On the streets, mothers grilled guttersnipes,
Not to squeeze runny nose and runaway,
Perchance met by chance,
Sangfroid song is sang by heart,
Just an air breath of dare devil juvenile hector,
A furious broom, soaked inside grub of soil,
And chased until bedaub with blessed syrup,
On the contrary, likely dumped the grim green on the
street,
While keeping odourful astonishment long after,
Some swore that ground should open.
May not tell if lives in a hovel or cave,
A scary terror fleet flit streets stinking bum of the
underworld,
Possessor of all waste, his living chamber are painted
With umber dung with dumber grey and dummy dawn,
Shower rumble and wet sickening dapple flower,
Crawling vine holdsway and stranglehold,
Blood sucking vampire pods looking unhealthy,
And bobbing Piranhas in his muddy crystal ball
aquarium,
Fed soft wobbly creatures with no nose, nonsense and
eyesores,
While Dung Beetles are the beloved pets.
Categories:
guttersnipes, time
Form: Free verse
The invisible hand that rocks the cradle
Also rocks the grave
The invisible hand of Smith’s fable
From a poor hand many gave
Sow the seed of greed
Young indeed
For this is no ordinary cow feed
But that which makes guttersnipes bleed
They suck from those that are dry
They profit even when you die
Away black fly away
Your vices I cannot say
For God would think:
“I should shrink
And kick your **** today”
Charlotte says away
But for pork you stay
“After he’s done
Put ‘em in a bun
And squash that spider today”
“Puppet master of death
Give me one more breath
I wish to be merry
Before the Styx ferry
And be buried with my wealth”
The hand is an apparition
But this is a superstition
For real men drain
their pockets in vain
To those in position
Categories:
guttersnipes, death, life, loss,
Form: Rhyme