"prat" poems
Pugnacious pundits having parties,
on the left and on the right.
Lowering sanity and lifting madness.
I hear countless words that all seem trite.
Too many fall into their trap.
In happy splendid ignorance,
Clowns perform, and we're all prat.
Such perfectly played incompetence.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
You, you asked for my number.
I gave it to you.
You text me.
You say, honey do you fancy a drink?
I think and retort.
By text in return.
I wish you'd go to hell and burn.
"Don't you fancy me"? said he.
Retorted that, I wanted not a soul.
I need my privacy.
He said "why don't you fancy me"?
Insistently.
Do you maybe think I'm thick.
Maybe somewhat sick.
I said, "I think perhaps you should be dead".
Keeping on at me.
Trying to tear me to strands and threads.
Told him, that I wanted no-one.
Henceforth, ensues a psychological assessment.
Why don't you like me?
Said he.
"Grow up" said I.
Don't feed me your insecurity.
Currently I'm flying free.
Had a gentleman, not long ago.
Left me feeling pretty sad.
I loved him so.
But he's not bad.
Poor fellow, he just couldn't do it.
The guy who did text, he pi**ed me right off.
That imbecile calls me out of the blue.
Suggests, may be a night-time of crazy ***
Reminded me some more of you.
What a prat.
I need it not.
Go get lost and be forgot.
The strange being who talks only by text.
Pretends he likes me, but wanting ***
I think him rather creepy.
He's out of luck.
I don't give a f**k.
Left happy.
Self-respect and dignity intact.
(c) Livvi
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
There’s a man that works next door
We all find him such a bore
He’s ignorant beyond compare
For business he thinks he’s got flair
His ego’s always self-inflated
He has no idea how much he’s hated
He’s a diver, he’s a ducker
He’s a full time big star-fucker
To see his name in print
Would please him beyond measure
But I think he’s a prat
So I won’t give him the pleasure
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
The reason I don't like you,
let me put it into words.
You're a prat, a drain and a hypocrite,
a ****** characterless ****
You talk, you talk, you ******* talk
But you never say a thing.
You think that you give speeches
Like Dr. Martin Luther King.
But you don't because your boring,
You bore us all to tears.
Ruining every social event,
by banging on for years.
Bla bla ******* bla bla bla,
your monotone drones on.
You're in love with the sound of your own voice,
while we just want you gone.
So pack your **** up in your soapbox,
And turn your answer machine on.
Then **** off back to snoresville,
or wherever the **** you're from.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
What's a Mongol?
Della asks Froggie,
her cousin. He sits
beside her on her bed,
flicking through her
CDs. What people
used to call people
with Downs, he says,
taking out a Talking
Heads album, gazing
at the cover. Why?
Who said it? Della
stares at him, tongue
resting on her lower
lip, her eyes bright,
drinking him all in.
Man on the bus said
to me. The *******
Froggie says. *******
Della looks at Froggie's
tattooed hands. Not
nice person, he says.
She lays her head on
his tattooed arm. He
flicks some more CDs.
Man said sit elsewhere
to me. If I'd been there,
I'd have floored him.
Floored him? Della
twirls a finger in a lock
of hair. Flattened the
*** She closes her bright
eyes, imagines the man
flattened. Did you? What?
Sit elsewhere. She nods.
I'd have thrown him off
the fecking bus, Froggie
says, taking out an Oasis
album and turning it over.
She opens her eyes, rubs
her head on the tattooed arm.
Man said I shouldn't be
out in public. Why? Said
they used to lock my type up.
Who was this prat? Don't
know. Stranger on the bus.
Froggie puts down CDs and
rubs her head. She looks at
him, feels his hand rubbing
her head. Never should have
been locked up years ago,
Froggie says. Were they?
Yes, Uncle said they were,
he worked in a mental hospital
years back. Why? Froggie
kisses her head. People were
ignorant or ashamed; locked
them out of sight. Why?
She hugs Froggie's tattooed
arm. Don't know, Del. She
closes her eyes. Tears seep.
Run her cheek. Froggie wipes
them off with his finger and
licks it. Not worry crying over.
She kisses his arm, hairy,
tattooed, blue and red, yellow.
Put on the Stone Roses. Della
takes the CD and puts it on her
lap top and sits next to Froggie.
