A sick society

So many hooked on drugs and guns,
so many hooked on violence,
so many ignorant of the world
never needing evidence.

So many careless of their health,
so many hooked on opioids,
So many hooked on fantasy wealth,
so many bigoted paranoids

rotten with racial prejudice.
So many liars, so much greed,
when your society is sick,
concentrate on what you need.

Forget the primping cheerleader
telling you everything is swell -
before you try to make it great
you need to make it well.

No need to fret about dying.

The problem is all in your head.

You'll do it without even trying.

You won't even know that you're dead.

Brief encounter

I noticed her among the summer fruits,
freshness and shapeliness her attributes.
She led me down a strangely quiet aisle
and met someone she knew - oh what a smile!
Together we ploughed on through vegetables
and seemed agreed on waiving cereals
but then we parted ways, she to the bread
while I indulged in alcohol instead.
I feared I'd savour bitters on my own
and have no use for seed my bird now flown.
I sadly mourned my loss with flowers and very
soon took comfort in confectionery
but glimpsed her at the delicatessen
from pharmacy and a medical lesson.
My hope was raised and - she was there !
lovely as a vision in underwear.
I lost my zest for manager's reductions
with thoughts all turned to possible seductions.
Past frozen meat I felt myself much bolder
but all that I received was her cold shoulder.
In spite of that I moved in close to check her out -
she turned on me with such a dreadful shout:
"Creep ! Are you off your trolley ? Basket case ! "
I fled the supermarket in disgrace.

Rueful

I didn't discover penicillin;
I wasn't the first man on the moon;
I never played for my country once
and now my life has gone all too soon.

So what did I do with the years I had?
Well, I worked my jobs as well as I could;
I loved my wife and brought up my kids;
and I tried to do other people good.

My friends and family still value me;
my health is fine though stairs make me puff.
I know I should be grateful for my life
and so I am - but it's not enough.

Past it?

The fire of desire burns low

dying down to memory's glow;

too old for sex as marital duty

but never too old for beauty?

Rap

The problems with rap, which make it crap,
are monotonous rhythm and too much rhyme.
Although the ideas sometimes make sense,
both producers and product are just too dense.

Countdown

I assume that Rachel is well prepared

against the almost inevitable day / dee (Scots !)

when the chosen vowels and consonants

spell out the embarrassing  C  U  N  T.

At least these days it won't be as bad

as the fashionable unmentionable

N  i    g sh!   g hush!   e     r  !!