The Big Game Hunter

It was dress-down Friday.

When Colin walked in, she thought of Donald Trump. He was wearing a beige safari shirt and matching combat trousers. His blond hair had fallen to one side, like that combover that the Donald has. It looked like he was wearing a dead pale beaver on his head.

This made her laugh.

Colin was her boss. He was as far up himself as the actual Donald.

“You look like a big gay munter,” she said.

Colin smiled.

“Thank you,” he said.

The Ballad Of The Disadvantaged

Most people

Are not millionaires

Most people

Are not wealthy

Most people

Live within their means

Most people

Are quite steady

That person

Is a wealthy girl

That person

Has it easy

That person

From a different world

That person

Needs to see me

This person

In this messed up world

This person

On his knees, see

This person

Without means, me

This person

This is just me

I see

All these different worlds

I see

What you don’t see

I see

What you never will

I see

What you will not be

I’ll be

What you never were

I’ll be

Disadvantaged

I’ll be

Nothing, more or less

I’ll be

Disenfranchised

I am one

I’m the plural one

I’m the one who is

The many

You are one

But not the only one

You’re the one who is

The enemy

My Home Land

I paced my home today.

Eighteen paces by forty-two.

Such a little plot of land,

Bigger than some, smaller than many,

But this land is my land, as Woody would say.

It’s a mean little plot on a mean little street,

In a city with little meaning these days,

Set in a belittled country.

But even here, in this not-so-purple patch,

I can hide from what is happening

Out there.

I can shut the doors, draw the curtains,

Turn off the t.v. and just read.

Because I can’t bear to think about

Or to hear what they say about

Or see what they do about

The things that I used to hold dear.

It’s a car crash, a grab and smash,

By people who think they know what we need,

When the truth of it is that most of these fools

Don’t even know what we think.

I’ll tell you a truth that they don’t want to hear,

I think we’ll hear much less of them soon.

That X in the box, that big little cross,

It will crucify most of these goons.

The crusty old reds and the too moody blues

Will be yesterday’s men, and they’ve no-one to blame but themselves.

The next wave will be coloured yellow and green,

But it will just start again,

For not one will hold power so it will all fall apart,

And whenever that happens the old farts will return.

Ring no changes.

Ring-a-ring o’roses.

All fall down.

Start again.