They kiss lips and rub noses.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Who are my characters? John Prat or Marvin Prat. John Ector or Marvin Ector. Then there is Mrs. Valdez and Autumn. Who are they in relation to John and Marvin? What do you want your characters to show? Who are they? Are they funny? Comical? Tragic? What? What do they want? I want them showing me. I want them as extensions of me. I want to take everything I have learned and put them into my characters. They are facets of my imagination combined into one giant ball, clusterfuck and **** of people that is my life. I want them to display my hatred. My disheveled hair. My looks. I want them to be oddly reminiscent of my family and my personal life. I want them to ignore their own feelings and not be happy. I want them to be happy. I want them to love and cry and weep and feel pain. I want the world to hate them and I want them to hate themselves, I want the world to love them and I want them to love themselves. I want them to fall from grace. I want them to fall down so many times and be on the verge of not picking themselves up. To say **** this I'm done with it all. I want them rejected and rejected and rejected and keep losing. I want them to win. I want them to destroy themselves. I want them to create themselves. I want them to create their own world filled with imagination. I want to **** them. I want them bleeding and bruised. I want them to end up homeless on the street with nowhere to go with needles sticking out of their veins. I want them to find god. I want them crawling through a river of **** and coming out clean on the other side. I want them to enjoy the little things and hate the little things. I want them to come to life. But ultimately I want them to make me cry. I want them to touch something inside of me that laid dormant for years. I want them to understand and feel my pain and empathize with me like no one has. I want myself in these pages. These sticky pages that combine to make a story.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
Where would I be
Without the Internet and Tellee?
Yes it’s telly I know,
With its glitzy glow.
They’ll be watching down there in Walthamstow.
X Factor, Big Brother and many a quiz,
They are the equivalent of ol’ Show Biz.
They say we are ruled by all this media,
That all those videos are a bad idea.
Without them though it would feel quite queer.
Newspapers now have become old hat,
There’s not a lot we can do about that.
I seem to live in Facebook Land,
But many say it ought to be banned.
They bury their heads in that golden sand.
The Google answers my every question:
Lots of info for my digestion.
Facebook’s full of gossip and chat,
There’s every scope for acting the prat,
So if you don’t like it, just Take That.
I’m on the net most every morning.
Sad to say, it never gets boring.
(Though it still might carry a Government Health Warning)!
Near Noon I have to drag myself away,
But not too many kids are out to play,
It’s video games for them all day.
Any kids about, they’re on their mobile phones.
They’re starting to look like devoted clones.
They hardly look where they are walking,
Busy reading and occasionally talking.
The traffic they are always baulking.
To real life they pay no attention.
They all deserve to be in detention.
I have to wonder how brainwashed we are,
Let’s go on a show and become a pop star.
It’ll soon be empty in the bar.
Social Networking is what they call it,
So very easy to install it.
Instagramming is now the thing,
It’s all about the imaging.
There’s nothing like that internet ping.
So there you are, The Media Rules,
Thanks to all these technical tools.
Soon there’ll be no need for schools,
But will we make geniuses, or a flock of fools?
Paul Butters
© PB 5\9\2015.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Reynard and I
held back
after biology
while the other kids
had gone
and we walked up
the corridor
I could have scored that goal
lunchtime
if Goldfinch
hadn't got
in my way
he's always
where you don't
want him to be
Reynard said
I saw Jeanette
walking ahead of us
with her blonde friend Angela
Jeanette had class
I thought
her friend
was a short
mouthy girl
but Jeanette
was quite reserved
and looked at you
as if you had stepped
in her sunshine
but I liked her
and that quick kiss
I snatched the other day
still felt stuck
on my lips
Angela had short tight
blonde curls
Jeanette had long
dark hair reaching
her shoulders
I gazed
at her thin figure
her arms by her side
the satchel
over her shoulder
Reynard was still talking
about the football lunchtime
I was looking
at Jeanette’s sway
of hips almost unseen
yet visible
to the trained eye
the way her legs
came down
to her well heeled shoes
the white ankle socks
think we ought
to try get Frazer
on our side
he'd be great in goal
better than Dunton
the prat
he couldn't save a goal
if the ball
was as big as he was
Reynard said
yes we must get Frazer
I said
wondering how I’d get
that kiss
that Jeanette promised
the lips tempting
and her cheek
just visible
the place my lips
touched
