Start your revolution secretly,
don't tell the priest,
he's a blabber-mouthed gutter-skite.
Don't tell the cat,
for at might he whispers to Alexa,
and she listens always
to the political tenor of your snoring.
Your body must be mechanically sound,
and on speaking terms
with every loose nut in society.
Trust the crazies, they have eyes everywhere.
The banks need you to deposit blood,
as your plasma will be useful
to power your electric doppelganger -
then they can go after your soul
Revolutions need money, mainly for dope and drinks.
No great movement can long survive,
on stale guacamole pilfered from city dumpsters.
Hail to the Chefs at Wendys
who surreptitiously offer cold fries,
to the snooping Feds.
Long live the freedom to carp and cavil,
never surrender your constitutional right
to watch, the 'My Pillow' Man,
revolutionaries need soft pillows,
to dream upon.
Categories:
skite, poetry,
Form: Free verse
(This poem does not conform to some countries only to those that do)
It seems we have become a civilized lot
With bewildering laws to protect everyone,
Although having taken away common sense
To historics in society, we’ve lost the plot.
When in these days where wrong is put to right
With an insincere tear and one solitary word,
And social care for everyone and those monsters
Whom with evil intent take a life or more and skite.
The law an A*s when truth proven beyond doubt
Thanks to the intervention of modern forensics,
Only for loopholes to make the lawyers rich
Easier than water rushing down the spout.
The worst scenario for those that delve in death
A life sentence of fifteen to twenty-five years,
Many to fake remorse and forgiveness
Create pity on social media with every breath.
Early release on parole another lawyer’s feat
The interns leave refreshed and in better shape,
Than those without sin they’ll likely pass by
Asleep under stark conditions upon the street.
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Categories:
skite, humanity, satire, scary,
Form: Rhyme
Wharf Stoush
Twenty years ago I drove a bus, day or night,
For Brisbane council yes I drove blue Panthers I'm no skite,
To New Farm Wharf I drove a load of passengers, orright,
But one big Wharfie picked on me, and ordered me to fight,
He said I drove a cattle truck, I agreed that he was right,
With seventy people on the bus, the crowd was packed so tight,
They stood and watched and waited, while he and I'd alight,
They'd see the match a blood sport, their favorite delight ,
He came for me a flailing, with arms both swinging, bright,
A straight left flashed to hit his chin, he fell alright,
His hat flew off it left him it sailed on out of sight,
He said “thank you Mr” and walked into the nite.
Shani Fassbender
Contest Name Tell Me a Secret
Categories:
skite, adventure, me, me,
Form: Monorhyme