Shot through the hip
On Flanders field
Left to infect and die
As the quagmire
Slowly
Revealed
How quick it is
To mulch the young
To the Earth
Up pop the poppies
To show that
What was
Worth

Slice your potatoes
So thick
They can take on
The oil
Salt
And fat
The nature of which
They need to be serious
So no one calls them a ****
Boil for a bit
And then on to the roasteries
Everyone likes the edges
Of their
Spuds
crispery

Where does a joke come from?
Oooh now that's a good question
Some people talk of a need
To describe some modern obsession
Forgetting the fact
That the gags we now guffaw at
Are age old weathered
Pieces of
Granite.

Human beings,
Akin closest to the creatures of the void,
As we consume.
Dictates of wrath falling from our hands,
Onto tablets of conversational truth.

I am conscious,
I think and do,
Still I consume too.

Leeching off the fuel writing gives me,
I run, an engine breaking through rocky walls,
Testing the boundaries of inspirational energy.
Aching with the feeling of being restrained,
Tortured by carrying,
Some few echoes of truth.

Skeleton walks into a pub
Orders a pint of Guinness
And a mop.