Immune To A Power Surge

Immune to a power surge
I sit alone & quietly type
Not affected by technology
Refuse to be your modern gripe

I switched off my terrestrial radio
But I’ll still pound at these keys
I’m not cool or a trendy guy
I’m reserved, doing as I please

There’s never been an audience
Just a few genuine folks
Sharing myself sparingly
I’m better with these slow strokes

I’ll continue to conjure ideas
Preferring to use my typewriter
Nothing fancy; just a love of words
Old, but I can still pull an all nighter

SkyFall

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It’s not a crime to be pretty
Wearing rented dresses, searching for a breadwinner
Socialites & other plastic people
No redeeming qualities, but she wants to be thinner
Her vagina will accept almost anything
Whether it be dollars, pounds, marks or kroner
A consummate professional at all times
She expects to be well paid for every geriatric boner
You don’t look gift whores in the mouth
Searching for a sugar daddy, anyone will do
Sitting in the bullpen, hoping to get promoted
Waiting to pluck her next victim, how many already gone through
That swath leaving nothing to the imagination
Offended when the whispers mention a gold digger
Everyone can spy those silicone scars
Next time she’ll go a couple of cups bigger
Sucking more than the marrow out of life
She’s trading her youth for money & security
But once tarnished, innocence forever besmirched
Time is constantly magnifying all your impurities
There are certain priorities in this life
A father must keep his daughters off the pole
But something much less discussed nowadays
What do you do once she grew without a soul
This scene is littered with heinous & fickle creatures
Cloaked, it slowly begins to scandalize & appall
Men with large billfolds & absolutely no shame
It’s the current failure of society & they call it Skyfall

 

 

 

*sorry, feeling quite caustic today