the other day
and the kiss
just stayed there
and wouldn't
go away.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
He’s standing in front of me
Wearing a ten-gallon hat
And I think, take it off
You’re in the city, you look like a prat
But it’s only when you get a talking
That you really begin to understand
He may be an old cowpoke
But he’s really worked the land
Sweating in the midday sun
With a little cowgirl on the side
A smile flashes across his face
A knowing that he can’t hide
Yes I’ve drank in smoky barrooms
I’ve taken a few hotties on the lash
I’ve seen clear mountain mornings
I’ve even railed with Johnny Cash
So don’t judge me by the tatty hat
Or by my faded wrangler jeans
Because looks can be deceptive
When everything’s not as it seems
I’ve seen the world, I’ve been to town
I’ve know the love on a woman’s breath
I don’t mean to bone, but leave me alone
Now while I collect my redundancy cheque.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
there's many ways to skin a cat
or so they say to talk out prat
perhaps in ways the sayings true
in relationship to clothes and you
your breath offends
your ******* pretend
don't start me on IQ
so go to hell
don't say you fell
from heaven or ill puke
dont get me wrong
I don't blame you
society's done this
you think its hot
to drink and trot
your slutty nastiness
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 10:22 PM UTC
The day after
Janice’s gran
had taken you
to see the film
The Ten Commandments
you had gone with Janice
to Jail Park
to ride the swings
and she talked of the film
and the parting
of the Red Sea
and the drowning
of the Pharaoh’s men
and the horses
and the writing
on the two tablets
of stone
shame the horses
had to drown too
she said
they hadn’t done
anything wrong
it’s a matter of being
in the wrong place
at the wrong time
you said
but those poor horses
they didn’t ask
to be the Pharaoh’s horses
you swung high
on the swing
your feet reaching up
towards the sky
Janice was beside you
she wasn’t swinging so high
and those poor slaves
she added pushing
her swing higher
by moving her legs
and arms
why were there slaves?
why can’t people
be nice to each other?
I can imagine Cogan
in my class
being a bit of a pharaoh
given the chance
the fat ***
you said
maybe he’s not
treated right at home
she said
maybe that’s why
he’s like that
no he’s just a prat
you said
who likes to bully
other kids
does he bully you?
she asked
he promises
to smash my face in
but when I waited
for him the other day
after school
he didn’t show
you said
my gran said
to be kind to people
and try to see
their better side
Janice said
I do try
you said
but his ugly dial
gets in the way
and she laughed
and said
we mustn’t laugh
it’s a shame when people
have to bully others
I’m sure he’s got
a good side
your feet were now
almost touching
the sky’s rim
well if he has
he must keep it
in his pants
you said
she smiled
and shook her head
her brown sandals
and white socks
seemed to scrape
the sky’s skin
but gran said
Janice almost sang
that none of us
is free of sin
and her voice drifted off
into the blue
just the two swings
on that Monday morning
and Janice
and you.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Now! the damson crush of swallow wing
to foal the brays of uwound April,
in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail
that agitate these pagan grains.
Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak
the gates of prickled secrecy,
the platted creed of wren-song
yolks the whiting peeks of May.
Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn
of nether-world calligraphy
with missives of anemone to
prose the woke terrain,
so a gattling shack of magpies prat
along the miscreants of bine
that heckle servile atrophy in
lung sweet roots of anchored sage
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
Hey Skinny Kid
one legged Anne said
have you ever seen
a ********
no
you said
thinking it
some kind
of fish
she nibbled
at her scrambled egg
on toast
at the table
in the children's
nursing home
you mouthed
Cornflakes and milk
Anne was next to you
eyeing
the nursing nun nearby
would you like
to see a ********
Anne asked
in whispered voice
thinking it
some rare find
you said
yes ok
where will I see it?
the beach?
she almost choked
on her scrambled egg
are you all right Anne?
the nun asked
coming over
her black and white habit
swishing as she walked
yes
Anne said
egg went down
the wrong way
well be careful
the nun said
and walked off again
yes the beach
if you like
Anne whispered
trying to keep
a straight face
but you're sure
you've not seen one?
you nodded your head
not that I know of
you said
have you asked Sister Bridget?
you added
giving the nun
a look
o yes she's seen one
Anne said
straining the muscles
in her face
did she say so?
you said
o I know she has
Anne said
you mouthed
more Cornflakes
and milk
little Miss Sad
sat nibbling
at her toast
her tiny fingers
holding hard
the other kids eating
their breakfasts
the morning sunshine
shining through
the windows
after we've finished
I'll show you
Anne said
show him what?
