.

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.

He pounded coffin nails
With a hammer forged of fear
Every word of spite nailing in and holding
Badged and vested
Death and bullets resting in his gun
But still frightened by this woman
Standing proud
Whom he could not bully
Nor subdue
Hammer, hammer, hammer
Testimony to the judge
That in all his years
He had never met a woman like her
Who acted like her
No respect
No fear
Of course not you fool
You charged into the camp
Of Boudicea
Come to **** and pillage
And fell beneath her sword
Hammer, hammer, hammer
You can lock her up
But you can never bury fear

The dream last night had seemed so real… But it was just a dream, right? Those shadows, the messages on the mirror, the walls, all the groaning and the shuffling of feet… That was all just a dream, right?
     This is all just a dream, right?
     Fairly ridiculous question to be asking yourself as you’re being chased through the halls by this… this, this thing. Whatever this is. Its neck is limp, head resting on its shoulder. Its grin is huge, its face coated in blood.
     Have you ever heard the children’s rhyme about the Crooked Man?
There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
Upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat,
Which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together,
In a little crooked house.
     This… thing, you’re being chased by, that you’re fighting off with a fruit knife, that you’re setting on fire and pushing into holes and still won’t die…
    This is the Crooked Man.
     I wonder if this is all the Crooked Man knew?
     His crooked house, his crooked relationships, his crooked… crooked body…
     His body’s only crooked because of the rope, though.
     Maybe he couldn’t handle being crooked anymore? All he knew was a crooked life, all he owned were crooked things.
     I wonder why he’s chasing you.
     It could be to drag you down, to slaughter you, to make you feel his pain… More than you already have… To make you end up like him.
     Your pasts are so similar…
     Or maybe it’s to warn you. To say, “Don’t end up like me.” To make sure that you don’t die the way he died. The way he staggers, his limp neck, head hanging loosely, his unrealistically large grin…
     Why did he make you put that gun to your head, then? Why is he trying to drag you down?
That’s a problem for you to figure out on your own. But you’d better hurry.
     By the way, I noticed earlier… Your neck is a little crooked.

(This one was based off the video game, The Crooked Man. Yaay, video games.)

Crooked cops on the edge of the block.
Are they here to stop, or here to mock?
I had a dream once that all my hope was lost...

Feeling hopeless, begging for a sign of their proclaimed devotion.
My head slammed against the glass of the squad car,
They left me there then went to entrap the ones leaving the bar.
They don't know who we are,
but we gotta keep respect.
Like I've never earned a check or been upset.
We obey or get left.
We try to get right or get stepped.
Onto the next to make their life a wreck.
Enforced by fear every day of the year.
If we don't hear the fear,
It's a gun to our ear.
Living in a free country far away from here.
Our cries don't make ourselves clear.
If only our tears became spears,
But you know this life ain't fair.
that's what they will tell you, my dear.

I cannot speak for desire's fiery touch, nor can I speak against it for who listens to a hypocrite's tale and feels anything other than tired annoyance.

I will not offer any advice aside from the weary words of the twice, thrice, ofttimes fallen, yet who cares to hear the yarns of those that tried and failed.

All I can do is spout sad knowledge disguised as nonsense with the practiced ease in which Dylan spouts poetry and hope that you glean some semblance of the message therein and take not this crooked path of mine.

The Redhead.
The little auburn braid
wrapped across a freckled forehead,
revealing the natural orange and blonde streaks.
The china doll face,
with porcelain skin.
Pale lips, pink cheeks.
Eyes like the sea,
turquoise with speckles of green.
A crooked, imperfect, perfect smile.
A constant smile.