#bombing
Witnessing the blood baths, the bombings, the massacre
Of God’s people, children’s bodies everywhere,
And octogenarians expire slowly and quietly in horror.
The undistorted and the vivid images of terror,
The ugly realities of life for millions; what a rancor!
The large plumes of gray phosphorus smoke! There is nowhere
To hide. Showers of shrapnel, unprecedented heavy shelling,
White clouds of death and discriminating lynching
Of everything that breathes, walks, runs and flies;
This is war, this is sheer terrorism! The God-flies;
Where are they when they are needed?
Our world should not be so muted,
So insensitive toward so many.
This is a shameful disaster, a pity…
To do nothing and hope for the awakening of the gods;
The worms, the flies, the rats and the tods
Must be happy. What an inhumane feast!
In this young century, we cannot find Peace.
The photos are real, and dying is not a joke.
The lenses of the camera recorded the blood soaked
Pregnant women, their babies shredded
By the wrecked fires of the big guns.
No one is spared: fathers, mothers, sons,
And even young girls are arrested,
Humiliated, stepped on and eventually annihilated.
This is the state of our human family.
Centuries old victims are now the perpetrated
Beasts that devour nymphs, angels and dignity.
The moon can only helplessly weep,
The gods and the geese are high by the burning bodies.
Terrorism is your vocation; falling asleep,
Amid this, is criminal, we should unequivocally denounce the bullies.
Big gun shipped helicopters can only destroy; they don’t make Peace,
H bombs only create more activists, more militants and more beasts.
Copyright © 2009, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
sirens bawl
clear skies mean no school
(prospect of drone-strike)
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 10:40 PM UTC
It is time to call it quits.
It is time for you to go back to the West.
Throw in the towel on the Black Sea.
You, too.
The time has come.
Come together and act as a team.
I am not talking about religion here.
My voice contains a human element.
This is a gratuitous insult.
You and your nations are powerful, but you are helpless.
You have no authority over your belongings or yourself.
It is something I keep saying.
That is all there is to it.
Otherwise, everything is possible.
I swear by Allah, the Creator of All.
I swear by Allah, the Almighty.
One day, Gaza will feed you calabaza.
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 2:13 PM UTC
Ruth was concerned. Spitfire recon photos were the problem. Not the quality but something else. The target, it was wrong. Its street plan was different. Buildings, or what were once buildings, were different. What was wrong? Ruth thought. Do what thy will be the whole of the law. Do it right or it’s a **** up! What have our boys done?
She called her superior officer over. Quietly Ruth raised her concern and he looked closely through the stereoscopic eye glass at the post bombing pic.
“Strewth! You’re right. A right **** up. They hit the wrong ****** town. It’s not Munich. This is bad.
Ruth glanced up with wide intelligent questioning eyes. She looked very pretty in her WAAF uniform, with hair tied back and young features.
“As you sow, so shall you reap,” muttered her officer. Did it matter where the enemy was hit? As long as we bombed them. Our revenge for Coventry, London and a score more. Our Lancasters were pulverizing Germany. Bomber Harris had unleashed his whirlwind, silencing the Luftwaffe’s wind with extreme violence.
An urgent investigation needed to be carried out. It was the wrong target. A new raid would be needed...
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
They are the destroyers,
They have come through air,
Burning our streets and
spreading out despair,
With their stolen voices,
They have joined the laugh,
Burning through the corpses,
The righteous attack.
We are fallen warriors,
bodies rot in dirt,
We are eyes of ravens,
The blood of the earth,
With a rusty weapon,
We will spread the word,
The swords of our forefathers
are not of this world.
The cloud will spread,
The sky is dead,
Remains are bared,
The sky dies scared.
No mercy!
No freedom!
No mercy!
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 11:11 PM UTC
Can you see the sky
Where the birds fly
Blue as the sea
Please tell me you can see
Can you feel the air
Is the temperture fair
Moves with a howl
Ask yourself if it was a growl
Can you hear the bomb
Exploding after the calm
People running and screaming
As you're on the ground bleeding
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
ONE LAST TIME
We bring the cup back home
for those
who will never
come home.
"We played for the people who had died!"
Pogba avows.
An absence in the heart.
The memory of her laugh.
Her smile
in a photograph.
She, so much
there but not there.
The unbearable presence
of loss.
From a pop concert
to a football final
Death walks
amongst our ordinary lives.
"MANCHESTERMANCHESTERMANCHESTER!"
the crowd chants
"WE'ILL NEVER DIE!"
Here even in the kick of a ball
the defiant gesture.
