March of the mad man

Will they pull the plug on me and
leave me out to dry?
or perhaps they’ll stick a knife in me,
but they won’t get me to die.

They might hoover up my blood and
suck out all the good, but I’ll return with
acid in my vein and let them try again,
but they won’t get me to die.

I’m thinking knit one, pearl one,
drop a fucking bomb on them.

Free love never got me there,
it never got me anywhere,
never paid to get laid,
oh bollocks
let me call a spade,
a spade
I never got a screw.

Did you notice it?
the reference to a non-word.

Absurdity
becoming me and me
becoming
absurdity.

It gets to be a drag at times,
making rhymes and shit like that
which makes me sound a gangster type,
don’t you think?

Okay,
silence I can deal with
cook a fucking meal with,
but ignorance is neither heaven
nor bliss.

Kiss of course, the Blarney stone
take a toke
smoke a bone
mix up
fix up
finally to crack up and
the beauty leaks away.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.