Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart

When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!

Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.

This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve

Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”

Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop

These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”

So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light

Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.

These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.

I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****.

I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.

Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.

And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs

until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.

I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.

There are some people,
Who will always do the right thing.
These are the people, though,
That seem to judge others, so harshly.
good people, you see things so clearly,
Too clearly.
Surely, one mistake, however monumental
Doesn't warrant condemnation, evermore?
I want to be with the baddies, right now, because I am one.
I feel like a pantomime villain.
I want to hang out with Snow White's evil stepmother, or the Ugly Sisters,
Down tequila with the Wicked Witch of the West.
Fit company, for me.
Not really,
I don't believe that, but in my darkest moments,
I do feel like a monster.
Whose moral code did I defy?
And does it matter? What does it matter,
I don't care what matters, any more.
Just call me Cruella, and **** me to Hell,
It's nothing I'm not doing to myself, already.
Drop a house on me,
(The ***** is dead)
Ding ****.

A man of no age
See this world be his stage
Subservant his number
This badge be his honour

His country to serve
In sacrificed love
These stories be told
A plot to unfold

A hero so British
This tune we still listen
A fighter of evil
His Q for distinguish

Sweet ladies a plenty
On rocks drinks martini
A drive in an Aston
Gadgets to walther

All baddies behind him
A win every time
As sunsets divine
A lady reclined
The music..........his line

The names Bond
James Bond

The trip would be flawless -
water splashing, echoed shrieks in chlorinated sunlight -
except for these baffling creatures
patrolling the pool

Up and down they go,
up and down,
staring daggers straight ahead
and daring you to get in their way

Rubber hats and plastic eyes,
folded skin, wrinkled
like deflated dinghies
doggedly paddling
their pointless journeys.

A bit like clockwork bath toys,
but not as entertaining.

The safety notices are wasted on them.
No petting?
I should ****** well think not.
Bombing?  Ducking?  Anything fun at all?
Up, down,
up
and down.
Relentless as the baddies
in a ZX Spectrum game,
stuck in their lanes,
joyless.

They were there when I was six
and they're still there, you know,
a few more wrinkles now,
up
(and down),
spilling out their black slick second skins.
Whatever it was they were looking for,
the search
isn't improving their moods.

we all remember
where we were
watching the towers
burn and fall
knowing that things would
never be the same at all
disbelief at first, or
had an action movie
slipped into the news

no, it was real
and then twenty years
of vengeful repercussion
of military posturing
of suffering for many
we watched
the baddies being painted
good and evil
being redefined
virtue confused
impotence and power
conflated
lies and spin
consecrated
truth
alternated
idiot rich guys
promoted
tax for the poor
promulgated
democracy
desecrated
climate destruction
accelerated
by denialist
complacency
inequality
more concentrated
goodness and morality
infiltrated

by posturing political
pus weasels
venal vultures
of self interest
grasping for
short term dominance

and then ..
complacency pervaded
as absurdity
was accepted
as our new state of normal
and the height
of compassion
was owning a dog
and tut tutting
as refugees marched
across our news screens

and now we
bemoan being isolated
from being contaminated
we are mostly relegated
to stay in our mansions
while dinner is contemplated
have you been vaccinated?

after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.

after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting  looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.

after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.

i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.

and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.

because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.

and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.

in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.

if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.

and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.

if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.

when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.

but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?

My eyes are roving, clever and playful
In the tensest moments I don’t lose my cool
From my fingers the bullets fly
I dive deep and jump from the sky.
I do hide behind occasional beard
I want my martinis shaken not stirred
My mantra is only one word ‘win’
The only car I ride is Aston martin.
My name turns my enemies morose
They’re pinned down by my gizmos.
Women just madly fall for me
Clad skimpily in alluring bikini
Chiseled figures slim and tall
I choose the good but go for all.
I am pressed for time so much
I can’t do without my omega watch
Though I’m not stuck in a brand or two
Rolex and Seikos will also do.
I feel instead of lengthening the list
It’s time for me to clear up the mist
A suave smart and fearless guy
I also happen to be a timeless spy.
I play with the villains dangerous games
Love to be called Bond without James
With me the baddies can never get even
You know the world knows me by 007.

Kind words
Full mind
Modern Athena
In a Christian arena
Dominated by daddies
Along with other baddies
She's beyond and behind
Her time and her kind

She's an oddity
Of space and time
A pure mind
From an impure kind
She's Athena
Up in the air

Here I am
Name's Crowley, Alastair

I am the beast you ride
Anger, frustration
Society's deviation
I am the body you hide
Bloated and rotten
Tainted by your thoughts
And the rusted knife
That anger that bleeds then rots
I am the monster
What holds the power

She's an oddity
Of space and time
A pure mind
From an impure kind
She's Athena
Up in the air

Freedom within
Under the skin
Ideas ferment
Dry off like cement
She sees so clear
Words of opacity
An animated shadow
Pure tenacity

An angel
Here's a demon
Not even an equal
Just all the freedom
Gone wrong

Here I am
Name's Crowley, Alastair

Ann has long
brown hair
and a wide spam
of forehead
and deep eyes.

She's Jimi's sister;
he's my best friend,
she has a temper
like a wild horse
and I avoid her
when she's moody.

She opens the door
to her parent's flat.

Yes?

Is Jimi home?

He's out,
gone with Dad
for a while.

When will he
be back?
I ask.

When he arrives.

I look pass her shoulder;
look for her mother.

Can I come in?
Or do you
want to come out
and go to
the bomb site
or park?

What for?
She looks at me;
hands on her hips.

Something to do,
something to pass
the time.

She looks at my clothes
and says:
do you have only
the one pair of jeans?

No, but I like
theses best.

What’s to do
on the bomb site?

Light a fire;
pick small stones
for my catapult;
play cowboys
and bad guys?

Have you got
a spare gun?
I'm not just being
a silly saloon girl;
I want a gun
to blast
the baddies away.

I pull out one
of my 6-shooters
from my S belt;
here have this one;
I hand her a gun.

She holds it
in her hands
and spins it
round her
plumpish finger.

Ok, but I’m
Annie Oakley.