We bring the cup back home
for those
who will never
come home.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
I see the violence,
I hear no laughter,
It's all faith to capture;
I can feel the rapture,
Disaster another chapter,
Darkness within these walls,
a fall,
No more buildings too tall.
Fire choking the young,
It's only just begun.
There's no sun,
We hear a bomb,
Run,
Innocent children,
Deprived of fun,
Shrapnel flying everywhere,
Smoky air,
Streets are bare,
It's all despair,
I feel the Animosity,
Subconsciously,
Knowing I'm dead probably,
We do this to our society,
Because we have religion and rivalry,
Violently, involved yet independently,
You walk so silently,
Scared of your own shadow frightfully,
Tirelessly,
With your messed up psychiatry,
That’s irony.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
He intimately coaxed the bomb like a lascivious lover
Passionate for death-
Carefully balancing out the ingredients,
Fixing the charge,
His soft-palmed hands caressing each part,
Beneath his unsettling gaze.
In paradise he’d spend his eternity-
Having killed his way towards god.
The crowds gathered in the boulevard
Arm in arm, laughing, relaxed.
He drove past them noting their joy-
Loathing their happiness,
An offence against his desire for death.
Turning his car sharply around
He slowly drove past them again.
In that brief moment, the wind
Gently rocking, his thumb pressed down.
The bomb blew, shredding the air,
Grinding his grinning soul into dust.
The blast ripped screams from each chest:
A world suddenly full of unbearable pain,
Blood crawling along the pavement,
Limbs in the gutter, leaking tears.
His road to heaven cost a hundred lives-
Cracked bodies, fragmented souls-
The squalid suffering of children.
Rivers of milk and honey
Thickened with blood.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
You took the innocence from my lips
Whilst carrying explosives at your hips
Tied my bomb and took a piece of my chest
Just to frame it
In a picture in the papers
I was watching the fuse to be lit
And you gambling that I would make it
Out of that lane
So I could do it all over again
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
What did it take?
A beautiful boy packed tight
With no hint of a man’s chin
By his dad who
Kissed him goodbye
With a hope of seeing him later
What did he know?
Carrying a sunburst in canvas
To strangers who never noticed
That their end stood five-feet-two
With a running nose
And a mind full of his mum
What did he think?
Avoiding all eyes as he stood
Among them with a small chest
That felt ready to explode
With the pressure of keeping
A secret for moments more
What would he think?
His life now a curling photo on a shelf
In a home where a family once laughed
And dust on a street where people still
Buy drinks, phone covers and fruit
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Sipping beauty
And coffee
Children and mums
In pieces
The deaf
The blind
And torn
Closer to the God
Who loves
Innocence
A smell of hate
And heat
Survived
The
Angry blink
That 17
Could not
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
Shaytan winks
Within …
a market
a boy
a vest
two wires
a second
a hole
a mistake
a crime
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
**citizens are dying
mommas are crying
countries are sighing
goverments are trying
to do all they can
but they don't realize that they have to unite man to man,
so maybe all of these attacks will stop, including in pakistan,
blood is drying,
bombs are flying,
watching this on the news is horrifying,
deaths are multiplying,
this is terrifying,
my heart goes out to the lives that were lost, to the families that died, to the mothers on their knees crying, to the citizens on hospital beds slowly dying.
you did not deserve this.**
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
Bomb for a bomb and the whole world goes blind.
But sure, it's not my house collapsing, so I don't mind.
An entire terrace brought down without a care.
I guess our children are more important than theirs.
When under attack, by all means defend.
But a good offensive's impact extends.
The young afraid of the sky will grow.
Their memory won't be impaired you know?
So by fighting back we create our foe.
First hand, future generations will know.
Bomb for a bomb and the whole world goes blind.
Blind from the past, blind from its victims, blind.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
PROLOGUE
Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ****** Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.
On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.
Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.
The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line
Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.
Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.
Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.
Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.
KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line
Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.
Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.
Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.
Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?
Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.
John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.
Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line
Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life ?
Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.
TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus
Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.
Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.
Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.
Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.
On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘shit-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.
Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.
Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.
In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.
Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.
On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry, he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal
Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.
A REVIEW
Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.
NOTES ON THE POEM
Liverpool Street Station
A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.
Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.
Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing
Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.
At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known
Kings Cross Station
A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.
Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
BILLS BILLS BILLS !!!!
Soooo Many ... **** Bills ... !!!
I don't like Destiny's Child ... !!!
This ain't a Dance Drill ... !!!
I’m writing this poem
cos i'm ... TIRED ... of ... " BILLS " ... !!!!!
BILLS ... for the Electric ... !!!
BILLS ... for the Gas …!!!
Soon … they'll be Billing ...
For taking a .... "SLASH" .... !!!?!!!
BILLS ... for ... The NET …
BILLS ... for your Texts ...
BILLS ... for those ... HOTLINES ...
For .... Telephone *** .... !!!
What will they bill next .... !?!
They're Billing .... Soooo Much ....
They don't even want ... Cheques ... !?!
Just Tap In ... Your PIN …
that's how they'll begin ...
to steal ... ALL Your Money ...
Why don't people see …. !?!
are they REALLY .... "THAT DIM" … ???
just look ... In Your Bank ...
"The Beast" .... Lies Within ....
Cashpoint machines .... “FAILING” ....
The service is .... “SICKENING” .... !!!
Meantime ..... YES ...... Your Bank
is … “HAPPILY” … Billing ....
Now ... I really would CHILL ....
if I ..... Never Again .....
SAW .... A **** .... Dollar Bill !!!!
cos ... AMERICA’S ... used them
for Killing ... at Will ...
kinda gets me to ... Thinking .......
that ... even .... " Bill Clinton " ....
just bombed without ... Blinking ... !?!
Sudanese People .... DIED ...
as the U.S. .... just .... LIED ....
While meantime .... Bill Tried ... !!!
to STOP .... his **** .... SHRinKing ... !!!!!!
Lewinski .... for sure ....
Was NOT .... "FINGER LICKING" …. !!!!!
But doing ... Her Thing ...
while thinking ........... Ch-Ching ... !!!!!!!
Meantime .... Bill's career ....
was about to start .... SINKing ....
" TITANIC " ..... Indeed ..... !!!
Bill ... fulfilled ... His Need .... !!!
but then came ... The Press ... !
Monica's … "All DISTRESSED ... !!!"
but Bill ... Tried his Best ... !!!
once again .... to .... “DECEIVE” ….
but ... All of A SUDDEN ... !!!
BILL made ... "A NEW SOUND" ...
“Okay, Yes I did it … !!!”
The TRUTH ... did ... come out ... !!!!!!
So, how many Bills ... ?
are feeding us ... LIES ... !?!
from BILLS ... that we pay for ... ?
To … “UNIFORM GUYS” …. ???
Oh Yes ... The ... “OLD BILL” …
over here ... NEED TO ... chill … !!!!
They're beating on ... BLACKS ...
"RACISM" ….. “INSTILLED” …. !!!!!
Blacks Dying in ... Cells ...
All Show ... but ... No Tell ... !?!
of how this ... CHIT ... happens ....
“THE YOUNG MAN JUST FELL !!!!”
See, that's the ... Hard Sell ….
that's what ... Blacks Deserve ... !!!!!!!!
Ask .... Warren Mitchell .... !!!
Alf Garnett …. I MEAN ... !!!!!
See …. On TV screens ...
for years ... they've been showing ...
Blacks being .... "DEMEANED" ...
Drug Dealing .... or .... VIOLENT …
Then they want to ... BILL ME ...
for a **** ... TV Licence ... !!?!!
They may well be ... "Jokes" ...
to … “OLD SCHOOL” … White folks …
But .... Listen up ... CLOSE ... !!!!!
A Joke is a Joke .... !!!
but some ... "OLD BILL" ... these days ...
are those ... ********** ... blokes ... !!!
So ... who in the end ...
will have faces of ... YOLK ...
Well .... NOT .... Rodney King !!!
Try this for a name ....
PC .... Julian Glyn ....
A .... Leicester .... Policeman …
caught .... " CHILD MOLESTING "… !!!
See i'm SICK of ... these Bills !!!!
We're paying .... "TAXATION" ...
for these ignorant ... " SICKO’S " ... !!!!!!!!!
to get their ... "CHEAP THRILLS" ... !?!
or to use ... Dollar Bills
to get people .... KILLED .... !!?!!
So ….
There are a FEW Reasons ...
why ... Bills ... get to me ...
amounting to ... TREASON ...
Haven't YOU ... had your fill ... !?!
Well ... maybe you ... Have … ?
Or ... maybe you ... Haven't … ?
I just want to ... RELAX ...
and be able to ... " CHILL " ...
and not have to ... Worry ...
about these ... " ****** " ….
BILLS … BILLS … BILLS … !!!!
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Legs, arms, feet
Not quite in one piece
No on can believe what they see
Flying legs, and arms, and feet.
Who dun' it? Who dun' it?
Why'd they do it to them?
Someone confess it, admit it!
And we'll get revenge!
BOOM BOOM
They'll hear it in their dreams
The booming of explosions
Tearing them apart at the seams.
Legs, arms, feet
Not quite in one piece
No on can believe what they see
Flying legs, and arms, and feet.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC