The Proverbial Angel And Devil

There is a battle between good and evil,

It’s raging in everyone’s soul,

It takes two halves,

To make any of us whole,

It goes a little like this:

“Do this,

Or I’ll get pissed”!

And,

“No! Please!

Don’t listen to that!

I smell a rat”!

 

These two whisper battles,

Day in,

And day out,

Trying to win my affections,

So I’ll follow their directions.

 

One so bad,

He should make me mad,

But when he speaks,

I hear happy squeaks,

The opposite so good,

I should maybe knock on wood,

For when he says walk,

I cheerily ask,

For guidance to his flock.

 

I’d be better off,

As a one-man show,

But in each situation,

Inside my skull,

My conscience hears two little voices,

That just won’t dull.

 

What the fuck?

Is there a way,

To shut them up?

They’ve been keeping everyone company,

Since the Dawn Of Time,

Shouldn’t they have expired by now?

I’d think they should be,

Way past their prime.

 

I picture the one having horns,

Bearing a black pitchfork,

The other wearing a white robe,

With twinkling stars,

Hanging from delicate earlobes.

 

They represent the two main things,

That drive this world,

Wicked and righteous,

And as thoughts of both,

Course through all our minds,

It would seem we are all one part sinister,

And another part divine.

 

Does either one,

Ever win?

Can one being be,

One hundred percent,

Just goodness or sin?

I’d say no one is perfect,

We’re really each a mix,

Of halos and that creepy,

Six-six-six.

 

 

 

We Frustrate Me

Nothing but distaste,

For the human race,

When further I think on it,

The more the hate,

Picks up the pace.

 

They strive to thrive,

Headfirst they dive,

Into normalcy,

Also known as crazy,

And what a waste,

It’s not as though,

They’re leaving alive.

 

Flitting about here and there,

And most don’t care,

About a thing,

Unless it’s theirs,

And even then,

It’s hard for some,

Not to act like scum.

 

The other day,

I was at the store,

Everyone was there,

Rich and poor,

Saints and whores,

As well as everything between,

After looking high,

And looking low,

They all had,

One thing in common though,

They all needed something,

Their money couldn’t buy.

 

I’m sick of dealing,

With them and their issues,

There’s the alcoholics,

And there’s the apostolics,

Some are even diabolical,

I wonder,

When the fuck,

Did this psycho mix,

Become typical?

 

Let me tell you,

The whole lot is fuct,

If they keep waiting around,

For a run of good luck,

We each make or break our own fortune,

No one is immune,

Now quit looking so god-damn forlorn,

And go grab a new life,

By the horns.

 

Are you wondering when,

I’ll make my point?

There isn’t one,

Yet this wasn’t written,

Just for the fun.

 

 

 

The Mighty One-Man Cartel

They’re all untrustworthy and slimy,

If you fuck with them,

Your life is destined to become grimy,

It’s said don’t ever trust a dealer,

Not any one,

Not any kind,

Although one exception,

Does come to mind.

 

These guys like to hide,

And send others out to risk their hides,

But while his abode is hidden too,

You can deal with him directly,

This one’s not inaccessible to you.

 

This dealer deals in miracles,

Not at all like those who peddle,

The addictions we’re used to buying,

And he advertises honestly,

They’re never laced or watered down,

And then sold by lying,

Plus there is the perk,

That the price is free.

 

He’d rather deal out free love,

Than make a fortune selling drugs,

And if you cannot pay,

He will not order you slain,

Instead you will be smothered,

In a never-ending hug.

 

When he goes out gambling,

It’s not cards he’s dealing,

And he won’t be risking dollars,

He’s unquestionably there to place a bet though,

He’s betting he will,

Save your soul.

 

There is no need to speak in riddles,

As what he’s got,

Is not contraband,

To him you can plainly speak,

Ask him straight-out,

For whatever it is you seek,

For though it’s a sort of black-market,

Nothing he deals can be banned.

 

Any time,

Anywhere,

Any kind,

He does not care,

Most assuredly,

If you’re experiencing a withdrawal,

Know that it will take no time at all,

For him to meet you there.

 

You won’t have to chase him down,

While he’s selling coke or toke,

All around the town,

He’s got a better product,

And he knows right when and where you need it,

And instead will hunt you down.

 

Indeed,

It sounds so good,

How can it be true?

But give him a try anyway,

You’ll be happy when,

He answers you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sooner Or Later, It’s Inevitable

I feel a storm’s brewing,

Bye-bye to rainbows and unicorns,

Trust me now,

Trouble’s coming.

 

Things have been going far too good,

To stay like this for always,

I’m betting soon,

My mind’s happy song,

Will sound instead,

Like a troubled gong.

 

I should wonder what this trial shall be,

And how long it will linger beside me,

But I’ll try not to give a damn,

Or let it ruin what I am.

 

Everything’s smooth sailing for me now,

Too much to spell out here,

Now I wonder,

If I had to choose,

In which area of my world,

Would I be willing to begin feeling the blues?