Sure, you be her,
and I’ll be
Wyatt Earp.

So I wait until
she's got her
shoes on
and her cardigan
with flowers on.

We go through
the Square
and down the *****.

She rides her
brown horse
(so she says)
I ride my black horse
across Rockingham Street,
gun at the ready
for the baddies
we might meet.

I slide the silver painted six shooter
into the holster on my right hand side.
I stand there arm arched, hand ready
to go for the gun. I push my cowboy

hat back away from my cool forehead.
The bad guys are circling me. Today
I’m Wyatt Earp, the day before I was
Bill Hickok, shot in the back while

playing cards with some blonde ******.  
One of the bad guys goes for his gun,
I go for my gun before his is out of
his holster, I’ve got him between the

eyes, then the other before he can say:
What the heck, then the other before
his gun reaches to his eye. I blow along
the barrel as they do in films, put it

back in my holster. My mother irons
clothes in the other room. My sister
plays with dolls, in the long hallway.
None heard the gunshots inside my head;

all bad guys are dead.   I light up a
thin sweet cigarette and light it on an
imaginary match struck on the wall.  
Half hour later I see Ingrid on the

balcony. She talks of going to the
park to go on the swings and slide.
She has her brown hair held in place
with hair clips, mild buckteeth, brown

gravy eyes gaze at me. What you been
doing? she asks. Cleaning up the West.
West what? She says. Wild West, I reply.
She nods, uncertain, uninterested. Shot

three baddies. Bang, bang, bang. I push
back my thumb and point *******.
I am Wyatt Earp today. You were Bill
Hickok yesterday, she says, looking at

my ******* aiming at her narrow chest.
What happened to Hickok? She asks.
He 's dead. Oh, she mouths.  I put my
fingers away in my trouser pocket. Swings?

She says. I guess. So we walk off together
down the stairs, she wearing a red flowery
dress, white ankle socks, black plimsolls.
I look down the stairs well for any bad guys

lurking, gun ready in my trouser pocket,
Bowie knife in the belt around my waist.
She talks of a new skipping rope her mother
has bought her, I see no one lurking, no baddies

waiting with guns out. We walk through the
Square, out in the open, my ******* posed
for action, my Bowie knife ready to throw,
off we walk towards the park we slowly go.

There’s a superhero protecting the city,
And when the sun goes down he fights
To keep his friends and family safe
On treacherous, deadly nights.
He uses his marvelous super strength
For lots of things, it‘s quite practical.
And he uses invisibility
To be supremely sneaky and tactical.

Each and every night he goes to stop
Bad people from doing bad things
The city loves their superhero,
And treat him as their king.
They know him well and they can tell
That he’ll always treat them with care
They know they can call at any time,
And that the hero will always be there.

But many long and sleepless nights
Begin to take their toll.
The hero’s getting tired
Night after night on patrol.
And the battles fought aren’t easily won,
The hero’s decorated with scars
From poison darts, and fisticuffs,
Falling from buildings onto cars.

But no one else can protect the people
Whom the hero love so dear,
So the hero cannot take a break,
Not one day off because he fears
That as soon as he’s gone the baddies will come
And wreak havoc on his friends
And the hero cannot allow that to happen;
He could never make amends.

Though he’s growing quite weary, the hero keeps fighting
Because that’s the way heroes are wired.
But his strength doesn’t work like it used to,
And his invisibility tends to backfire.
His strength only works around other people,
He grows weak as soon as they’re gone.
He’s invisible almost all of the time,
So people can’t see something’s wrong.

It’s now to the point where the hero dreads
The sun sinking into the west
Because he knows that once the sun goes down,
He’ll be put to the test.
He’s so tired and weak and he’s ready to quit
But he knows he must go out again.
Isn’t protecting the city week after week
Worth any amount of pain?

He’s reluctant to go out, and almost dares to do evil,
To show that he’s in control.
But he knows he never will, his reputation’s at stake,
And he prepares to go out on patrol.
The city is asking to be saved once again.
And he cries as the sky turns red,
Maybe the city won’t expect to be saved
If the hero himself is dead.

For the hero feels so very alone.
He knows he can’t go on forever.
How many more super villains and monsters,
He asks, can this poor hero weather?
The hero knows that he can’t go much longer,
That he only has a little while
Before the people figure out he’s hurt
But for now he saves with a smile.

Though his bones are weak, and his skin is bruised,
Off to save the city once more, he goes.
He’s pushing himself far past his limit
As he brawls ‘gainst countless foes.
He wants to keep his people safe,
Though he may be going to his grave.
For no one ever taught this hero
To save others, first himself he has to save.

It was Shlomit
who fell from the seesaw
in the park

and grazed her knee
and elbow
Baruch who

was on the other end
jumped off
and helped her up

trying to console her
patting her
on the back

as she leaned over
dabbing at
her bloodied knee

and crying said
look at the hole
in my jumper

o my God
Mum’s going to **** me
o look at my knee

Baruch took her
to the old dame
who took shelter

in the first aid place
and sorted out
minor injuries

there there
the old dame said
we’ll soon put that right

and took Shlomit in
and sat her on one
of the chairs

and got out
her first aid box
and cleaned off

the dirt and wound
with some yellow stuff
which made Shlomit

cringe and cry  
o my my
said the old dame

its hurts
but it cleans out
the baddies

Baruch watched helpless
taking in
the lopsided

hair band
on Shlomit’s head
the blood red

jumper sleeve
the grazed knee
the old dame

wiping it clean
Shlomit in tears
looking up at him

her glasses crooked
o my God
what will Daddy say?

she uttered
o he’ll understand
the old dame said

don’t think he will
Baruch thought
he isn’t that type

of guy
leather her
most probably

he mused
watching the old dame’s fingers
putting on white lint

and placing pink plasters
over the top
to keep it on

now the elbow
the dame said
pulling up

Shlomit’s jumper sleeve
the elbow was badly grazed
the hole of the jumper

stuck to the wound
take hold
of her hand

Sonny
the old dame said
this might hurt

so Baruch took hold
of Shlomit’s hand
and watched

as the old dame
cleaned up
the elbow

with the yellow liquid
and cotton wool
Shlomit’s small hand

grabbed his own
the fingers
with bitten nails

clung tight to his own
he noticed she swung
her legs back and forth

under the chair
the plastered knee
came in and out

of sight
the window brought in
and allowed to fall

upon her knees
the bright morning light.

She is
the Ethereal Wonder
and I am her trusty sidekick
Dream Boy.

Her obsequious protégé,
I chop at the shadows
of the baddies
and glass ceilings
to which she delivers
swift kicks and merciless punches.

In the Dream Mobile,
my eyes are at her hand
on the stick shift,
her thumb flipping the
oil slick switch and pressing it—

the sounds of cars screeching and
careening off cliffs
fail to deter me from imagining
the gloved hand in mine.

Off she darts into the fray,
and I hear
the shocked public
gasp,
and the narrator expound,

“Faster than men less qualified but
more likely to get the job,

as powerful as histories
of suffragettes and debutantes,

able to leap over the confines
of impressed domesticity
in a single bound!”

Into her arms fall
the thankful victims
at the last second,

and the baleful embrace
of malevolence
gropes at thin air
where the Ethereal
Wonder once was.

She receives thanks
with a wave of a gloved
hand and bounties
of humility.

She is no damsel in distress,
she is no mere love interest,
and to be her partner
in this great dangerous adventure
will be the most heroic story
ever told—

And perhaps one day she will need saving,
and I will rise to the occasion—
owing my strength, wisdom, and ability
to all she has ever taught me
of being a hero.

Qualified Abstinence

I’ve decided - though not wholly -
As of morning’s bath - to put on hold
The daily custom, habit’s viewing -
NCIS, Dr Phil - suspecting as I do
That they are doing me some harm
Engaging, charming
                                 as they are.

Mind as thought and mind as stomach,
Turn to worry, churn with fear
As states of things in world and home,
Play out the clearer,
Signs maturing in their chaos,
Ever growing, ever baiting;
Making brilliant, analytical dear Phil
Ever more mouth-watering.
Well-loved NCIS plays its part,
Portraying nations torn apart
With ever cleverer technologies
And cleverer–type baddies
Getting ‘theirs’ from even smarter good guys.

If then, strong enough to not back off,
The morning TV staying off,
Then maybe, only maybe
This old belly
Can restore its tranquil peristalsis,
Family squabbles turning babble to a kiss.
Phil, dear Phil, continue to be wise and kind!
NCIS’ cast: brave, cuddly and seasoned -
Flag unfurled, continue to engage yourselves
In world salvation!
Stationing my thoughts in action,
I must leave you both
To carry myself into truth
As cellular Arlene conceives, perceives,
Inherently achieves it.
(If, of course, l don’t fall back into the -
(crude, ill-mannered rude word)  ****!

Qualified Abstinence 7.20.2014
Pure Nakedness; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
arlene corwin poetry.com

**** Morecraft said
about joining the Scouts
who used
the church hall

good venture
he said
we do things
tie knots

and learn
about nature  
how to start a fire
with two bits of wood

and sing songs
around campfires
and so on he went
walking home from school

you wanting to join the scouts
like you wanted diarrhoea
listening half heartedly
thinking of what

was for tea
or what to do
after school
and where to go

and we learn how
to put up tents
**** added
the last straw

ok
you said
I’ll think about it
see you around

and so off he went
along Newington Butts  
and you went down
the subway and along

whistling
hands in pockets
when you saw Ingrid
up ahead with bent shoulders

and lowered head
what’s up? you said
and she showed you
a tear

in her school dress
a rip in the side
showing
her white vest

my dad’ll **** me
(not quite you knew
but he’d beat her
black and blue)

what do I do?
she said crying
wiping her eyes
don’t go home

just yet
you said
my mum’ll sew it up
like new

we’ll go to
my place first
that’s what we’ll do
so you walked

up and out the subway
and across the bomb site
and up Meadow Row
(her mother or father

needn’t know)
and up the concrete stairs
to your flat and in
and you explained

to your mother
what was wrong
and she said she’d fix it
with needle and thread

and so Ingrid
took off the dress  
and gave it
to your mother to sew

and sat there
in the sitting room
in her vest and underwear
fiddling with her fingers

looking around
the room shyly
arms and legs
carrying badges

of black and blue
go get Ingrid
a glass of Tizer
and biscuit

your mother said
and don’t gawk so
and so you went
to the kitchen

and poured
a glass of Tizer
and got a biscuit
from a tin

and took them in
Ingrid wide eyed said
thank you
and took the biscuit

and glass
and nibbled
and sipped
and you told her

about the scouts
and what
Morecraft said
about tents

and tying knots
and lighting fires
with sticks
and such

(not caring much)
and all the time
eyeing the bruises
and welts on legs

and arms
and your mother said
don’t stare so
at Ingrid in her

white( near grey)vest
and underwear
so you changed
the subject

to the cinema
about some cowboy film
where the good guy
twirls his gun

and goes pop pop pop
you said
and gets the baddies
dead

just like that
and how after
the boring bit
where he kisses a girl

he twirls
his gun again
(you need
to practice that)

and she listened
as she sipped her drink
and nibbled the biscuit
sitting there

with her badges
of blue and black
in her underwear
and a red line

across
her skinny back.

You need the low angle for the camera
to zoom in on my frame: I can scale
the skies, jump down cars, beat
the baddies and romance girls
by age by half: I'm the hero. I defy
everything. Age included.

Look up close, there are no wrinkles;
Muscles, better than gymbuffs';
Hair, not a strand grey, and
skin, as elastic as young. Yet
I've been around for a good quarter
of the lives of you the commonfolk .

There is no start or middle here:
I know no crises, I know no end.
Touch the screen, feel
the sparkle! I'm the polestar
of the ordinary life, I defy
everything. Life included.

In the secret chamber of my private
existence, I sometimes peep
out of the looking glass, but
the glimpse you saw of my eye
blown up, is all you can catch
of the tears that line their tips.

a medieval blacksmith, insO̲—
—much as lyrical material of mine gets cast sim. to cold
weapons; I'd say, as anything mind-distracting, like dope
["destructing"]
lyric-writing acts in the role
of temp rise, 'cause it unshadows the mind
like da[ɛ]mn skies, dissipating clouds of lack of delight
which is whY̲ I clepe
it as "mind eclipse" (lack of the light)
hence all the grimness seen in mY̲ bar sheets (chernukha)
like someone having a flight, a bored, tragedy wight
["aboard"]
lashings of spite I add in my lines
a geek practicing harassment in rhymes
as a pastime; an antihero, like Frank Castle I side
with on going against baddies with vice (lesser evil)
'cause you can't battle a knight
or a savage canine, or seize a bastion by
means of any kind of chatting (good luck managing that, gandhists)
get real; chances of collapsing
a toughened up corrupt regime by tranquil, brawl-free rallies
are as high as a bA̲nged up substance addict
can be (highly unlikely); though I keep the anti-autocratic
subject matter frontline, for ones who half-a##edly indite
their lyrics, it's casket likewise; a wA̲ck sod with pine
boxes & nails for 'em; & thA̲t's something I'm
more than glad to provide
you with; tra[ɛ]nslation: you ain't sA̲fe, chumps
[a casket isn't a safe, hence "it's casket" means "it isn't/ain't safe"]
like an offer to have a sled ride
"dude, let's slay some"
["sleigh"]
said the voice of the Islamist radical-like rapper in my
bean (Shady); "let's bring a da[ɛ]ng mayhem"
["bin Shady": Osama bin Laden + Slim Shady, who's a lyrical terrorist]
it added with passion, then I'm
like: "sounds like a blast of a time" (kaboom)
but no[ɑ]t to you, be—cause I'm on my violent bullsh#t (again)
like a jihadi loony; with these lines I'm suited
up with, you'll be blasted like plants bY̲ a shrE̲wd wind
or like a head of state ordained to invade
a neighboring state
in this **** field, I feel
like Max Payne with a gauge
[shotgun]
in a prey-tE̲E̲ming weald
hunting as sport; slay just to main—
—tain some relish & killing skills
you're like misbehavior-free slaves
in this field; translation: you're tame (lyrically)
["tranSLAYtion"]
therefore, you're unwished-for
like anyone & anything with a high lack of approval
[by "high lack of approval" I mean "dissent"]
on politics of the regime of some dastardly ruler (dastardly ruler)
drunk by the power he keeps a tight grA̲sp on & moola (power & moola)
just like Vlad the mean puta (Vlad the mean puta)
code name's lavato[—]ry shooter (lavatory shooter)
you jacklegs remind
me of simple cases or the Batman that time
when he wound up with his bA̲ck damaged by
Bane, 'cause I get you cracked with no strife
just like trash, you would wi[aɪ]nd
up in the dumps if you set your crap next to mine
and let ones being into rap scrutinize
your level of lyrical threat's to splatter a high—
—ball glass or stuff like
that, punks; me? like an armor-clA̲d man, a night—
["knight"]
—mare; Dante strapped with a scythe
[Dante from the "Devil May Cry" video game series]
the way I whack, it's so tight
that I have my device playing some phA̲t beats as I
masterly slice you hacks into stripes
like the Senyera; rap di̲letta[ɑ]nti
and political oppressors are picked as targets
and I may be read as a vigila[ɑ]nte
'cause I go after you like
V; like 2 sawbones having a fight with their scalpel-like knives
[I go after the aforementiond figures in my lyrics]
["after U [which is followed by V]"; V from "V for Vendetta"]
a pa[ɛ]radox while A̲t it 'cause I go autocratic, despite
["pair of docs"]
the views thA̲t I stick by; other words, I kick A̲## as if I
were dealing a jA̲cka## foot strikes
[I'm against unjustified maltreatment of animals, that sentence is just for wordplay]
a rebel thinker with a wrA̲pped up in rhymes
sick, hazardous mind bringing lyrical disasters & crimes
oh, there's one I'm imagining right
now; a rap-writing dabbler, besides an autocratic *****, wi[aɪ]nds
up inside a hearse
with me being A̲t the wheel like
a town that's rife in terms
of poison-pushing; a psychopA̲th when I drive
["atterville"; "****** path"]
speed up to 150 miles per
hour on a track in Alpine
heights, pound a go[ɑ]ddamn curb
barrier breaching it & sending the wagon in flight
open out the driver door
and jump out with a 'chute backpA̲ck on my spine (bye-f#cking-bye!)
watching the car go down, just like a war
criminal busted, & whereafter burst, like
brain arteries of a nazissistic scoundrel; like reports
saying an autocratic piece of trash nullifies
the limit of his presiding terms
I'm bA̲d news when I'm
on my lyric-writing horse
[the "high horse" expression]
like cavalry; I'd like a dastardly, vice-ridden autocrat to reply
["riding horse"]
with lyrics to any of the crA̲p I've devised
in opposition to authoritarianism
should I send some to the office with galore of rE̲A̲r-licking minions
of that "it's all the nasty West" guy
or that's suicide?

below are notes from various people (all imagined) to Karma...

NOTE 1
Dear Karma
You're doing a great job -
people are in deep **** as they deserve
But what I don't understand is -
why me too?

NOTE 2
Dear Karma
I've got a hit list
of people
you've missed

NOTE 3
Dear Karma
I can see so many ambitious
becoming downright failures
as they justly deserve to be -
but how come
I'm still at the bottom of the ladder?


NOTE 4
Dear Karma
Life's not fair  -
I punched the guy next door
straight on his tummy
and he broke my arms and legs


NOTE 5
Dear Karma
You're somewhat erratic
I invited the beggars into my house
and they stole everything
Is that how it's supposed to work?
I don't see my reward in this;
I don't even get to be famous like Mother Teresa

NOTE 6
Dear Karma
All the baddies
are doing well
but why does a good guy
like me fare so bad?


NOTE 7
Dear Karma
You can do no wrong
as you're keeping things exactly
as they should be -
I'm doing superb;
everybody else is ******* up
That's the way I like it

This world was gripped by a puppeteer. He saw us all but deemed me our William Shakespeare. I was the poet, the world had to blow it. I was the artist, they weren't the smartest. I was the dreamer, they weren't believers, and I was the inventor, now they're no longer in the center.

The world was gripped by a puppeteer, but he looked at me and deemed me his sightseer. I was the psychic, the rest of the world had gone a little seismic. I was the vision, they couldn't come to a decision. I was the future, they needed some sutures and I was the wise one, but oh this world's a loaded gun.

The world was gripped by a puppeteer. He was their commandeer. He ordered the world to drown in flames, but they thought he was just playing games. Then he pulled his invisible strings, and from his chessboard began pulling corrupted kings.

Gold and silver rained upon the world, and blood and bones piled in the underworld. The little children just up and curled, and the madness hidden in the world began to just unfurl.

Gray skies couldn't hide the lies, broken kingdoms fell to the flies. The puppeteer had gripped the world, and oh how their sanity just twirled, oh, welcome to the new world. The world was gripped by a puppeteer, now all the baddies have to disappear.

Save us all, oh save us all. That's exactly what you'll do, my dear little puppeteer. 'Cuz as long as I'm pulling the strings, you'll always be doomed to stay here.

Save us all, oh save us all. That's exactly what I'll do, my dear little puppet. Oh it's gonna be you, you'll save us from the corrupted, but it's really me.

It'll be me, I'll be the one to save us all. I'm the real key, you're all under my thrall. 'Cuz as long I'm here, I'm pulling the strings. My little puppeteer, oh it's me, I'm the king of kings.

Now don't get me wrong,
This whole time that I was trying to understand
What you wanted, I couldn't help but notice
That I can't make sense of it all along.
This and that, blind tales, you have my full
Undivided attention, filling my head with
Strange and odd promises, telling me that
Although it seems unreal, you could just
Let them all in. If I took your "sound" advice,
If I'm alone, I could sleep with people on the street,
Put all of my food and drink upon
The ground, drag food around, your obsession
That I should feel fine to just pick it up and eat,
To try to defy my "religious" obsession, always
Try to be the one in charge, look for opportunities
To go off and put away or slay the "baddies" at large,
Become the person of the hour, or a follower,
Get a job where I can sweep floors and wipe tables,
So that I'll really be excited for the first time doing
What I do for a living, even if I'm not really able.
Who cares if this life throws everything bad at me,
I'm ready to attack all of the things that hold me back,
Even go for the things that don't interest me, instead of
Letting them be! YES, I believe "everyone" should work,
Even if they are really lost, psychologically unwell,
Major transportation issues and other real
Problems, No matter what we've been through,
No matter the actual real life hell,
We were all brought into this world to be
JUST LIKE YOU as well!

Falling upon a crooked stone
That lent itself some space
In the highest tenements
A malevolent elf smelt.

In the borders of mistrust
Where the baddies grow
Getting fat on mincemeat
Trying not to show.

A scraping of butter
To put on salted bread
Was never brought
To justice, no whistle said.


Love Mary x

Smoky Dawson sings up in the afterlife having fun
                                   At rings of Saturn


I am sitting up here enjoying the night
Having so much fun
You ser every day I float around
Thinking about how to enjoy the day
You see down on earth, I walked around
Doing my every day things, and
In hindsight, man I really enjoyed that
Yes, I was so cool, I had my very own show
Which everyone like so much
And before I left, I marched on Anzac day
In the city of Sydney
But now nothing can happen
I can't suffer from a heart attack
Or stroke, or get robbed by baddies
You see, any robber that comes up here
We just blast then back,
You don't have to listen to protocol here
No, you don't at all
When you want to play cricket
And can't find the ball
You don't need to look further, cause
You just zap it in your hand
You see this club I am in right now
The club called Rings of Saturn
I come here every time I want and
Everyone claps me, oh yeah
I love my cricket and I bought that to Saturn
And it was very fun, yes, oh yeah
Now there is cricket every Sunday night
And sometimes Tuesday as well
So when the cricket is over, yes we all went
To Rings of Saturn or Jupiter Moon
And we'll celebrate like crazy, man
We will have so much fun
See you later, I am Smoky Dawson
You've been wonderful
Bye



Sent from my iPhone

Turmoil, breathing fast
Shackles of a sinful past
Run, you idiot, run
All you can do since you've been outgunned
That ought to teach you a lesson
You might grow, but there are parasites in the world of indiscretion
Shouldn't have revealed so much to her
Some things ought to never be unearthed
So now you run from the baddies
That's the cost of for once feeling you might be happy

what is it, gaggles, giggles, hiccups, frivolities of nonsense, you can stream me all of them to perform the rightful description - point being, like any "ally" to an idea, i move up the chain of history, beyond pole, czech, russian... there's the pearl, the oyster to attach myself into the ethnicity counter-germanic, slav, with a missing e? well, słowianin (swovianin - sw'oh-via-nin, you alright on the consonant count, brat?!) słowo = word. i could be called mad, but then i write parallel to what i see, and what i write is what happens before my eyes, obviously mismatched to say the least, and never the perfected hindenburg perfection of "waiting for it"... but this isn't a back to the future prediction of lightning either.

