"cronies" poems
( i )
I lucked out
on table 4 last night
window seat
baseboard heat
with intimate passages
from Ginsberg
in his purest
and most evident form
Cover-all Carl was draped
in his usual garb
(turning pages
of yesterday's news)
animating, culturing, bantering
on the fate of the
Greek barber
(in an accent of which
I'm not so sure)
His cronies
looked on
(with a twisted conviction)
countering
with their own tales
of ingovernance and woe
*did you know that Panasonic
lost 5 billion last quarter?*
The evening moved
in time lapse...
with painted winds,
streaming lights
and a host of
high school girls
running cold
Maleah passed
on her late shift
(checking the pile and trough),
patronized the boys
and called it a night
( ii )
The bald man
is back at it again
bickering at the till
(something about
a cold free coffee
or 99 cents
or the coloured guy
behind him who got it hot)
a kind Filipino
is trying to get it done
(at 8 bucks per)
losing her cool
and shedding a quiet tear
Wonder what the Purewals
or Haitians or Cossacks
would have to say
about this grim public reminder,
wonder what
this sad f*ck
will do tonight...
without his
bus pass
or sling sack
or broken Turkish stems
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
Your riding on empty, your riding on fumes
Aint it about time you started paying your dues?
Hey snowflake move out of daddy's basement
Aint it about time you started paying your rent
It's been years since you've earned a red cent
Hey snowflake move out and live in a tent
The cronies you adore are taking you for a ride
Aint nobody here that's digging your jive
You have no concept between wrong and right
News flash: You're just a young parasite
You have this idea you're better than most
The sad Truth is you're nothing but toast
It's about time you owned up to it
You're nothing but a societal misfit
Hey snowflake you're on the wrong path
Hey snowflake start doing the math
Nobody seems to be safe from your wrath
Do us all a favor by taking a bath.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
I feel as close to you as how wind is to my skin,
I feel as powerful with you as how I am with a gun.
I feel as courageous next to you as how sky divers are with working parachutes.
I feel as sad without you as departing rain drops from dark hovering clouds.
I feel as bored dismissing you as a good book read by a blind man.
I feel as far from you as how the visible sun is if you look from Earth.
I feel as clouded missing you as the moon is clouded by nebulae.
I feel as dejected promising you as government cronies over promising development.
I feel as lonely not seeing you as Golden Retrievers are when their masters are not around.
I feel as blatantly bloated next to you as over-heated air balloons raise up the shiny sky.
I feel as speechless around you as unprepared speakers in a conference hall.
And at the end, I feel as close to you as how my eyes met yours then cheekily, we detached our sight and pretend that we were never close at all.
I feel close to you still
but even closer
to sin.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
Anna entered the room like a butterfly, gossamer to all.
Her face told a different story. One of sadness and hurt.
She wore only the finest silks and seamed cuban stockings.
All eyes latched upon her and followed every step. But no real man ever approached her.
No saviour could get near.
She wore none of her finery, the choice all his.
A trophy bride,
sold like raw meat in her childhood.
It was normal in her village, her adolescence stolen from her.
Anna's delicate neck held an overbearing sapphire necklace. It was overkill in every way.
All for show, all chosen by him, all for him.
He entered with his cronies as though owning the club.
The way he thought he owned her.
Thought indeed, for there is always a price in ownership.
Hours past champagne and fake laughter abounded.
Then she stood up.
Immediately challenged!
She wished to go and powder her nose.
Naturally escorted, god forbid she made outside contact.
But she was not watched within. Minutes passed then... The scream.
She had left, Anna had escaped him.
The anger on his face !
He had no control, lost face in front of them all.
For Anna, oh beautiful Anna lay sylph like wrapped like a cloud in her white dress, its silk floating in a pool of her life blood.
She had left, she was free.
Now her face was different, white, ashen but at peace.
Free..
Anna had left.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Mouth open wide, ripped, stitched up the side
Telling me to stop running, their tired
Tired of dirt, mud, **** things that transpired
from a ground level view
Screaming at me
"Imagine if it were you!
Imagine you saw yourself running
and each step smashed your brain in!
