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

Licence Fee

Licence feee, I don't pay for it, no want BBC.

I got Netflix, Prime n BeeTV,

OneHD, Potato Streams and free Pay Per View TV,

Mobdro sports, football and UFC.

I don't watch live shows, my brains catch up TV,

Art Bell at night on TuneIn radio,

Pluto shows and Bitchute video n audio.

Facebook, YouTube don't fuck with me,

Your algorithms demote free speech, can't you see?

My minds escaped Googles box and moved to Pirate Bay,

TOR Browser, uTorrent, I watch films I want my way.

I got respect for film makers and out thought thinkers,

But don't wanna get stuck in your Adsense click baiters.

I turn cookies off and proxy 3 ways,

Internets dark web is free thought my way.

You've ripped blogs from me n ripped up years work for notin,

I'm fed up with your knowledge base, let me speak to a real man.

Internet and Googles,“do no evil”,

NSA's behind all that, like da bike behind Evil Kneivel.

I got no more to say, go read da law on my wall,

Tink about da small print, as I throw you down ma hall.

TV inspector, go swivel, I'm plugged in no more,

To your indoctrination stations, I'm a mainline information whore.

So go tink about dat, as your van sneaks down ma street,

Paying no more to listen, no Government double speak.

 

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid

 

A Prison Ting

He was just a stupid young kid, jobless and broke,

But the prick tries robbing me and I think it's a joke.

Then a shank is produced, I see the blade through the smoke,

So I snap his arm in two and let him sleep in my choke.

Think nothing of it, coz it happens all the time,

But stupid plod cops want to nick me, for a non-crime.

Get a 6 o'clock knock, and see a long blue line,

And I'm remanded to Reading, to wait for court time.

Got nothing in my pockets but I kept a penny cheeked,

Least half an oz passes on visits, from week to week.

Throw cash devils way and he'll give you what you seek,

But guards beam on touching, so we pass cheek to cheek.

Got a smelly cell mate, who don't wash or pull the chain,

And another white yoof, talking black without no shame.

My tackles plugged 24/7, unless the boys have gone to play a game,

So I straighten tin pie wraps to smoke on, til a screw came.

Got a kicking in the cell and batons shave my shins,

A mattress beating at night and cell mates never see a thing.

I poke a screw in the throat and he chokes on my fings,

Then I'm stripped beat n battered, whilst I hear the screws sing.

A month in solitary, and I'm shitting in a hole,

Got roaches for company and a dark hearted soul.

My foods mixed with crushed glass, so I can't eat at all,

All coz a screw got a taste, and a heart black as coal.

Finally I'm acquitted, on a plea of self defence,

But the screw gets me nicked, just on offence.

Thought half the jury, would have sat on the fence,

But they all send me to chokey, to be confined with the dense.

So I'm back to prison, but this time it ain't no remand,

A crime I wouldn't call it, but still the record stands.

Hear that kids bredrins on the wing, shanks pass hands,

And I end up dead in the showers, stabbed on demand.

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid

I got no smart shoes

I got no smart shoes, but got food,

You want some food?

I got dark or white, it's up to you,

It's food for the soul, and my souls well abused,

My shoes don't shine but yours don't too.

Coz I got no roof over ma head and ma cars ma bed,

I park down alleys, n pull ma coat over ma head.

My friends pretend, but don't wanna let me rest ma legs,

I beg n beg but get ripped to shreds.

Coz a friend in need is a friend who thieves,

I've woke before to find friends on their knees.

Sifting through ma tings, taking what they need,

My pills n ching your supposed to leave.

I walk on pins, and blood seeps through my skin,

I'd tell you the truth but never know where to begin.

I've hid before behind wheelie bins,

Watching murder scenes as Police teams, scan n beam.

My shoes may not shine, but 100% they're mine,

Never going down for a heist on Clarkes, damn stupid crime.

Treds cleaner than my bed n well past their prime,

You better lick my feet coz your face is well worth the time.

Coz a friend in need must be a friend with greed,

Their needs so deep, they forget you in a heart beat.

A place to stay isn't a doggy treat,

You'd rather call the law than let me rest my feet.

So do you want these shoes, I say exist?

A pair of feet golden from the sun, but moon blessed.

Ten rough blistered toes, that the devils kissed,

Bore babies to the Gods, but ill conceived half pissed.

