Don't Ask, in A Minor
“What’s wrong, my dear?”
“It’s nothing”, comes the chill of her reply.
“You seem quite tense…”
My mouth is suddenly quite dry.
“Are you sure?”
“Just leave it!”, as confusion settles in.
I think that I’ll inform my next of kin.
“There’s something up..!”
The silence clatters through the air.
“Is it me?”
…I get the power of her glare.
“Did I not flush,
Or leave the loo seat open far too wide?
Is there some hair?
…is there a pube upon the side?”
“Perhaps I snored?
Is that it, did I keep you from your sleep?
You’re looking tired..
I’m digging oh so very deep
“Look, tell me now,
Was it something that I may have done?”
I wait a while,
She’s pulling out a bloody gun!
“Please, darling dear,
I beg of you, before you shoot me dead;
Just let me know
…Or was it something that I said?”
She stares at me
And casts me down upon the fires of Hell
And as I die,
And breathes, “I think you know quite well!”
Baldness is a mark of men
With high testosterone.
A symbol that his hormones rage;
The science is well-known.
Baldness is a sign that he
Is confident and proud
To walk the streets without a care
With all that he’s allowed.
Shiny like a billiard ball,
All glistening in the sun.
Blinding those who dare to mock
This potent, hair-free gun.
Baldness is a funny thing
That children find quite weird.
Especially when underlined
With compensating beard.
“Fuck me, his head’s upside down!”
They sometimes shout at me.
But proudly I ignore their chants
And hide behind a tree.
“Quick, the freak is running off”
I hear them shout as one.
But I’m not scared, I’m alpha-male;
I piss myself and run.
The wind flows through my tousled mane
(The one upon my back).
Remaining hair grows everywhere,
From nose down to my sack.
They finally catch up with me
And beat me ’til I cry.
That’s hormones running wild and free
And spilling out my eyes.
Aggression spills from every pore,
I’m leaking liquid strength.
“He pissed himself again” and so,
I keep the boys at length.
So bald man stands, his head held high
And flees the lads of eight.
Machismo saved, he says that they’re
Just jealous of his pate.
Baldness is a sign that from
The virile beasts I come
And if you take the piss then I
Shall run and tell my mum.
I have a little issue;
My words come filter-free.
What I think is what you hear;
No tact or subtlety.
A bull attempting dressage
Whilst shopping for some plates.
Smashing fragile porcelain
At monumental rates.
I have my many haters
(Perhaps those more uptight).
Ones that don fake angel wings
And halos spun with spite.
As in most elections,
The truth must take backseat.
Politics go hand in hand
With lies and plain deceit.
If I do not like you,
If I don’t agree,
If I think you’ve done it wrong
Why forge dishonesty?
What you see is what you get
I’m quite the open book.
You may not like the tale, but Hell,
It needs no second look.
The face you see me always wear
Is brash but it is true.
I’ll leave that up to you.
Diplomacy’s a twisting tool
To calm when sides confront.
But, sadly it’s a skill I lack
And hence, I’m such a cunt.
There’s no one more whom I revile than Mr Donald Trump;
A dick engorged by nullity, the US penis pump;
Redneck fear of difference gives voice to witless scum
And arms the crazy bigots with their bibles and their guns.
In Europe, yeah, we’ve got our bigots and our National Front
And Hitler was a naughty boy - let’s face it, quite a cunt.
But Trump’s appeal is something strange, a boorish fucking clown;
I stand bemused that anyone would want him to be crowned.
Perhaps they want the crown to cover up his nylon rug?
Perhaps they want him on the stage to stand near sparking plugs?
Perhaps they cry for Donald Trump because they hate mankind?
Perhaps it’s just a case of them not being sound of mind?
All I know is danger lurks when fuck-wits follow fools;
When dumb-ass zealots put their faith in monumental tools.
“Let’s banish Muslims, Mexicans and maybe menstrual rage!
Reporter’s disabilities? Let’s mock that shit on stage!”
Donald Trump, you’re nothing more than pond life with some cash;
Irritating but less welcome than a sexual rash.
USA, you’ve let us down. O say can you not see?
We used to think of Franklin D and now it’s Donald T.
O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain;
America pull up your pants and douse that Trump piss-stain.