We are tired!
Just let us die, get some new
cronies, pick on some new guys."
Beat to death, then beaten again
SLO, Santa Cruz, beaches, streets,
parties, fight circles, thrown on the roof
Hoping they'll die soon and be reborn
as some brand new shoes
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
I'm never alone, but I always feel lonely,
Surrounded by sycophants and courted by cronies.
My only true value is that which I give
To myself, nobody's willing to just let me live.
Jumping through hoops made of fire and bone,
Searching for nought but a place to call home.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
This Prince was handsome to the extreme.
He had definite movie star looks
That is if movies had been invented
back all those centuries ago.
She was the most beautiful princess
in all the kingdom.
He could not think of anything other
but to make her his bride.
So he set forth on his quest of the heart.
But when he rode up to her castle
though the haunted forest of whispers.
across the river of doom
and the desert of the dragons.
he arrived at her door
and proposed marriage to her
she said
No way!
Apparently, she hated men
and in fact, had a strong
penchant for girls herself.
Not one to dwell on the mysteries
of a woman's heart,
the prince said to himself
fucketh her.
And he turned to a life of bachelorhood.
Never ever to marry.
He bought a Harley Chopper
Dated pretty cheerleaders
and slim models with full bosoms.
And he never once caught his wife
in bed with some guy like his married friends did.
when he got home unexpectldy all was as it should be,
He took up hunting and fishing with his buddies.
raced sports cars at high speed.
spending lonely nights at ***** bars
drinking double malt whiskey
and the finest flagons of ale.
he never heard of ********
or a ******* honey-do list.
Nor did he ever get hit for
child support or alimony.
He kept his castle
and his beloved gun collection
And was as rich as blazes.
HE lived on a diet of fried food
bacon and eggs with sausages and beans
Hot chicken wings and tacos.
snacking on potato chips and gassy pop.
a diet that caused him to
blow enormous loud farts
which made him a revered legend
amongst his cronies.
who all thought he was as cool as hell.
He had loads of money in the bank
And not once in his life
did he ever put the toilet seat down.
And he lived
happily ever after
The End
Goodnight Children
all go. To sleep
Sweet dreams.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
Father, Son, Mechanic…
Man, I’ve wanted to talk to you – really talk to you – for some time now.
to see your face in front of me, instead of dangling from necklaces,
or hanging, melancholy, over sexless couples’ beds.
I’ve spent a lot of time reading all that stuff you wrote (supposedly),
and I’ve enjoyed it, Man, I have.
but I keep wanting it to be a letter, when in the end it’s just
a bipartisan explanation – an engineer’s guide to
building a pretty vehicle around a faulty engine.
I always see you, arms spread,
sprawled across the older bitter-america’s steering wheel.
my mama would tease me, saying you’d want me to help some day.
but you and your cronies drove me like a beat-down El Camino,
joyfully taking me through wrong turns and bumpy streets
waiting for my chassis to split.
and once I ran out of gas to offer, you refused to touch me at all,
letting me rot in your cobweb garage.
and all those ******* in turtlenecks and polos popped,
they’ve gleefully branded your logo on their chemical biceps
and gaily explain how close you were.
how they knew you like no one else did,
how you guys didn’t have a connection, but a relationship.
people should only let their mechanics touch their cars, though,
and keep their innards free of oily fingers.
to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be coming back to this establishment again.
it’s a little too clean for my taste, and your prices are way to high
especially when all you get is a little peace of mind and a sense of humbled grandeur.
don’t worry about the car, though – you can keep it.
you’ve sort of spoiled all its good intentions,
so I’ll be buying a new one sometime soon.
I guess I’ll be taking a taxi.
No, actually.
I’ll hitchhike home.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:20 PM UTC
Starving his people so that they eat off dumpsters is not enough;
Causing more than 3,000,000 of the best and brightest to emigrate is not enough;
An annual inflation rate of 60,324% today (source: Forbes) is not enough;
Rejecting at gun point foreign food and medicine to aid the sick and starving at the borders is not enough;
Trampling on the Constitution and establishing a dictatorship is not enough;
Billions of dollars stolen from the Venezuelan people by cronies is not enough;
Destroying hope, progress, and a leading world economy is not enough;
Today government thugs are literally running over protesters in armored vehicles.