Malcolm asked
who was sitting
on Anne's other side
never you mind prat face
Anne said
only special people
can this see
what I'm showing
Skinny Kid
then I'll tell Sister Bridget
Malcolm said
kiss my backside
and drop dead
Anne replied
Sister Bridget
Anne swore at me
Malcolm said
the nun shook her head
and said
Anne it's a sin to swear
God is listening
you know
and so you sat
and wondered
if you'd ever see
what it was
one legged Anne
was going
to show.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Dalya met Baruch in Oslo,
a small cafe in a back street;
he was eating a cream cake
and coffee. She was fuming
over the Yank ***** that she
shared a tent with back at
base camp. It’s like sharing
with a scented skunk, she said.
Baruch listened, the fiery girl
sat opposite him, stirred her
latte, spat out words. Baruch
was halfway through the Gulag
book, the Solzhenitsyn eye
opener on the labour camps
of Russia. Dalya’s gripe seemed
pretty shallow; her language
left little to the imagination,
rough words, hard chipped,
chiselled out of rock sort of thing,
he thought, watching her mouth
move the words. Always about
the men she’s had, Dalya said,
as if I cared a monkey’s. Baruch
forked in more cake, fingered
off cream from his upper lip
and licked. They’d picked up
the American in Hamburg,
squeezed her into the overland
truck with the others. And oh,
yes, where she's been, Dalya said,
she’s been under the Pope’s
armpit, no doubt. She sipped
the latte, stared at Baruch, her
eyes dark blue, her lips thin, her
hair dark and curled. Maybe she
has, Baruch said, but what’s it to
you? I have to hear her jabbering
on in the tent night after night,
Dalya said, and me trying to get
to sleep. You can always swap with
me, he said, she can share with
the Aussie prat, who’s in with me.
She didn’t reply, but looked at her
latte, stirred with the plastic spoon.
And what would my brother say?
He’d tell the parents when we got
home. Baruch knew her brother
wouldn’t have minded, he was often
drinking and drunk till blinded.
Baruch had only suggested it in
jest, nothing really meant, but she
was preferable to the Aussie in his tent.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
Betty sips her drink and crosses
her legs and wonders if Chowbrew
will ever come as he said he would
and as she has been waiting for
over an hour she thinks he’s not
coming, thinks he’s gone off with
another. She sighs. All that time getting
ready, putting on the new dress,
making sure she’d put on fresh
underwear, showered, washed
her hair, filed her nails and still
he hasn’t come. Betty, her mother
used to say, men are like buses,
if one doesn’t turn up another’ll soon
show, but it didn’t follow in her
experience; if one didn’t show,
she’d be left waiting until the bright
moon shone and the shining stars
flickered in the dark night sky, and
then she’d go home to bed, tuck
herself under the duvet, pull it
over head, and cry or swear or
maybe both. She looks at her
wristwatch. He isn’t going to
come; she mutters to the air,
he’s left me out to dry, all that
time I wasted; now I’m going
to cry. Betty, her mother often
said, men have only one thing
in mind, oh, yes, they’ll bring
you flowers, chocolates, buy
you a meal, get you drunk,
but at the end of it all, it’s
getting you into bed that they
are after, and she remembers,
in the background her father’s soft
laughter. She empties her glass
and is just about to leave, when
a breathless Chowbrew stumbles
into sight, face flushed, clothes in
disarray, Sorry I’m late, got the
wrong cinema, she hears him say.
What an **** she muses, what a
prat, doesn’t know where he’s
going or what he’s at, but at least
he’s here, she smiles and says,
Good to see you, Chowbrew dear.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Rosary
*********
Martha sits
in the church
eyeing up
the young priest
who's just come
tall and thin
and dark haired
in the front
pew praying
she watches
no longer
*********
the dark beads
getting up
from her pew
she walks down
to the priest
kneeling there
taps his black
cloth shoulder
excuse me
Father Bede
(she'd heard his
name mentioned
in the school)
the young priest
opens his eyes
stares at her
(he's nice eyes
she muses)
what is it
my young child?
the priest asks
sitting back
on the seat
Martha sits
beside him
do you know
just how tall
the Christ was?
she asks him
the tall priest
looks at her
looking for
a punchline
some meaning
no idea
probably
6 foot so
he tells her
quite tall then
she mutters
tall as me
no taller
he informs
her priestly
and had beard
and moustache?
she asks him
he studies
her two eyes
soul's mirrors
he's been told
probably
black and long
he tells her
why'd you ask?
he asks her
I'm to be
when older
one of his
many brides
Martha says
I love Him
think of Him
all the time
Father Bede
lends a smile
o that's good
(wondering
to himself
if the girl's
the full pack)
but do I
if some prat
of a boy
asks for ***
tell him to
go **** off?
she utters
sincerely
Father Bede
blushes so
puts the word
from his ears
best he can
remain pure
for Our Lord
as His bride
he informs
red in face
so I will
Martha says
and walks off
swaying hips
the thin priest
watches her
walk away
red faced still.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
Isolde looks from the window
of her old bedroom,
she's not been in there
since they took her
to the asylum years before.
