The Politician’s Truth, and The Queen Bee


The Politician’s Truth

I read somewhere that our Politicians spoke the Truth about Iraq. If that is so, then that truth was but:

the fading memory

of a ghost that never came

seen through a dirty mirror

on a foggy,







The Queen Bee

If you ever go to a certain Club in Glasgow, you may see Leanne descend from her throne and dance about with her wings (arms) held aloft. You may notice the men buzzing round like bees in a hive.

(Male Voice)

As the Queen Bee shimmied the Drones danced round,

But they were stung by what they had found

Pretty she was and men schemed and schemed

And when they went home, they dreamed and they dreamed

When Leanne danced, the bouncers went white

For the speed of her dancing was faster than light

At a furious pace, shaking her hips

A glow on her face and a smile on her lips

The men raise their glasses

As she comes, and she passes

The singer sings and the song is sung,

“It never can be. Too pretty. Too young.”

When Leanne dances round and round

And the men stare and stare

Does anyone ask, does anyone care?

How she feels?

(Female voice, spoken with some anger)

As I dance round, they push in tight

Thinking that they have the right

To take home my lips, and my eyes,

And bits of my arms, and all of my thighs

Ugly as death

Cursed with bad breath

Crowding in on me

Wanting all of me

Hands touching, lingering

Pushing past, fingering

“You’re gorgeous,” they say,

Every night, every day

“What’s your name?”

I won’t play their game

But who do I blame?

Are they all the Fxxxing same?


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