A small group of rabid-left apologists in the U.S. telling us to ignore the man behind the curtain in an insane attempt to defend the indefensible must face reality.
Maduro must go.
His Marxist dystopia must be dismantled.
The Venezuelan people must regain the right of self determination through free and fair elections--not the sham elections all Communist nations use to show close to 100% approval of the ruling tyrant.
Enough is enough!
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
Inside…
Preachers, teachers, sleepers
Ponies, cronies, phonies
Murders, murmurs, lurkers, tearjerkers
Sexes, hexes, Pseudo T-Rex’s
Splices, spices, identity crises
Chasms, spasms, *******
Tongues, songs sung, smoke-filled lungs, décor hung
Confessions, obsessions, strange blessings
Gargoyles, rich spoils, no mortal coil
Rose windows, ruddy elbows, emperor’s clothes-
A place of chaos and a place of hope
Outside…
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.
Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.
Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.
The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Brexit. Exit. There ain’t no turning back
Tear down the flag of Europe and hoist the Union Jack.
Throw out all the migrants, lock the borders down
Fill in the channel tunnel and watch the desperate drown
Brexit. Exit. We don’t need the EU
Krauts & Frogs & Belgians, telling us what to do.
Boris & his cronies are planning out our fate
You know that we can trust them to make our country great
Brexit. Exit what was that you say?
The interest rates are rising and you’ve had a cut in pay?
No-one wants to buy our goods the Pound falls through the floor
Boris has gone missing & Nigel’s locked his door
Brexit. Exit. Is this not what you planned?
Fighting with each other for this green and pleasant land?
Well there’s nothing left to fight for, our country’s turned to *****
As the last one leaves ‘Great Britain’ will you please turn off the light..
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 5:58 AM UTC
They say their is calm now,
smells of spent munitions subsiding.
Lying around and ferried under a different blue the viewers and listeners, the diners and walkers.
One witness speaks of the bodies so high his wife could not climb over,
another of explosions a block away.
Carnage the reporter says as a man mentions the sight of men in black entering a music hall with Kalashnikov rifles, him gifted a choice not to enter.
The news speaks of pierced body parts, an arm, a leg, a shoulder, so many dead, 120 the number that exist no more, rising, many many more the casualties of this next step in a new world war.
Flashes and bangs, whistles and booms, sirens scream as forces reign down.
Tears, shock, the misery on faces, much sadness heaped on a peace seeking nation.
We now know some say why they chose Paris, some claim it is the fault of the west.
Others of ignorance by intelligent beings that choose violence instead,of democracy, though democracy to them has lost its edge to a world full of capitalist cronies who themselves choose numbers over humanity, so's said.
We are left to pick up pieces of what is left behind, we will grow stronger in the face of adversity.
Hoping one day that the so called wise people are wise, seeing solutions instead of this continuous cycle of violence and death.
Nos pensées vont à tous ceux qui sont touchés, nous montrons la solidarité avec le peuple français et à leurs invités.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Underneath the face of a sad clown lies a little wicked small town
Just a speck on the map
You may just be passing through but soon the fever will catch up to you
Feel the ripple effect
Here you won't make a best friend, but a sister you never had
She'll guide you through the flowers and offer lots of laughs
But even at her most serene there's a sinister current underneath
A flexing of power
And soon you'll start looking towards the ground, where you'll start tripping too much to be coincidence
An as you look up the danger stops
She'll look right through you as if you were air and she'll say, 'Take my hand'
Soon she'll invite you to parties of mutual bodies, who happen to favor clumsy fools like you
But they'll treat you like a guest of honor, when really their accolades are insults with armor
They've nothing better to do but make up a coded language and test it on you
How did I get here?
How can I disappear?
But as you start to evaporate she'll throw you another inquiry
She's reading off your flaws with smiling jaws
Taunting you with mistruths
You look away hurt, and she seizes the moment to write the jab on a napkin
Something to share with the cronies for later
Ha-Ha, how cleverly subtle you are!