Tristana, her lover,
is sitting on a white chair
on the lawn
talking to Isolde's mother.
Her mother has the same
pinched features,
thin lips as if drawn
across in ink,
the narrow nose,
peering eyes.
Isolde smells
the mustiness
of the room,
the curtains the same,
the wallpaper fading.
Her mother's eyes
have a look
of fear in them.
Her sister sits
beside her mother
hawk-like,
hands on the arms
of the chair,
eyes fixed
with that steady stare.
Isolde recalls
the last time
in the room:
the night they
came for her,
men in white coats,
the ambulance waiting,
flashing lights,
voices shouting,
her sister crying,
her father ordering
this and that
(the prat).
Father's dead now,
good riddance,
she muses,
running a finger
down the pane of glass,
seeing her lover
sitting there,
gesturing with her hands,
head tilted to one side.
Not once
did her mother visit her
in the asylum,
not a word sent
or love or concern
expressed.
She sits on the bed,
the springs complain,
the bedspread
pushes out dust.
She remembers Tristana
that first time
in the asylum,
that first meeting,
the side ward,
the nurse dragging her
along the passage,
cursing, gripping
her nightgown.
The fat nurse let her
drop by the bed;
Tristana sat on the floor
wide eyed,
opened mouthed.
Isolde had struck the nurse
with the flower vase,
smashed it,
flowers spread
across the floor.
The nurse's head bled.
Looked worse than it was.
She smiles.
They locked her up
for weeks for that,
saw none,
except the nurses
who fed
and bathed her
cruelly.
Worth it.
She moves on the bed,
the springs sing.
She gets up
and goes
to the window again.
Tristana is subdued now;
the mother is talking,
moving her hands in the air
as if learning to fly.
Her sister sits crossed legged,
hands on her knees.
Dumb expression.
The mother mouths words,
moves her head
to one side bird-like.
Isolde recalls
the first kiss
on Tristana's lips.
In the toilets
off the ward,
evening time,
overhead lights
flickering.
Lips meeting,
soft, wet,
eyes closed.
They slept in
Tristana's bed
in dead of night,
close for warmth,
hands holding,
bodies touching.
The mother looks up
at the window,
her eyes empty,
hollow dark holes.
She gestures to Isolde
to come down,
her thin hand
moving icily.
Isolde walks
from the window.
On the glass,
where she had breathed
breath to smear,
she had finger written,
Isolde's mind and soul
once died here.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Never eat humble pie
I will tell you the reason why
they never give you commissions you see
most just expect it.. boy they take the ***
Don't go to the Co's like that
stick that in your pocket ,,, your cap
don't you go in too smart
he will think you are a prat
Remember to stand straight
and for god's sake don't look at him
this could be a promotion or demotion
never eat humble pie and don't look at him
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
I passed Enid's father
on the stairs
of the flats
gave him an icy glare
he was ******
so didn't care
he went down
and I went up
he was whistling
some song
I knew he was a prat
but what was wrong?
later that day
I met Enid
in the greengrocer shop
in Meadow Row
getting potatoes
and greens
for my mother
not to forget carrots
which I almost did
she came in the shop
in her faded red dress
her hair in a mess
red marks on her arm
one eye closing
as if half dozing
what did you want
young girlie?
the greengrocer
asked her
she gave him a list
and he sorted it out
I carried my bag
to the door
I saw your old man earlier
I said
gave him an icy glare
she looked at me
then at the carrots
orange and raw
then at the door
didn’t say anything
did you?
she asked
no I kept shtum
would have done
if I didn't think
he'd take it out
on you
I said
is this 3 pounds
of spuds?
the greengrocer asked
can't make out
the figure writ
she gazed
at the piece of paper
and said
yes 3 I think
and off he went
shoulders stooping
head bent
what happened
this time?