 

Maybe it’s for good,

That we don’t get much for clues,

When a storm is on the move,

Because for real,

Who knows what we’d do,

If we couldĀ  better sense,

When rough seas were due?

 

Let’s hope the winds aren’t too wild,

And that anything not easily resolved,

Is not at all involved,

As I don’t want to smother,

Before I have recovered.

 

When it finally shows its ugly self,

And carefully laid plans,

Start whirling and twirling,

I’ll refashion things,

Into a new and appealing pearl,

Using just,

Good old brains and hands.

 

Now Wouldn’t That Be Brilliant

Imagine having the ability,

To become invisible,

With a clap of the hands,

Or the blow of a whistle,

What a pleasure it would be,

To get to do things,

Not otherwise permissible.

 

Certain situations,

Can get awfully sticky,

And to seem to fade out in a puff,

Would be a pretty convenient tricky.

 

Remaining hidden,

While being there unbidden,

Would be better than riches,

Even if it had some glitches.

 

Learning secrets,

Not meant for my ears,

Would be a priceless talent,

Maybe even enabling me,

To fuck with an event’s sequence.

 

I wonder,

In this situation,

Would strangers mistake me for a spirit?

If I were to walk in invisible,

Then reverse the spell,

And say an unexpected salutation?

 

How suitable it would be,

To be admitted for free,

Thanks to them not seeing,

The body that’s me,

And so they’d be,

Screwed out of a fee.

 

I dare say it would be,

Good practice for death,

At least that is so,

If you believe in becoming a presence,

After you’ve breathed your last breath.

 

Well I think that about covers it,

There’s no need to elaborate more on the subject,

By now you ought to get the picture,

Of how life could be richer,

And I suppose it will do me no good,

To speculate,

Of how wonderful it would be,

To possess this fine trait,

But I’d like it anyhow,

If I could make this happen,

Right here right now.

 

 

This I Promise

I may get old,

But I won’t get fat,

You couldn’t pay me enough,

To get like that.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t act my age,

I’ll let my true colors show,

Wherever I go.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t get lazy,

Although I may be,

The one the neighbors call crazy.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t get frail,

I’ll be tough enough to hold up,

Through a raging gale.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t lose it all,

I haven’t worked my whole life,

Just to have a downfall.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t be forgetful,

My memories will be right there,

Behind my temples.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t go grey,

I’ll do myself up pretty,

‘Til my dying day.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t be a nag,

I’ll let the younger generations,

Do whatever makes their tails wag.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t turn into a recluse,

Everyone will know of me,

Like a child knows of Mother Goose.

 

I may be old,

But I won’t be feeble,

I’ll still drive around,

In a big diesel.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t change my mind,

There’s a reason that one,

Became a favorite of mine.

 

I may get old,

But I won’t give up,

I’ll still be here,

Livin’ it up.

 

 

The Little Chick Had To Fly

I’m a little yellow chick,

Who once worked alongside,

The Easter Rabbit,

I helped him decide,

What to put in all the baskets,

I really tried,

But it did not suit me,

So I took a ride.

 

I hopped a train,

And got off,

At its tenth stop,

Where I ran into a cop,

Holding up a blue umbrella,

‘Cuz it was pouring down rain.

 

Being a chick,

From a Fairyland,

I could read,

So I found a sign,

Telling me I was in the Big Apple,

How divine!

 

I took up a residence,

In Central Park,

Where I made friends with a frog,

Who hangs out,

With a loud crowd,

We sometimes like to trip,

People out for a jog,

Or startle a dog,

And make him bark.

 

One night while out,

On the town,

I got an idea,

Out of the blue,

And on each chicken leg,

I got a tattoo,

One is a lion,

The other is a lamb,

Man I’m loving the city,

And my legs so pretty!

 

I became very fond,

Of the hustle and bustle,

And the worldly ways,

But I still kept Easter,

In my heart of hearts,

Though I made room too,

For other things to have a part.

 

I eventually built up my place,

Into a regular chicken mansion,

That was very handsome,

Full of furniture and such,

Of the latest fashions.

 

Now I realized I had,

Too much time on my hands,

So I took a job,

At a hotdog stand,

Where I heard lots of music,

And got interested,

In joining a band.

 

So my frog friend,

And the rest of our circle,

Got ourselves up our own band,

We played Christmas music,

And our frontman was a turtle,

Oh how this would make,

Those Easterland Creatures lose it!

 

The years flew by,

Full of fun and fortune,

’til by and by,

I was feeling my age,

And decided to,

Live life with more caution.

 

That was so many years ago now,

A quarter – century,

To be exact,

That time stuffing baskets,

Is just a distant memory,

Now I work in a factory,

Machining parts for weaponry.

 

I still go back for Easter,

If I didn’t,

Dear old Mr. Rabbit,

Would have my keister,

I can now appreciate these weeks,

I spend there,

We have a great parade,

Before delivering all the baskets,

Then come home to a smashing party,

And spend hours eating,

And dancing to delightful beats.

 

But fun as it is,

I’m satisfied,

That I spread my wings,

I’ll never regret,

Doing my own things,

I’m always happiest when I’m again,

At my own dreamy den.