Friendship is makeshift here, my dear
The hippies don't play instruments anymore
The company she keeps would dispose of her in a second
But she's not worried, she has you as her bullet shield
The body-snatchers with mommy issues save face quite gracefully here
They all say they'd leave, but they burn a free ticket
A mafia with no honor
You'll have seen more life in comas than this town
Little coffins with hearsay mouths where hearts should be
Small town breeds fair-weather ghosts and cold abodes
But it sure is a great place to be if you're training on how to play dead
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
Adolf ****** was a German I'm sure you all well know:
He was born in Austria but lived in Germany a long time ago.
He was a man who was fuelled by patriotic ambition,
(he had other things on his mind apart from big **** and coition).
The German people were the victims of economic recession,
Caused by the French government's revanchist aggression,
And der schoene Adolf promised he would sort out the place,
And would restore them to their rightful position as ze Master Race.
With stirring speeches and a fantastic propaganda machine,
His political opponents and ze Jews he loudly demeaned,
And thus, plus a teensy-weensy bit of naughty oppression,
He was able to fulfil his great and glorious mission.
Although some Germans re ****** were a little bit unhappy,
Most of them thought he was a really top rate chappie;
The rest of the world remained relatively silent on the matter too,
Not realising just what old Adolf really intended to do.
In the USA they gave him place of honour on the front page of 'Time'
Which surely sent out to Adolf quite a hopeful sign;
And secretly millions cheered him on when they got the news
Of what he and his cronies were doing to those Jews.
When a man like ****** you choose to blithely ignore
Then you should work out that what comes next is war;
Which is what happened with a Bang! Crash! Boom! and Thump!
But Hitler's not nearly half as ugly as that awful Donald Trump.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
when those we have elected tell us blatant lies
and call them “alternative facts”
we should not wait too long to call them liars
make them aware that we don’t share
their newspeak fantasies and visions
removed from everyday reality
nor do we treasure their maneuvers
that keep the media all hyped up
reporting every tweet as if it were
one of the ten commandments
Moses once held up in stone
while
unmentioned
behind quite secret White House doors
the leader’s relatives and cronies
incompetent but greedy
are nominated for positions of whose duties
they do not really have a clue
a friend of oil & coal & fracking
supposedly protects our environment
an ignorant billionairess
who never really saw a public school
is now in charge of education
a business man with heavy ties to Russia
is asked to steer our foreign policy
a judge well known for his quite racist bias
is thought to fit into the supreme court
and many of the Wall Street’s alligators
whose swamps the current leader
has kept promising to drain
all through his great campaign
are happily assembled ‘round the trough
of power influence and money
facts quite ‘alternative’ indeed
from those that had been promised
for over more than a whole year
by that self-styled
‘candidate against the establishment’
with not so secret Russian ties
simply unbelievable
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:14 PM UTC
A screaming pierces the serenity of the river valley.
Overturned wreck of a car and splattered, shattered, scattered glass.
A fresh-cut gouge in the dirt embankment where he clipped it
and in retaliation it flipped him on his roof.
He staggers from the chaos
moaning not from pain, but from the Jaeger, Keystone, and regret
of totaling his mother's car.
He flees the scene with his homies, his fellow drunken cronies
and the witnesses are left behind, scratching heads and raising brows.
I among them contemplate the carnage
and I try remembering a different time, ten years ago or so...
This place used to be so beautiful
before the partiers and potheads and Varrio Locos took it over.
Shallow waters filled with algae drifts and interspersed with boulder bridges.
Sandy beaches, nature trails, wild grapes, and fishing holes.
The last free-flowing, undammed, undamned river in the state...
Now it's bloated with beer and blood and bad decisions.
Not a bare rock face remains, each one caked up in graffiti makeup.
And the air, once frequented by the heady scent of sycamore
is far too thick with marijuana anymore.
Santa Margarita, choking on smoke and dope and disrespect,
once my heart and home and refuge, now and forever a cheapened wasteland.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
There is a strength within us that will not bend,
though men may slur and take our rights away,
fight out against the wrong dear friend.
Our liberties they take and rend,
they thought our will would brake but nay,
there is a strength within us that will not bend.
Brace against the bile they send,
and keep their insidious claws at bay,
fight out against the wrong dear friend.
Brave men would choose not to defend,
what we hold out for ‘till end of day,
there is a strength within us that will not bend.
Parasites and cronies steal and spend,
while innocents all fall as prey,
fight out against the wrong dear friend.
When light burns pale unto it’s dying end,
we shall stand against the dark and say:
There is a strength within us that will not bend,
fight out against the wrong dear friend.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
A posse of cronies
With button-marked thumbs
Were part of a ring
Of cyberspace chums
With crimson-lined eyes
They played night and day
Till some solemn stranger
Took their machines away
The stranger stole through the dark
Before they, could awake
To tip their technology
Into a lake
The groups sleep-rested eyes
Opened to see
The redundant space
Where gizmos should be
Some shouted, some cried
Some just couldn't speak
They rose from their beds
Confused and knees weak
Once clothed and clean
And breakfast was through
One cry could be heard
'Now what do we do?'
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 8:30 AM UTC
Dreams are a learning zone
Full of multitude and form
A nightmarish of classes
Passes, cases of books
The library is a showcase
Patterns of faces and races
Sprinkles and tastes of colour
A forever buzz of the day
The end of term flaunts
Gaunt of overpass and dance
Papers and pens are the street
The corridors scream of trash
It's clean up , of the **** up
Reports and targets challenge
The students are an interchange
A bridge of liberty and trade
As the night haunts,dark evades
The zombie awakens in a room
An abandoned building of flight
The old weary woman chases
A race of fear, as the dear ages
In cronies of spaces after me
Eyes meet, ear neat, miles meet
Legs reach, hands swing,hair sweep
The prolonged zombie haunt
A maze of the unknown past
In haste of hate and thunders
As the flashing light rescues
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
The rain
had not stopped
all day
and so
you wandered
around
the school
assembly hall
like others
equally bored
peering
now and then
out of the window
at the falling
of the rain
and the empty playground
and you walked
with Boxall
and one
of his cronies
and listened
to his poor jokes
or his tales
of his father’s farm
when Christina
came over
and taking you
by the arm
led you
to the passageway
and said she knew
a quiet spot
where
you could both
be alone
and away
from the riff raff
so you let
yourself be led
along the passageway
she still holding
your arm
and you looking
about you
at the passing windows
and prints
on walls
of famous art works
and into a small
deserted room
off
the dark passageway
and once inside
she shut the door
and leant
against it
looking at the one
small window
at the other end
it’s a bit dark
she said
but at least
we can be
alone here
for a while
she released
your arm
and moved
to a wall
across the room
and you followed
we’ll have to
listen out
for prefects
or the caretaker
whose room it is
she said
you looked at her
standing there
her eyes focused
on you
her hair neat
and well brushed
and some scent
coming from her
( her mother’s
borrowed
she later said)
her grey skirt
(knee length)
and jumper
and white blouse
sans tie
aren’t you going
to kiss me then?
she asked
of course
you said
and kissed her lips
putting your hands
about her waist
and she
did likewise
and it was strange
being there
with her alone
not having
others nearby
or other eyes
watching
and the kiss
seemed surreal
even though
her lips
were on yours
it seemed
like a dream
her hands
pressed you
close to her
and you sensing
her waist
in your hands
feeling her hips
and then
her ribcage
sensing her
small *******
pressed on
your chest
and the semi dark
of the room
and her scent
and flesh
and hands
and lips
and you listening
to her words
and footsteps
along the passage
and voices
and her eyes closed
and yours open
taking her in
sensing her there
and hearing words
not hers
outside the door
and you both
broke apart
and hid
behind the door
as it opened
and the caretaker
entered
leaving
the door open
where you hid
and he stood there
sorting through
his junk
and you both
standing there
holding hands
lips burning
breathing in the air.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
If I could fix the world,
Setting straight the crooked man’s twisted words with my iron crow,
I’d wrap my brain around what’s wrong, run him out of town on a rail,
Make it safe for women and children first again,
While he hangs together with his corkscrewed cronies or separately,
A lone gunman, fulfilling his own prophecy, his days numbered,
And I belly up to the bar to hoist a few and toast his good riddance.