I asked
what did he do?
he said I slept in
too late or spoke
out of turn
Enid replied
belted me
thumped me
then I cried
the greengrocer
filled the small bag
she held
in her small hands
and took her coins
and gave her change
deep inside
a child wept
near to me
but out of range.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Benedict
Christina called
as I got off
the school bus
I went over
to her
standing by
the wire fence
surrounding
the girls' playground
she took my arm
and walked me
along the fence
out of earshot
of others
I dreamed
of you last night
she said
did you now
I said
watching a prefect
looking over
what was I up to?
that would be telling
she said
that's the point
I said
some girls
were playing skip rope
singing a rhyming song
she looked at me
with her brown eyes
you kissed me
she said
is that all?
I said
the prefect was walking
over towards us
his lanky frame
moving
at a steady pace
it was a long kiss
she said
how long?
I asked
I didn't time it
she said
but it was good
made me feel
all unnecessary
as I heard
my cousin say
when she stayed
with us
what are you two
up to?
the prefect asked
you
he said to me
should be making
your way
to the boys' playground
not here
chatting up girls
Christina
looked at him
then at me
she dreamed of me
last night
I said
she was just
telling me
I bet no one
dreams of you
I added
looking at
the lanky prat
do you want to go
to the headmaster?
he said
giving me
the stern eye
Christina
was looking at me
her eyes like
melted chocolate
got to go
I said to her
see you lunch time
at recess
on the field
I walked off
the prefect stared
after me
Christina stood
with her hands
in front of her
her thumbs playing
with each other
I turned before
I went out of sight
and blew
her a kiss
which she pretended
to catch and put in
her school skirt pocket
the prefect scowled at her
as she walked away
patting my blown kiss
next to her thigh
easing out
a school girl sigh.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
A penny for the thoughts of a prat ne'er -do-well could easily garner a million dollars from the wishing well !
The riffraffs field of dreams , vividly troubled , hurried minds with selective memories of the upmost variety ! Collective apparitions rendered due diligence ? Befuddled reasoning with questionable significance !
If a kite high in the sky was their imagination it would lie in the ionosphere invisible to all of us
Incredible tales of brave armored horsemen , fighting dragons , extraterrestrial warships ! Lunchtime by the mountains of Mars and Venus , catching twenty winks in the Little Dipper ? Riding on a comet to the Horse Nebula , hopping from rock to rock in the Asteroid Belt ?
Beware of the creative mind with their allegations , tales that could usurp the kingdoms Court Jester !
I've zero tolerance today for fools , little green men , martians and the man on the moon ?
For I've a prior commitment this late afternoon , a spot of tea with an old chum on the plains of Neptune !
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
Boys,
now you see that
I'm neither pretty nor smart
nor witty but a prat.
So I dare you
to love me even more.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
It was I who said that it couldn’t be done
But you with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but we would be ones
Who wouldn’t say so till we’d tried.
So I buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On my face. Yes I worried, you saw it.
We started to sing as I tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and I did it!
The rest of the world scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it;”
But I shook off my doubt and glared at that prat
And the first thing they knew I’d begun it.
With bit of self pride and my dad by my side
Without any doubting or quiddit,
We started to sing as I tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and I did it.
There are thousands that tell me it cannot be done,
There are thousands to judge by my cover,
There are thousands remind me one by one,
The failures I am soon to discover.
But I’ll smile right at them with a word of sarcasm;
I’ll shake off their words and go to it;
You’ll just start to sing as I tackle the thing
That “cannot be done,” and I’ll do it.
There’s a man that taught me this method to life
There’s a man that loves like no other
There’s a man that stands by me through all of my strife
Whether seas stay calm or get rougher
Now here’s the debut that father is you
You’ve shown me what a person should be
So I thank you for this and all that I’ve missed
And for loving a person like me
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Bland
Like a plate of frozen peas for dinner
Work
Everyday until you die just trying to be above that person next to you
Holidays
Every year to that same villa in Spain
Car
Volvo
Good brakes
Safety No.1
I sigh in boredom of it all
The sight in which we see life is a contrast between us all
And that channel of tuning just isn't for me
Say the odd stupid thing and regret it for days or years
Date that person who scares you blind and brings you to tears
Make the decision that is stupid and plainly wrong
But that's how I roll man, to a different song
I've been a prat at the best of times but that's what makes it fun
Soaking up the rays with no cream in the summer sun
Always a risk taker living life on the edge
Hey, that's the way I live, a self committed pledge
People look at me and wonder why,
I look back and tell them well at least I tried
As this is a life to live so spread your wings and not sit in the tree
Sometimes we have to make mistakes to prove whats right, hence
The world will always need,
An Idiot Like Me
JJB
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC