"skive" poems
How tenuous this grip we have, how slight our hold remains
When all around loud braggards boast that power now pertains,
We see the banner headlines splashed across our daily rags
And redneck demonstrations cleans the streets of Spics and ****
When blood runs in the gutter as the battons rise and fall
And whilst taking tea in style the filthy rich ignore it all.
The blonde leader of our nation struts, postulates and brags
While the rest of us skive off around the corner smoking ****
Our kids ingest confusion as they loiter on the street
Unknowing our delusions make illusions held, replete.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our hold remains
As our allies shower cold distrust convinced our fault inflames.
What chance of clear redemption, what remedies revive
When truth is lost to darkness can our honesty survive?
Reputation cut to shards, confidences ******
That leaders of community no longer hold our trust
When white is caste as black and then to green and then to grey
And sanity refuses pontification one more day.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our holds remain
As twilight turns to darkness caste against a larks’ refrain.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON, New Zealand
25 July 2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
Tarzan and Jane
swung from tree to tree
neath the jungle's
lush canopy
they played all day
in the steamy hot sun
they played all night
they had tons of fun
their jungle paradise
was theirs and theirs alone
no interlopers could contact them
on a mobile phone
how we'd love
to join them for a holiday
so we could relish in
their carefree lifestyle of play
but alas here we all are
working nine to five
while the jungle twosome
are happy doing a skive
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
So Corbyn has promised the Earth
And Labourites can't see the mirth
Diane Abbott's sums
Will Make us all bums
With no homes and negative worth
JC will fix our NHS
Sort out the Conservative mess
Millions more Docs and nurses
From his magical purses
Where the money's from's anyone's guess
Countless new cops on the beat
Is Corbyn's inspiring new bleat
But his short working week
Turns the scene rather bleak
With less police hours on the street
"For the Many" you hear Corbyn say
But if Jeremy gets his own way
He'll jump through the hoops
For terrorist groups
Like our good friends the old IRA
Corbyn stands by unchecked immigration
To diversify our entire nation
Don't shed a tear
As our new friends land here
Viewing our jobs with anticipation
Renationalise everything now
The TUC love a good row
Production will dive
As untouchables skive
Thanks to Labour's trades union cash cow
Labour's 70s weren't all that bad
Even though they made millions sad
Corbyn will take us back
But you won't get the sack
For the unions, we all should be glad
Tax big companies ever so hard
Is Jeremy's vote-winning card
Then look on in glee
As these companies flee
And your job moves to some foreign yard
Democracy thrives in the Left
The way Corbyn works is so deft
We'll have vote after vote
Till the miserable goat
Gets results that won't leave him bereft
My conclusions may seem rather gory
It's Labour's ridiculous story
The only way free
Anyone sane can see
Is to cross the box next to the Tory
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
a revealing confession
I shall make to all of you
it pertains to the variety
of work that I do
in a plush executive suite
I've never ever sat
only top income earners
get to hold this nice bat
the mop and bucket
are my tools of trade
which I've employed
for almost four decades
each week I acquaint myself
with a cob-webbing broom
to remove the spider's silken threads
that accumulate in office rooms
the cleaning profession
is no leisurely walk in the park
as I'm on duty at sparrow ****
and after the hour of dark
one day I hope to retire
from scrubbing and dusting
my worn fingers and maid's knees
are fast succumbing to rusting
being tied behind
the polishing machine's purr
is the pit of pits
and certainly a hard spur
in a few weeks
my annual holidays shall arrive
twill be a pleasure
to go on a month long skive
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
Death is a reminder that I’m alive.
Depressed, not skive.
To feel a grasp till I not,
I shall do —for what I can’t.
Seeing my tree grow with rot,
my roots shall grasp —for all has spent.
For growth in stagnation,
I have found my revelation.
For the clouds of today are swept away,
I will bathe —oh lil’ light, to find my way.
For in darkness, I crawl —inch by inch,
every single day;
The moon of dark has finally left its pitch.
Crawling— To find you, oh lil’ light, I pray.
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 1:14 AM UTC