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Editing - polished draft

The Downfall of Modern Society

What a sad degraded world it is we live in:
Violent, adulterous, hypocritical slobs
Masquerading as cabinet ministers
TV entertainers and footballers;
And that's just the half of it.

Foxhunting Fun

Oh a hunting they will go
Those men in pink DAY-GLO,
Sitting on their horses
Ready for the courses,
Doggies yapping loudly,
Aristocrats so cowardly,
Hounds all around a-milling,
Looking forward to some killing
Of harmless foxy creatures
With pretty vulpine features.

Ring the Gong

Plagued by existence
Treat life like a privilege
So easily taken away

Faced by resistance
We Socially Distant
Asked God what to do with the pain

Now I’m being showered
Category 5
Like a hatred hurricane...

I was looking for consolation
Mixing up
The combinations

So I looked to the stars
They told me...

Its a nation been left ajar
Hearing bout a man
Shot and killed inside his car

Boys go to War, 1914

They went to war, eyes ablaze with hope and pride
But death swept the land and took them in its stride
They loved their country and the paths were paved with gold
But Death's dark grip would soon enfold
Them in his arms and they'd no longer see day's light
They'd lie in the mud and feel the pain of the glory and the fight.

Shootout at an Arizona Cow Town

From the Diary of this Single Action Cowboy Shooter

We cleaned and oiled our shootin’ irons,
reloaded polished brass last night.
Today we’ll hold our shootin’ match,
yippee-ki yay! let’s do it right.

My Missus is a gal named “Linda Lu,”
she’s dressed in western garb and trim,
and I’m her hubby, “Sloe Slug Slim”
(I took that alias on a whim).

We loaded up our trusty jeep
(the hoss we left at home),
then moseyed down the offbeat trail
where cowboys and their gals still roam.

Camminiamo Insieme

If all tragedies of life
led to a path of warmth,
there would be nothing
left to write about...

Second title less poem (title shop)

i am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
painter, but I am not. Well,

For instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting painting, I drop in.
"sit down and have a drink."he
says. I drink, we drink.I look
up. "You have sardines in it."
"yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in.Where's 'Sardines?"


Poem without it's title (title shop)

Sundays ,too, my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueback cold
then with cracked hands that ached
from weather in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering breaking.
When the rooms were warm he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress.
fearing the chronic angers of that house.


Sonnet to the well-formed Derriere

I won’t encumber your pure mind with lies
And therefore tell you nothing but the truth:
A woman’s shape does often catch my eyes
As they might rest on her . . . (I’m sooo uncouth!)
I woo my damsel with a tush so grand,
And peek beneath her flowing petticoat
In hope to see much more than just my hand--
I love the fullness I can’t help but note.
Such lustful feelings are in me oft stirr'd
And I defy the cretin who would assert
That roundness does no longer suit a skirt
And flatter bottoms are these days preferred.


Along the shore I wander,
By the sea at evening tide.
I perceive a lovely lady
walking softly at my side.

Isn't this your white veil flowing?
Isn't this your gentle face
I see through grey sea mist breaking,
faintly glowing, full of grace?

Oh, you're a faint illusion
projected by the straying beam
of the lighthouse Fresnel lens—
images conceived in wistful dream.

Thanks, Gracy


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