I maybe bat fuck crazy, but mans no joke no toke,

Small room filled with fumes and a sign not to smoke.

A stand up man, and all round good bloke,

But pull a stunt like that and you'll die in my choke.

Coz I done time, thrown lines and stood in line for brine,

What yours is mine, and what's mine is mine.

Got an eye for wheels n never paid speeding fine,

Cash on tap whoever said it don't pay well crime?

So go walk a mile, in my soiled wet shoes,

Go slow, two by two, like rats led by a flute.

Tred the worn path with a laugh, give that man a toot,

N don't be the sow, fat cow, slow meat farmers shoot.

Coz a friend in need is a friend who bleeds,

Share blood in a stall, pass works beneath.

Core blimey son, he said goodbye with a tweet,

5 years then passed before he was found dead in the street.

Coz I aint got no smart shoes, but have you?

Or are your treds worn dead, a sick man with no clue.

A suited fat lawyer, pimping a room with no view,

No win no fee, but got time to sue.

Coz I count the real friends on my pinks, from head to toe,

A real friend will lend and don't put on a show.

That's why I don't have real friends, they're a bar set too low,

And I walk these shit shoes alone on dis path I know.

 

© 2020 All Rights Reserved Robert Reid

Blue...

Blue is the colour of my shoe,

From treds to felt, my fav colours blue.

I never ever, never knew what to do,

Enter sports shop, find shoes, jump queue.

Coz blue is the colour of my team,

30 years gone, and not a title seen.

Southall and Sheedy were the cream,

Curl a 30-yard shot, and rattle goal beam.

But blue is the color of my sun,

Until a runny nose n the sweats no fun.

Pop a few sweeties under tongue,

1000 milligram, it's a daily re-run.

Coz blue is the colour of my loo,

I don't shit funny, but my disinfectants blue.

N I always wipe the seat, a tissue or few,

Not worth sitting wet, trying to hav a poo.

But blue is the colour of the few,

There 2 protect the rich n always there to abuse a few.

Corruptible heroes, shirted in blue,

Rock hard action men but always come in 2s.

And blue is the colour of this Skrew,

I made the name up, only I do the Skrew.

A skrew blue poem, words still true,

My blue screwed up hand, is testimony to this Skrew.

© 2020 All Rights Reserved Robert Reid

What is a SKREWBALL POEM?

A "Skrewball poem", or in short "a Skrew", is a poem with short lines and multiple rhyming or repeated words, often with letters missing or shortened or written in text speech and is a means to convey a story or tale from the Screwed up poet to a Screwed up reader. 

Like a Story, Poem and Screw, a Skrew has a thread to it, however loosely interpreted. It may just be one single word that it used in multiple scenarios, or it may be a whole theme behind the story written in the style of a poem.

A "True SKЯ3W" is a poem, with many nonsensical rhyming lines, often written without any inclination by the author to give a fuck about what words he is SKЯ3WING you with.

Guilty Pleasure....

I'm guilty and it's always a pleasure,

Stuck indoors, sweating the weather.

Minted, always, a man of wealth,

My habits and pleasures have never been stealth.

I had gold plated ching, and whores on tap,

Quick booty calls and sometimes the clap.

Drugs, booze, Armani styled suits,

Italian leather shoes, platinum DM boots.

I have it all, houses all round,

Aston Martins with top surround sound.

Top speed beasts, I wreck cars without care,

Brush off the glass, smile back at stares.

Pull out some notes, and pay off the peeps, 

Surprised what folks forget, for a few sheets.

But all this sprinkle is normal life,

My real guilty secret, I keep from my wife.

I wait downstairs, in the marble piped hall,

Blow her a kiss, and say that I'll call.

Watch as she walks off, picks out a car,

I stand on the steps, make sure she's out far.

Then I strip off my clothes, and pull out my cock,

Lay in the garden, right by the dock.

The boats swim past, Richmond river a few,

I always make sure, the ladies get a good view.

Cover my nads, with honey so sweet,

And rap off a knuckle, right to the beat.

I let all the passengers, get a good view,

Slapping the monkey, a tickle or few.

The grannies all take pictures, and flashing snaps,

But my face is covered, with my wives face on mask.

My chest isn't hairy, it's got fake tits,

I rub my nips, and flick my bits.

All the old ladies, are turned on for sure,

As I shoot my load, I get a loud roar!

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid