Finally They Come....

They finally come out to my homeless park BBQ, 

Get to the back jack, be quiet, and just queue queue queue,

Burned meat and charcoal but at least it aint your Mum's chunky stale stew.

So just stick it in your mouth peeps, and just chew chew chew.

It's a summer time rhyme with plenty of nonsensical lines,

Plenty of time, so we pack the bongs nice, fat and tight.

We pass the tube round and round til the moon fades at night.

Staring at the birds looking so so fine, getting a smile if you glance just right.

Summer time crew and we all say “Fuck the boys in blue”,

Put four cops together and get the brains of just two.

Let them run round, fining unmasked devils in shops and queues,

Sticking our fingers up as they pass, coz we all hate hypocrites in blue.

Coz we're all here lying out in the shinning, beaming hot sun,

And its double hard now trying to get some real fun for some.

Boys n girls are raving to the max, all popping molly one by one,

And that blonde in the thong has got my dong throbbing like a drum, bom bom.

We're out all night til the moon comes up, and then it leaves and goes,

Lying on the grass letting weeds grow through my ten duff toes.

Night changes to light and the crew whittles, as peeps start to go off home,

But I wake up on my own, with no home to go back to, all alone.

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Rob Reid - Competition Winner

This won The Creative Writing Groups bi-monthly Competition for Best Poem August 2020

£20 Rocket Man

We're nothing more than a scores rocket man,

Trips to the moon on the side of a can.

Sprinkle of ash from the back of a hand,

And we fly to space to the sound of a band.

Still both clever enough to split shit like the double slit,

Quantum flux waves and particles made from a billion bits.

Had Einstein's minds but the brains of a twit,

And wonky legs from too many hits.

We still checked the box for Schrödinger's cat,

Dead or alive, but still matters a fact.

He probably starved should have thrown him a rat,

But then he's only moving if you hadn't checked that.

I said I'm gonna sort it out, and I gave God a shout,

Long waited 30 years but never heard nought.

It's been a long time and I've survived many droughts

Still Wuhan crazy to wear gloves n mask to go out.

My eyes got double blots and my minds gone blank,

My tongues tied up in a chat that wasn't to Frank.

Got the sniffles and a cough from the rising damp,

I'll still send you a card from space if I can afford the stamps.

But still nothing more than a yellow rock star ship man

Flying to the moon as fast as our wallets say we can.

Rocket fuels cheap fluffed baking powder stale like spam,

And electronic wiring that's as old as your gran.

One day our rocket ships going to stop giving NASA's radar a blip.

The CIA's gonna make sure our boosters explode to a million bits.

Paranoia's top mad but plenty of time floating to think a bit,

Before our oxygen runs out and we all choke for shit.

It was an important mission, I was sure we could land,

Pretty sure Armstrong's lodge helped out with the plan.

Shame Kubrick wasn't around to put the film in the can,

But we still did our best on Area 51's banned desert sand.

So did I wish I had changed jobs and become a man in a suit,

A door to door salesman with a briefcase full of scams to boot.

College wasn't hard so we always had time to toot,

And every boss I had was a thief so I chose a life harder to loot.

© 2020 Robert Reid – All Rights Reserved

Butterfly

The one winged butterfly, he tried so hard yet flew too high,

Two flaps for one he done, and he almost touched the sky.

But burned hot by the orange sun, he spiraled down to die,

Yet the ground opened under him, caught by the Devil nearby.

He said God's scraps are pure crap and mine always to be,

Any mental or ill health, are all torture plans for me.

That being up top, he never stops, only wanting Angels regrettably,

But any defect is deep regret, so he bin bags them for me.

The butterfly replied through blurry eyes, looking up to cloudy sky,

Those scraps may be your crap, but to me I have to ask why?

I suspect you've wept and over kept, fake Ken's and pretend Barbies,

You've lost out on a real corrupt soul, all just to take me?

I maybe Heaven scorned but I'm not Hell born, even if now owned by thee,

But I won't play or sing your Devil songs, and kill just to please.

Because Devil crap ain’t bubble wrapped, your realm won't be shaped by me,

Your worshipers are just irreparable and have no souls to need.

The horned one debated some before over come, and let the butterfly go,

No more time for talking now, he flapped his wing so fast not slow.

He was very high, clouds below, this was a path he didn't know,

Yet just as he faded and starting to doubt, from afar came a bright light show,

When he had flown high enough, he neared a glimmering shore,

So happy he was when Heaven neared, soon he'd tire no more.

The butterfly had made it up, he had landed right at Heaven's door,

But St. Peter said, “No luck son, UKIPS in, we don't take insects no more”

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid