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.
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?