October Rain

It fuckin' rains.
It fuckin' rains some more.
I'm under a shop canopy,
Watching it down pour.

I hope that it will ease,
Instead it hammers harder,
Turns pavement into river.
My feet are cold and wet,
I indulge in a small shiver.

Young women rush in next to me,
Stand talking to each other,
Taking care to show their backs.
No camaraderie of strangers,
To warm this wet October.

I hear rumbling in the distance,
The sky's glowing a pale amber.
I face a long walk home with soaking feet,
Through streets that have poor camber. 

On a similar topic:Bus Shelter Blues 

In Defence of Verse

Why not pay heed?
Why not indeed!
To the topic of rhythm and rhyme;
For it pleases the ear,
And pleases the mind,
And takes up little time.

Shopping Snobbery

The middle class are a snobbish lot,
Who'll pay too much for what they've bought,
If they think they look posh doing it.
You might imagine that they ought
To notice no-one's watching.

If you go to a cheap supermarket,
They sneer in a way that's just heartless;
They mock you and your shopping basket,
In a fashion which is really quite artless;
Their fear that they've been fooled's rather obvious. 

On the same topic: Big Spender 

Related: Fashionistas 

The Prurience Paradox

Welcome to the world
Of the frankly unappealing,
Where nosiness is king,
Unrestrained by proper feeling.

We're repelled by curiosity
And yet we still engage in it.
Our fornicating royalty,
Continue thus to fascinate.

Important news escapes attention,
Even when media give it mention.
Instead we read of the adventures
Of celebs who're uncouth boors.

Miley flashes her own knockers,
Then complains about her knockers;
Claims her heart and soul have told her
To twerk and thrust with body bare.

No matter how this stuff appalls us,
We find it hard to look away;
We're allured by all the fuss,
Ogle images while we may.

It's Not My Fault

How much time do people spend
Saying 'It's not my fault?'.
I hear them on their mobile phones,
Locked in rows they cannot halt.
Why don't they switch the damn thing off?

The Human Condition - Part V

The human race 
Is far from grace;
Minds clouded by unreason.

Warmed by our illusions,
We thrive upon confusion;
Cold truth would leave us freezing.

We tell ourselves that it's OK, 
No matter what the sceptics say;
Our nervousness needs easing.

We place our trust in ruthless folk, 
Who round our necks would place a yoke;
The alternative's too fearsome.
 

Previously: The Human Condition - Part III 

Part IV remains unpublished. 

The Hidden Hand of the Media Moguls

An iron hand that's well-concealed,
Guides Britain's scribblers in their work.
Blind hatred's the intended yield,
An ignorant passion they'll uncork
With unrelenting zeal.

A judgment that can't be appealed,
Is reached in lofty hidden places.
The target's fate has then been sealed.
Tame hacks deploy their arts and graces
To blacken the victim's name.

Using bogus objectivity,
And fraudulent dispassion,
They hide their true proclivity,
As in scheming ruthless fashion
They manipulate our hate.

Fashionistas

Fashion is a way to keep us poor;
Its acolytes will posture like a hure;
They'll take us for a sucker,
And kick us in the gutter,
After we've given our money like some fool;
Over our eyes is where they put the wool.

If our clothing doesn't bear a famous name,
We're supposed to shudder with a burning shame;
We're really not possessed of any cool,
Unless we fork out money like a fool,
And pay five times the value of our stuff.
Even that is really not enough.

There's no limit to their greed,
As they try to use our need
To be someone who really, really counts.
So they con us out of very large amounts,
For things that are in fact a bunch of junk.
To them we're just a naive kind of punk.

They're not just bent they're twisted,
As well as being tight-fisted;
So why not sell us something that is trash,
And ask for very large amounts of cash?
We'll pay so long's it bears a well-known name,
Of someone who's achieved some kind of fame.

Debunking

The debunkers love debunking.
They are in love, and love is blind.
So they debunk things that aren't bunk.

Well, it's sort of a poem. 

MP's Lies

Lying to the Commons 
Has become the MP's sport.
If they're caught they smirk and laugh,
They give it little thought.

They care for honour not at all,
But suck up to rich toffs.
On their belly they would crawl
To get some fat pay-off.

It's not enough to tell us lies,
They'll sell us down the river.
Some take cash from foreign spies,
Conscience troubles them never.

Unwelcome Entropy I

My new trackie bottoms
Are becoming old ones,
In front of my eyes,
And without permission.

Fulmination

I fulminate against the power,
And scribble angry rhymes.
It's all I seem to manage now,
To resist these evil times.

What purpose do such verses hold?
Words have power but are not read.
The world is ruled by guns and gold,
The innocent are bombed till dead.

Perhaps it helps me, thus to vent my rage,
Against the hoodlum scum who rule our age,
Through secret spies and lies and bribes:
Helps free my mind for calmer vibes.

For after all, I must admit,
The powerful pay no heed to me,
Or millions of like-minded souls.
From sea to shining polluted sea,
They pursue, unchecked, their vicious goals.