A truckful of drunks
half-skunked boozers
gun racks in the back
unlucky losers
pulled up to the pumps
for a gallon or two
only high octane
tanked would do
then one had a bad itch
he started to scratch
wanted a smoke
and when he lit a match
the explosion was heard
three miles away
to arrive alive
do what they say
'Don't drink and drive'
and yes it's true
it could ruin your day
smoking is bad for you
I really would like to sit down and drink a beer with a cigarette
All I want is to choose for myself
But we can't do this and we can't do that
I think they're really trying to steal all our fun
They call this England, I call it a surveillance state prison.
Where the drunk drinks yet damns drugs
he claims another benefit
the bankers are lying
they're going to bring the country down
People are dying for these profiteering wars.
A mother lost another son, we're lied to buy our government
The houses are up, the jobs are low
The poor man takes another blow
Another revolution is about to come and go!
Just for one night my friends
roll the dice
come on play the game
Side by side we should stand
My friends, we will sing
Tho' they may display legs to best advantage,
observing the constraints, begs the question, 'What's afoot?'
Seems to me I had a bee in my bonnet
about women's proclivities and passion
when compelled to write this pseudo-sonnet
about their footwear fashion.
Some are bonkers barmy as bedbugs, daft, dippy, daffy,
(with) bats in the belfry too,
it's far beyond my reckoning, as I can't fathom,
why they choose to wear the pairs of shoes they do.
And as for a clue, I haven't any, why they own so very many.
With their platforms, pumps, stilettos, wedges, they're tottering on
the edges of insanity, an exercise in futility,
an accident about to happen, one stumble, a tumble then... a calamity.
Seeing them hobble, while their dogs are barking,
these are the words they'd speak, if their feet could talk,
'Cinderella had the right idea, losing her glass slipper,
as oh the pains you put us through when you are wont to walk.
It's no more than torture, a total imposition,
somewhat akin to boots of the Spanish Inquisition.'
The older I get the more I hate shoes
When I was a teen I loved to choose
Different leather pumps and high heels
Wearing shoes now is a not a big deal
I like my old mules now out of style
As my feet can be free slide in and out
And those Crocs are popular for sure
But I just can’t get into them no lure
As a teen I was a fancy sharp dresser
Now I struggle to get dressed a stressor
Summer shoes and sun dresses are ok
But can’t wait to get home and strip away
I’m so happy, blessed to live home alone
As hot flashes happen want nothing on
When I do wear pajamas I like them loose
So there is less trauma to boobs, caboose
We sit on the wet pavement of the 7/11 at 4 AM,
smoking camels beneath the eerie glow of the
gas station lights. This is the hour of nostalgia.
You're all bubble gum day dreams and heart
shaped sunglasses with a bad attitude.
I'm all liquid depression and over sized
hoodies with a drinking problem.
We watch as the morning cracks the sky
open like an egg as the world slowly wakes
and the darkness of a highway becomes
speckled with the orbs of headlights.
We flick our cigarette butts towards the gas
pumps because we know it's a bad idea.
In a book bag there is a bottle of jager -
I take a good drag and pass it to you -
a toast to this hour of nostalgia.
-kelsey jade
take a frosted walk
clad tip to heel in baked pumps
cupcakes for your feet
There is tension at the pumps:
folks look glassy-eyed and glazed.
And a sense of frustration
has concerning eyebrows: raised.
Though they're being bamboozled:
customers contain their rage.
And yet, curse under their breath,
at the numbers on the gauge.
Siphoning off hard-earned cash:
speculators rob at will.
And manipulate markets:
not caring who foots the bill.
To keep us oil-dependent:
big business has become crass.
And blame government taxes:
for the rising price of gas.
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