So adroitly concealed, it’s hard

To actually believe she’s

New to the game – everything

Fit over-snugly, fully in

Place, exactly the same as those

Seasoned, antiquated mugshots

Haunted by shadows and trees’ shade

 

Pointless talking, reasoned – nearly

‘Til the cows came home, still refused

As if enjoying disrespectful

Abuse, not to mention pawing

Hands guiding hungry, probing digits

 

Money heals most, takes care of wounds

Too – but what of psychic-baggage

Trolled by John Public’s, ‘I know,’

And those ‘I told you so’ stares

There’s absolutely no hiding place

Might as well stick a label with

Roxanne written on it

To her heavily made-up forehead.

 

Seers Who Sear The Work:

Give you extremely bad advice

Procuring you, into doing wrong things

Always to make you pay the price

Then leave you in’t lurch and start laughing

 

Ten to one hundred bellyaching

With the one Dread, a; bus’s

Joke ‘pon the promenade

Simply mash-up me street-cred

Then wa’an say me a’ bad card

 

Just remember our Prince Of Peace

Could possibly have been brother

To that eternal Devil Of War

Because all flesh must cease, so

You better pray hard, for release.

 

That Fool Over there:

Like a cold on a winter’s day

Me, having no coat to wear

Or shoes on my chilblained feet

Maybe, if you remove that dead

Carcass – from close proximity

To your nose, remove the fatted

Caulk from out of your ears

And wipe streaming tears

From your jealously red, eyes

Then you might come to your senses

And touch real stars who circle

Planet Earth, and be mindful

Of eternity’s promised rebirth

Proffered to seers who know their worth

 

 

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