I went to a bar to get a drink,
for sometimes it helps me to think.
It was a dark, quiet, just before noon.
When I looked to my left there was a Baboon.
"Do I know you?", I said to he.
"I don't believe so, although I see
a resemblance of an old friend of mine,
who knew me when young and was kind
to me and family at that time of my life
and was the place I first met my wife."
That was the Baboon, relating to this old man,
of what his life was and how it began.
I was captured and removed from my family;
taken to a place where I could no longer be
with from my friends and others like me.
So I became lonely, very much like thee.
I thought a little as I remembered that refrain,
so I said, "My friend, are you pulling my chain?"

I begrudge you not
your round of golf, so
when I see you,
I want you to go
to a warm place
very deep, down below.

You're a flea on the back
of this World of ours.
You need to be scratched;
Sent on your way.
You may not with me agree,
but just now, please go away.

The worst thing said,
The worst thing heard,
"Get off your high horse
And join the Herd."

It was there,
in front of me.
I don't know why,
I couldn't see.

Where are you now, standing all alone,
without courage but with heart of stone.
You are the Great Donald of renown
but you behave like Ronald the Clown.

There is a whirlpool in my head.
Spinning the words out of dread.
Words that tumble and roll.
Words with meaning or nothing at all.
Short words, long words or those that hide
Words of those that still reside
stuck so deep, in my mind.
Good words, for some; for others not.
Words that are fresh. That's all I got.
Trying to write something on demand,
is hard to do. Do you understand?

I had no boat.
I had no oar.
I couldn't fish.
I wanted more.
I bought a boat.
I bought an oar.
I bought a motor.
I knew the score.
I went fishing.
I caught some fish.
I fished from the boat.
I had my wish.
I found my dream.
I found out when.
I was now at the end.

A trail, a path, a rutted road,
marked the journey of the old Toad.
He left the Bog he lived in,
starting his life anew, where it began.
From Bog to trail, through the trees,
hiding in daylight under branches and leaves.
He made his way toward the town,
where his family lived, near the Sound.
Water he craved, back to the Sea,
for this journey is not about him,
but more about the man I be.
I must go now; the light grows dim
as our journey in life is short,
from the time we were born
until life does abort.

In the family room
and I see,
a Crow on the fence,
looking back at me.
In his beak, like a man,
an empty Bud Light beer can.
Did he have a thirst?
I can't say,
for he dropped the can
and flew away.

A Crocodile sat on my back.
I believe his friends, called him Jack.
Jack had been gone a great while,
his place of birth was the river Nile.
He was on my shoulder, wearing a coat.
Happy was I, he had not grabbed my throat.
"Why are you here?' I asked of he.
He said, "don't ask, let it be,
for I am not a Croc, silly boy,
I'm your worries of what's to be,
for your life will soon by history".

A smoke filled room,
an open bar.
Where in the World
did I park my car?

A vision of beauty came walking this way.
I didn't know her and so I did stay.
She came by my table, as if to say
Something to me, then turned and walked away.

If taking one pill is good,
I'll take two or three.
What's the worst thing to happen?
There would be no more me.

Across the bluest of Oceans,
toward a pinkish sunrise,
are adventures, most certain.
Seeing the look in your eyes,
brings me back to my childhood,
for there I can surmise,
the places of the World
which we cut down to size.

Bangers and mash,
some Shepherds pie,
taste good to me
and so I'll try,
a pint of beer,
while evening is nigh,
it will soon disappear,
as will I.

Blind obedience to what is said,
if you listen to all his lies
most of us will be dead.
What kind of man, in our town
whose lies, every day are so profound.
Put on your suit, you ridiculous clown.

I have long ago wondered,
of when I succumb,
it would be the result
of something, stupid or dumb.

My hand is aching.
So is my thumb.
Writing with Arthritis
Has to be dumb.

I'm writing now, in a small book.
Perhaps I need to have a look
at a larger version, within to write.
Sound logical or am I being trite?