Last bench , a bunch of friends
And pranks
Classes went on
Days went on
Years are gone!
   No complain
    I can!
To have life is
         Easy
But to live it
      Dizzy
I got one thing abt
        Life
No matter what
    It has it's flow
And it goes on
   Whether u can
See this beautiful world
   With hatred
Or with love
  Only way is this
         No excuses
And causes none!!

Remoaners to the left, Brextremists to the right,
Theresa “Maggie” May has an uphill fight.
I can’t see her lasting many more days,
Unless she changes her stubborn ways.

Theresa is an immovable object.
Her hubby must be totally henpecked.
Trying to please just everyone,
Annoying all is what she’s done.

Right now she is UK Prime Minister,
But her own back benchers are getting sinister.
Some say she’s sold us down the river,
A thing for which they can’t forgive her.

Others claim she’s gone too far,
As we should stay just where we are.
Some see Europe as our friend,
But others say the UK we must defend.

Ireland is a sticking point
A thing that’s gonna rock the joint.
They don’t know where to put the border,
Without causing grief and disorder.

What an impasse, feels like stalemate,
Are we heading to be a slave state?
Who knows what’s going to happen next?
No wonder we are all perplexed.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\11\2018.

The roller coaster ride
I never got on
Spinning and twirling
Wish so badly to be withdrawn

Feels like the world's crashing
I'm screaming and turning
As we spin downward
My head's thrashing and burning

As the train rises upward
The crowd is ecstatic
We turn to the left, wrong exit
All turn more dramatic

As we're racing our wheels
Sharp turns, narrow corners
We leave some behind
Emotionless mourners

This ride is strictly
For ones seeking adventure
Willing to make difference
Not nine-inning benchers

So as the ride empties
And all fade away
I notice this trip was a lifetime
As some would say

You lived yours quite wisely
Did not take for granted
A perfect example
Of a hip-hooray chanted

You didn't sign up for this
But this all meant so much
Even when your hope sank low
Your destiny was a personal crutch

I’m just a lanky lass from Wycheproof
Born on the right side of the tracks
Law degree and a stint at Racing Vic
I’ve risen well above the backroom hacks

I’m revered
and I’m feared
I’m Tony’s confidante
I scream, I shout, I rant
Back benchers quake
Ministers shake
I’m an armoured tank
You know I outrank
any one in Coo-ee
of super-strong me

Chief of Staff to the PM
I’m the ultimate femme
Murdoch grumbled, tried to call me to heel
I’m never humbled, I’m totally real
I am the ‘she’ who must be obeyed
I am the piper who must be paid
I’m the gate-keeper
I’m the scythe-reaper

Tony knows who makes and butters his bread
I keep him happy, I keep him well fed
I am Salome, when I call for a head
a platter it’s given, my enemy dead.

I was top of my game and top of the list
of Helen McCabe’s ‘Women of Power’
I’ve never cowered, brown-nosed or ****-kissed
I stand tall, over midgets I tower
Natural-born killer exudes from my pores
I suffer no fools, I banish the bores
I mark my territory, a ******* dog
Clear dry is my vision, no room for fog
Some say I influence all decisions
I’m an enforcer of rigid divisions
There is only ‘us’ in the battle of wills
Ride on my side, for the endless high thrills
Of course I agree I’ve had an impact
It’s true without me, poor Tony can’t act
But sad to tell you, it’s still more than that
I’m in charge of the ball and even the bat
I know there are some who cannot like me
Though I control the national psyche
So come Malcolm, Julie and sad sack Joe
I will decide when it’s my time to go
No-one can challenge Abbot, my hero
I’ll zap them to ashes, to dust, to zero
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow their House down
Forever secure and wearing my crown
So don’t mess with me, you miserable crew
Just you crawl away in case I say, “Boo!”
I’m beautiful fearless, utterly bold
Remember, I serve revenge icy cold.

© M.L.Emmett

The murmur began at the slow invasion of night
into a restless household, waiting for the sun to pull
the cloak of darkness over their depressions. The sky
pulled in tight and covered the suburbs with yellowing
memories of bygone days when streetlights lived
in small pale pools of circles under a twilight
of energy. Bellies full and bursting with new harvest wine
cuts of roasted pork and dark baked potatoes
there was no need to switch on the misery of political
misbehaviour. Contentment was written on cherub faces
and swollen bellies even as the noises from the street
amplified and grew bigger with every extra child added.

Then it happened. This disgraceful division between beliefs
that tore the street into pock marked holes of pain
Brother fought  brother and all of the Holy Books
were burned and everyone got out their pointing fingers
and looked across the street to lay waste to blame.

The first sms reached out beyond the barricades
and poles and farm implements were sharpened
for the hunting season. Anger drove people into strange
exorcisms and each side ran to the other to ferret out those
little children, huddling in frightened corners and mothers
breaking blood to lose the unborn brutality that followed.

Scattered amongst the ruins lay the dreams of happiness
and plentiful. The walls of economy imploded and the suited
smiling faces of politicians smeared across the highways were torn
down and used as fuel for bonfires. Everyone who dared died
within a week as the rubber bullets, water canons and plastic
armour plates ran out of production. Funeral pyres lit up the nightsky
and the wailing and weeping mingled with the river of rushing
humanity. The mountain paths were strewn with bones
and even the animals hesitated to eat the hungry.

The division of beliefs tore everyone into shreds of arguments.
Those in the front seat blamed the back benchers but those
in the left over seats were out on the street fomenting hate.
The world watched as the numbers climbed and all of the giant
pyramids and majestic pharaohs and ornaments could not stop
the need for power.

The lone child picking paper on an impoverished street
cried quietly and turned every stone looking for
mama.
Author Notes

A few years ago this happened, exactly as depicted. The land had plenty. Power was cornered at the top. Money and mystery flowed. Then one brave man sent a text message asking for change. The population exploded into belief/disbelief and chaos.

Even today the street battles rage and the pyres burn. The end is not in sight.
The Revolution will continue on.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Last benchers are more likely to become poets, because they dream big about their future while the present is surreptitously slipping away from them!