e-ver -
            i-ver;
  talk about a need for a grapheme...
             it's just: ha ha ha ha... funny...
     i remember this one time,
my ex-g.f. younger sister...
  the one that became my muse:
cushioning lips -
  almost ***** -
     you know: fat, plump to invite
cordiality -
                         you know the problem
with poles migrating?
  they don't congregate,
hammersmith is an exception of
an area highly concentrated by poles,
otherwise?
    a pole meets a pole in england:
what a surprise!
    i saw you buying polish beer...
  żywiec?
          a **** good beer...
                     mazo mazo mazowsze (sz = sh
cz = ch, yzwz) -
                  one hand knows:
the H catches the vowels - but it also
serves as the pivot for laughter -
  aH hA hA hA!
           batman? probably the only
"superhero" worth investigating,
   given that all the baddies are batman's
alterego...
              two-faced joking billionaire
who's enigmatic with a pet penguin to boot...
a "superhero" who's only "super power"
is a **** load of money...
and some grease in the cranium...
          really, the russians are behind all of this?!
i find that the germanic tribes of lore
can never find themselves agreed-upon
singularism of an origin -
the french will remain french,
the germans german,
       lost the spaniards -
the english were always a tad bit paddy
mongrelling themselves with celt...
                in an anglophone realm of
language -
    it's much easier to identify yourself
as a slav, than a pole, a czech, a slovak,
       a russian,
                             a bulgar,
      a roma,  
                          a croat,
                     a slovene,
     funny... it's almost desirable, to be able
to identify yourself in the most accessible
           and broadest spectrum of tattoo...
   in the end there's only western europe
   that's described as western at the limit of
berlin...
       never helsinki...
                     and my god, so much land after
berlin -
            tilting toward *anadyr...
                        the process of subsetting in
the anglophone world -
          if only welsh and gaelic was more pronounced
in this realm,
perhaps then the english could identify themselves
along a more germanic heritage,
embrace it, and not treat their affairs
down the simpleton route of a football skirmish.
i actually can't find any "english" in all
honesty - on these isles it's easier to
name a gael and a pict, a wael too,
  but an anglican?
                what are they, really,
  anglo-swabians, anglo-saxons,
   anglo-pomeranians?
     these days you're already talking about
                            anglo-slavs & afro-saxons!    
i'd still prefer a blackbeard sharpshooter
  (3:1 mixer of *** & pepsi) -
                    or a flaky monotonous-****
cosmopolitan;
  just saying, who am i to judge,
       i once tried laughing gas -
                  and didn't even laugh -
        as always, the sometimes apparent banality
of cogito per se came up with all the necessary gags;
because it shouldn't be, the prompter of
all "necessary "gags"?
     to consider the brain as devoid of thought genesis,
since man tends to think about the entirety of
his body-geography -
     nuisance, or nuance?
                       thinking is the unnecessary
action that resolves no necessary "action" -
         it's a free-falling limb -
                whenever a prompt to kick,
to throw, to spin,
                            to mix - never is there
an equivalent prompt to think...
             that said: to truly meditate is to harness
a slingshot's worth of straining -
to refrain from thought -
                     to allow the building up of strain -
prior to a release such as this...
                  and from what i found is that:
thinking revolves around a quasi-claustrophobia...
its boa constrictive presence suffocates -
   until it reveals what is its most naturally
ontological about it: pathos & irrationality;
obviously if scrutinised beyond this -
   a homing device for specified interests -
               thought in autism -
                                thought in specialisation;
but by a majority rule-of-thumb:
          a pathology and the most
                 irritable irritability - irrationality:
the random selection of non-coherent set of
"intertwined" set of facts.

He always brought the subject up at the most inappropriate of times, usually when some **** was trying to **** us.
Are you a believer now.
If I get out of this, I’ll think about it. We got out of it.
God was looking after us.
I would like to think my rifle was looking after me, but if you think it was your god bolt, or Jesus sticker, I’m happy for you.
Why do you never use the word christian.
Probably cos I’m a non believer.
You don’t believe god saved you today.
No, I believe I saved me today.
Let me read you this passage from the bible.
I’m already reading my own bible, it’s called *******.
You do know that is demeaning to women.
I don’t know, did jesus not hang out with a prosey.
Jesus saved Mary, there is a difference.
Oh, touched a nerve there goddy boy.
I will pray for you.
Why do you people do that, why do you love sinners.
So we can show you the error of your ways.
Do you know what I think, I think you all get together at the weekends, you do all this god stuff, but it’s not really enough, cos you all agree with each other. so when I come along, and you convert me, it’s collective creaming. Am I right, or am I right.
Something tells me I will never convert you, but I’ll keep trying.
Why do you do all this bible bashing, I mean, you’re a great soldier, a thinker. that’s a rare breed in our game.
I want you to do something for me.
Is there a god involved.
Indirectly there is.
I’m intrigued, shoot.
If I die out here, I want you to go into my church and say goodbye to me.
How does that work, I don’t have to pray or anything do I.
No, you can run in if you want, say goodbye, and run out.
Okay it’s a deal, but I want you to do something for me if I die.
Okay then, what is it.
Right, I want you to go to the brothel. Now this is very important, I’m onto the Chinese race now, so you must do your best for me.
You know I can’t do that for you.
Just testing you. Okay I want you to go into the brothel, give the money over to the lady, explain how great I would have been if I was there in person. But under no circumstances try to convert her, none of that self gratification stuff.
Okay, it’s a deal.

Tell you what goddy boy, we could do with some divine intervention here, give your boss a shout. a small earthquake should do the trick.
So you’re a believer now.
If he kills all the baddies, I’ll convert yesterday.
See what I can do.
You’ve failed, let's get to **** outta here, c’mon, now’s not the time to pray. C’mon Michael, Michael.

The town was a *******. Not surprised you got out mate, I’ve only been here five minutes, and I want to top myself. The church had seen better days, half a roof, half of everything by the look of it. He loitered outside, trying to figure it all out. The walk in was a slow one. So strange, he felt like a child again, awkward to the point the words wouldn’t come out.
The priest saved him.
You look lost my son, can I help.
Yeah, I’ve come to say goodbye to a friend, Michael Sommers.
Ah_Michael will be sadly missed, he was helping to rebuild the church. As you can see, we’re slowly but surely getting there. In a strange way, Michael's death has really helped, he left everything to the church.
How much more do you need to finish the job.
Ten thousand pounds, then the restoration can begin.
Your lucky day father, Michael left me money to give to you, ten thousand pounds to be exact.
This is truly  a momentous day, you don’t know how much this will mean to the community. The spirit will return now.


You ******* Michael, I should have ran in, and ran out. There goes my month of high class immorality, I can just about afford a pint in your local pub now. Christ, I should have given the money to the pub, what a dump. The only saving grace was the girl serving behind the bar. Gives a pint of what you serve here.
We serve beer, the same as every other pub in the world.
Okay, gives a pint of your worldly beer.
Did you fall out the wrong side of the bed this morning.
I’ve had a bit of a shock.
You don’t look the sort of person who shocks easily.
I was in your local church.
Funny, you don’t look like the sort of person who frequents churches.
I’m not, I was saying goodbye to a friend.
Anybody I know.
Michael Sommers, I don’t suppose he came in here.
You mean, Micky Sommers.
I’m getting a sort of vibe here, did you know him.
Everybody knew Micky.
Tell me he tried to convert you to god.
No, that’s not the Micky we knew.
Okay, I’m getting that vibe again, fill me in.
Well, I suppose you could say, Micky was a nutcase.
What, no, we must be talking about a different guy.
I’m Micky’s ex, take my word for it, I watched him nearly **** three guys who got a bit out of order.
In what way.
They made remarks to me.
This is brilliant, glad I came in now.
You're like him, aren't you.
Listen, can I take you for a meal or something, tell you about the Michael I knew.
Well, there is only one restaurant in this town, it’s Chinese.
Fantastic, I’m sort into Chinese at the moment, eight o’clock okay for you.
Eight is fine.
Okay, see you then.

She was to good for you Michael. Christ a girl like that is to good for any guy. I’m going to lie like hell to her, tell her you changed cause you loved her. Christ, I would change for a girl like that. You look after me Michael in your new position now. Did I tell you I’m moving onto the Japanese race now..

First they broke up the unions, and I did not speak out,
Because I was only one.

Then they sold off the British – BT, BP, BA – and I did not speak out
Because I was only ten and - Thundercats.

Then they came for the coal, the power, the rail. We did speak out –
We held on to the post office and voted in New Labour.

Then we watched them PFI the underground, the NHS and schools
And we did not speak out, because we thought they were us.

So on they went and PFI’d Iraq. We did speak out,
But they were far away.
And that was not enough.

So then they PFI’d the **** out of everything moved-
Threw in some car parks here and there,
Some targets, some consolidations -
But we weren’t concentrating on that because -
We weren't the baddies, were we?

Then they came for prisons, and the police
Detention Centres, state school discipline
They even offered China our 5G

And then they asked the people how they felt
And used that - to make them feel something else
And then they asked those same people what to do
Offering a simple lie for complex truth.

And then a man with a pint
Formed a PLC
And stood for election
And refused to make promises

It turns out
a necessary component of a lie
is shame.
Who knew?

Before the 2020 tax rules
Or something
We got bored
And people voted
Not to have another vote
Ever again

And I wasn't even sure
At which point it was
That they came for me.

But at some point.
They'd already come.

- hitch -
or hatch: a hiker...
counter galaxy.

a terrible case of springtime phlegm...
****... perhaps there's a Japanese ideogram...
oh... look... there is...
痰 (タン) - TAN...
i was thinking... un-protected ***?
row row ahoy... no pirate ships ahoy?!
for every ideogram...
in Japanese... borrowing from the Chinese...
you can find a work-around wording...
symbols that translate into sounds...
ah...
         how... becoming...
the evil of this world is never
at a loss.... it's merely stalled...
   the good is always overcome...
subjected to...
                   i twitch my head...
what ******* waking of a dragon...
the dragon has uncoiled since
overtly-exaggerating Pearl Harbour...
but... that was military vs. military...
Hiroshima?! Nagasaki?
that's... military vs. civilians?! no?!
i side with the ****...
why... Godzilla: for starters...
why bemoan just warfare?!
oh right... just... the Holocaust is
our narrative... but... drop a NUKE
just in case... ******* WANKEES...
       oh... i'll wait...
now that "things" are getting spicy...
it's better than... Nietzsche advocating
for the 20th century...
my turn...
               they were... 6 million Polacks...
secondly: given the alias of Hebrew...
but... as far as Hebrew go...
can't trust them in keeping
an allegiance for their host nation...
ergo?
      
- Today is history. Today will be remembered. Years from now the young will ask with wonder about this day. Today is history and you are part of it. Six hundred years ago, when elsewhere they were footing the blame for the Black Death, Casimir the Great - so called - told the Jews they could come to Krakow. They came. They trundled their belongings into the city. They settled. They took hold. They prospered in business, science, education, the arts. With nothing they came and with nothing they flourished. For six centuries there has been a Jewish Krakow. By this evening those six centuries will be a rumor. They never happened. Today is history. -

Amon Goeth

as unlikely an alliance as it might be struck by...
a person of reasonable intelligence...
there, are, quiet, simply... some...
boundaries... that... are... not... to be...
crossed... before... crossing them... entertains...
vile... powers...
   and these... boundaries...
have been... crossed...
   CHAOS!
              CHAOS!
              why? for... the fun of it...
simply... for the whimsical... oops...
oh ****... history happened...
                   now bite... *****: now bite:
later chew...
               something terrible happened?
sure... a lot of people have been left
unaccounted for...
while all the Nazis were placed under
scrutiny of the Nuremberg Trials...
seems... rather... unfair... don't you think?!
yeah, sure... the victor ride the wave
of the narrative...
**** them, whatever... just let me die
a second time before i clock in:
(like) i (might) give a ****.

this one's just an assemblage of diverse
thoughts turned I̲nto a rhymed verse
no stories (alack), like a triple-decker
turned into a roofless single-decker
["no storeys"]
best intro ever
————————————————————————————————
in mY̲ op, lyric writing is
["in my opinion"]
a type of exercising, which
along with different lyrical tricks
rap is familiar for, e[ɪ]x—
["miliar" in "familiar" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "mil ya"]
—plains why some lyrically addicted perceive
lyric writing as sport
like a gym, cO̲[ɑ]ntent has weight
but it's, bY̲ & large, curb
appeal I get fixed on, jU̲st like Max Payne (a pill)
[Max Payne is a painkiller addict]
a kind of perfectionistical stiff
who's, lyrics-wise, a fiend for technique (technique)
so, while writing lyrics, the lead
thing is rhymes, so rhyme schE̲mes must be lit (must be lit)
just like an individual with
dope delivered I̲nto the syst.
["addicted"; "a pill [appeal]"; "a fiend"; "lit"; "dope"]
[all 5 words constitute a narcotic context]
[I have no intention to glorify dope or its consumption]
in a way, rhyme's a mag—ic of syllables, which
is something that should be given good heed
like a psychopath who can easily flip
speaking of which
you want to bet whether I wI̲nd up cast
inside a go[ɑ]ddamn mad—house? inasmuch as at
["Gotham"]
times it seems I'm becoming bats (slowly)
like the Gotham order up—holder
but some lines are, by all odds, compO̲sed by, um, joker
[the Batman, who's called "Bats" by his archfoe Joker]
like somebO̲dy feeling the need
of having fun, it's a Harley Quinn you should seek
["harlequin"]
or, at least, a ******* shrink, but you keep
[Harleen Quinzel was, before falling in love with her patient Joker]
[a psychologist, which is a type of mental health specialist]
[also called by the umbrella term "shrink"]
being that dog in the mid of a lit
room like "this is fine" (not really)
this wicked mind's deprived of peace like a leak-
-taker recently finished the leak (stupid)
["****"]
how violent & vindictive it ge[ɪ]ts
sometimes, esp. when my sh#t's getting writ
guess I'm seen, like a piece of a flick
["scene"]
as a somewhat despicable *****
with all the indecency & hostility writ (like Shady)
but if there's sO̲meone willing to b#tch
about that, such type of people should twig
something: an obnoxious lyricist, which
is what I chiefly am, is by far smaller evil in this
******* world next to ones who really commit
those or other villainous deeds (smaller evil)
[everything is relative]
moral nazis, like a stripper, should ge[ɪ]t
started from the top, i.e. corrupted pieces of sh#t
upholding **** systems that ge[ɪ]t
dissidents imprisoned, or victimized in prisons, or stiffed (**** systems)
["stiffed" in the sense of "killed"]
what I do may be seen as lyrical e[ɪ]x—
["sin"]
—tremism 'cause when I fi̲ll up a sheet
for bars, I, like a jihadi mad dog, gE̲[ɪ]t off the leash
["smaller evil"; "villainous deeds"; "stripper"; "corrupted"]
["**** systems"; "victimized in prisons"; "stiffed"; "jihadi mad dog"]
[all those constitute a sin-related context]
but I'm a bored hundido that's leashed (hundido that's leashed)
bark like crazy with lines of texts I indite
that's what the reallity makes me feel like
autocracies' po[ɑ]litics make ill will rise (rise)
yeah, diving into music or some on-screen type
of entertainment can help an ill mind
to feel fine (somewhat), but that's just a ****-time (**** time)
almost nothing vis-a-vis a thrill ride
guess we all need some real high
as if we've climbed atop a prodigious cliff, right? (real high)
yeah, with this pretty skilled mind (lyrics-wise)
["pretty" in the sense of "somewhat", not "very"]
I'm like a demi-go[ɑ]d when I rhyme
A̲[ɑ]lthough sometimes
I feel so worthless & **[ɑ]llow, just like
words of someO̲ne full of lies, so wonder not why
I want to have some power sometimes
not the one of a ty—**** or a high-qualified
gunfighter backed by an army of private sublime
gunfighters; but if I̲ had such might
[on the second thought, who the hell would mind having it?]
[and that's the main humankind problem]
[given that humans seem to be highly evolved animals]
to utili̲ze, I'd not try to become the tyrant-like type
[the "lize, I'd" part is supposed to be read/pronounced as "luyzad"]
of ruler (no); it's said justice is blind
but I'm vigilante-like in my mind (vigilante-like)
so the justice of mine is more like an eye for an eye
evil must be punished, I side
with Rorschach, A̲[ɑ]lthough, as I
mentioned in one of my lines, in mY̲ judgement, vice
to apply is alright when you fight
["going against baddies with vice"]
against greater evil; I give nO̲[ɑ]t a ****, like
a dental clinic with a budget unhigh
["dam"]
if somebO̲[ɑ]dy upright's not fine with what I'm
about to say, but, po[ɑ]litics-wise, my mind's satisfied
when a power-corrupted sheisser'***** by
a ****** dO̲wnfall & I
know 'bout it, whether it's a confinement behind
bars or a violent demise (or something else unfortunate)
depending on crimes realized (crimes)
by them; all the ******-handed tyrants are quite
deserving of sU̲ch things, besides
their cold-hearted sidekicks in crime (cold-hearted)
I don't encourage violence, but my
vote goes for a tsar genocide (tsar genocide)
yeah, you barely get penalized in real life
(which is such a shame)
but, like a machine for grinding wood, I've
got you pulverized in my lines
————————————————————————————————
oh, &, in view of the higher writ lines
there's the final thing I'd
like to mention: ***** auto[ɑ]cracy, like
it's a female tyrant to swive (ha-ha)
[no offense toward women intended, I'm just an entertainer with a wicked mind]

First they broke up the unions, and I did not speak out,
Because I hadn’t yet learnt to speak.

Then they sold off the British – BT, BP, BA – and I did not speak out
Because I was only ten and no one would have listened.

Then they came for the coal, the power, the rail. We did speak out –
We held on to the post office and voted in New Labour.

Then we watched them PFI the underground, the NHS and schools
And we did not speak out, because we thought they were us.

So on they went and PFI’d Iraq. We did speak out,
But that was not enough. A million died.

So then they PFI’d the **** out of the NHS,
Some car parks here and there,
Some targets, some consolidations -
But we weren’t concentrating on that because -
Were we the baddies?

Then they came for the prisons, and the police
And even China had a go at our 5G
And then they asked the people how they felt
And used that to make them feel something else
And then they asked those same people what to do
And those people were very confused
And then a PLC stood for election
And refused to make any promises
Because promises are lies
And do or die
Before the 2020 tax rules
Or something
We got bored
And people voted
Not to have another vote

And I wasn't even sure
At which point it was
That they came for me.

But at some point.
They'd already come.

But it’s not a prison; it’s a unit
(Euphemisms make everything all better)
The morning sun rising above the fog
Sparkles merrily on bright razor wire

A barefoot little girl dances and sings
She has already been wanded and searched
Her princess shoes examined for contraband
She’ll put them back on after Mommy’s turn

She gets to see her daddy again this week
And that is why she is dancing in prison




(Please understand that prison staff are not Disney baddies; adults sometimes hide drugs and other contraband in their children’s clothing.)