Why would I tell you my anger and grief, love, knowing it will only raise red flags?
Worrying for my sound mind and body stooped to his level,
Your chemistry simultaneously repelled and attracted to our strange elixir,
The cure worse than the disease, my fists clenched, bruised haymakers
Flailing to defend the ghost in you, a wispy cloud of smoke my arms can’t wrap around.
You should see the other guy, never walking away from a fight, never talking out of school
About the last man standing, railing at raindrops, my reach outstretched beyond grasp,
Out of insight, out of my element, out of my head, out of words,
Left with only futile grunts, moans, and sighs, drained of charm,
My primal gut gnawing at this empty longing, disarmed by your absent embrace,
My zombie arms search the streets howling for their runaway bride.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
As I child I could not understand
why the monster choked me
at night when the silence heeds
on my heels I flew to ails
As a child I told them of the trance
when it spoke to me
only with a language meant for me
as I winked to realism
As a child I was molested by the dark
when I fought back
with my belittled current
I felt and stood, shook and vex
As a child I was visited by an incomer
A non native friend who held to me
under mocks and breaking locks
the cronies laughed at me so loud
As an adult, these lights still shine
the monster still pays me a visit
the more I shrug, the more it drags
drifted into the wings that chose me
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
Cello was not at all happy with what I told him. The call didn't exactly go well, but at least he gave me a slice of information that made some sort've sense. "Those two you told me about, the situation, it's very fluid right now. I need you to go talk to talk to this girl. Tonight. Now, actually. Don't worry, we have this Alan ******* looked after, as you heard. But, um, Wanda, as you call her, may have some things to say, under the right persuasion." Slightly taken aback by what Cello was implying, I said nothing. "Look, I know where you've come from, I know the kind of work you've done, so just find her and figure out what the **** she's been ordered to do for those Coalition ***** OK?" Besides what I may, or may not have done in the past, all this was a little bit more than what I had been contracted to do for Cello and his cronies. They didn't pay me enough for torture, they only paid me enough for listening. Cello put me on hold long enough to get the go ahead to pay me another two grand evidently, since when he got back on the line all he said was "Find her now and get the story, money is in your account, call me when you've got everything that ***** has to say". I said "Okay, thanks but I'ma do it without the whole missing body parts thing. You'll get what you need, but it's my call on how ja?" Cello gave the ok and that was all that was needed to get me moving.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
The sixties changed our countries ways,
Gone was the time of June Cleaver days.
Vietnam and protesting, divorce and unrest.
Family's unraveling, that era's not the best.
Out around LA, communes were in vogue,
Welcoming all, the beggar, thief and rogue.
The one commune, around Topanga town,
Was home to a family, that brought the world down.
Charles Manson, and his motley crew,
Were plotting and planning horrible things to do.
The drinking and drugs, had warped his mind,
The war was coming, the world in a bind.
Gathering arms for the fight of their life,
Blacks vs Whites, getting ready for the strife.
Funding is needed, for any good war,
Arms and supplies, always needing more.
So after a party, featuring mind altering drugs,
A robbery was planed, the family now thugs.
The first attacks, were directed at those,
Oblivious to Charlie, they had no foes.
Sharon Tate was a pregnant Hollywood beauty,
An aspiring actress, she was a real cutie.
Watson and Krenwinkel and other sick folk,
Tortured and killed, with a fork they did poke.
A horrible crime, what were they thinking?
Even lower they dropped, their ship kept on sinking.
The LaBianca castle was next on the list,
Beaten to death, with a hammer and a fist.
San Quentin and the gas chamber, to be their fate,
Sentences commuted to life, the reaper must wait.
To collect up those souls, and bring them to hell,
God may be forgiving, but this horror doesn’t sell.
Manson and his cronies must remain locked away,
New souls for the devil, in hell they will stay.
Please visit poemsbypaul.com
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC