it not for your snoring
it not for your nose picking
radiant moanful look
we go out,
call you mine.
it not for the screeds of make up
garrulous clothes you wear
minute of the day.
it not for your mother and her phone calls
the incessant ranting and raving
give her a kiss
to silence her.
it not for your continual missing
like birthdays and such
question your mental state
only if I married you.
it not for my stubbornness
life would better
it not for your indefensible temper
your knickers throwing rants
follow on behind picking
pieces of our lives up.
it not for me, you’d be helpless
then you knew better when
said for better or worse,
along for the ride.
Lay me Down to Die
me down, by waters edge
my toe in waters clear,
song of Tui forces a smile
and dash, moronic at heart.
me down in Hot Summer Sun
a nose flute for all to hear
flies buzz hither and yon
a bright ruddy red.
me down in my feather lined bed
a nana nap from nowhere
yellow and brown robins sing
a toe drum to keep the beat.
me down on my mother’s grave
near her on a roasting summery day
her heartbeat through the depths of dirt
that I can continue this way.
me down on a road so black
of nothing, the thought tasteful
whizzes by, the air hot and cold
me nearer the centerline for ease.
me down on an old mans bed
the time as it draws ever closer
medication not really working for me now,
outnumbered by hours, so to speak.
me down on pastures green
and sheep and a ruptured spleen
the seconds as all the birds fly,
last of wishes, peace, as I slowly die.
size of two cars
a mountain stream
Maori to use
size of a stroller
enough to stand still
enough to flow with flood
boys lift me
bridges and lakes
girls stack me
skimmed across river
used as eyes in sandcastles
by boys across river
fast running flow.
grain of Sand
beach so long
rut’s of car tyres,
in windblown eyes.
The Deck of Cards
war sped on
during a heavy lull
dead walked off
a belt buckle.
enemy close now
Kraut, wanna game”
Kiwi – how”
in a stash
title so subtle.
game’s fully done
middle of war
sweet fuck all.
The 12 Hour Timesheet
about to explode
over the page
over the fucken road
with a black witch
a grey child
our lips are pink
this old cunt
down Framby Avenue
been tormenting children
stop at his door begging for fun.
floats in jello
fucked her life badly
to rescue her daily
teasing old men suits her fine
leaves covered in snail trails
the fucking light shone black
he screwed her big time
life of a sailor hazardous
even a punch in the head
dawn drunken matelots
the netherworld women
green, yellow, red
onions to kill for
this island virgin
coral and sun,
like baby pigs
told me - in Tongan
thank you, and ran
valve on the old radio
station too sketchy
language so guttural
because we are alive,
the New House
on the streets
the turd they are,
have a life
lie on my back
the spreading Kowhai
wings it’s way in
at the flowers,
song of pure joy
into the ether
this year fine
nature singing “all’s well”
no kiss exists
softly, softly touch
only a screen exists
rings, voice soco voco
her caring touch
simply does not exist.
her webcam footage
a flick of hair
to bed at night
did she get under
to bed at night
dance with her one day.
Musings in F Flat major
to get a cup of coffee
The last two lines were painful
has come in
can that be)
pump my chest
tries to french kiss me
blue from nothing
I skip a beat
blood flows back
last two lines wildly evocative
to reach my hips
the blood flow
my head rings
starts pumping again
to kiss my saviours
they grab my hands
them to my side
them with dry mouth
where’s that cup of coffee?
a wild horse across a bleached sunset
clop of miles eaten for the sake of love
left barren from the latest westerly storm,
the encroaching dusk as my mood swings
run ahead chasing shattered dreams
chalice of potency within grasp, lessons to be learned,
fingers grip a taut rein, the turn hazardous,
whips up behind, the chasing pack miles behind,
have no chance of capturing Adonis again,
a storm to the north rifles it's icy tentacles south
the clutches of the Riders of Damacles, champing
hollering and the bit between the teeth, closing
on the prey, a winsome lassie leaps in his road
wolfhounds miss their mark, he swoops places her
on the back of Dragonlord, the pace heightens,
in the way of love, they change course, pulsating
southward, far from the clutches of the Parasites
the land of Darashand and the lady loves of Sheed.
all happened in the Land of Our Lord in 1128
Fairy Stories were invented to cheer and scare
children of lost tribes, on the zenith of the Dark Ages.
Sequestered in Silence
Round Room echoes
for little children
Square Room sings
Oval Room polished
made with jurisdiction.
Blue Room mellows
piano against the wall quiet.
Through the Looking Glass
glass like opaque eyes
farts sounding in unison
amongst the lilies
in search of life
though it is, longing
like Arnold Schwarzenegger
abuse to Governor.
from latent machinery
of crickets playing ball
inured to excess.
Resonance of sound
makes coffee, diligence tested
to darned socks, made
of sound, a whisper
lounge suite torn, withered
lost in the degree of context.
Red Lounge is brown today
Mountain Blue Coffee
long used to tragedy,
a Mobile Repairman’s van.
on a repaired coffee table
shape flattened for effect,
ladies of the Petal Society
with dabbing strokes
the need to drink fast.
Tables, Lounge Chairs
opening in a room
of distance necessary.
The Day I Emailed the President of the USA
it in my email inbox this morning
of a message from Palestine
sir, help us rebuild, we need houses
Israelis keep bulldozing our ones
building new Walls to signature autonomy”
with intent, felt for the pour soul, it goes on,
sister and her family have been dispossessed
dwelling demolished, their livelihood ruined
to stop this illegal possession, stop the rot
the Palestinian way of life, feeble as it may be”
President of the USA, found an email address,
it on for the sake of sanity and brevity
received a reply, though I see more aid going in,
the poor mans plea was met with a hint of reality
of amusement too maybe, knowing the US stance
affaire d’Israel, perhaps more cement for walls
one day, the CIA sent me an email, ‘we’re watching’
were they watching, me or the Palestinian
they want to engender paranoia, for both?
us scared for the final solution?
the Palestinian back, all is well
still the Wall lengthens, encroaches
the fight goes on in the Land of the Holy,
once peace stood in the name of the Saviour.
dust bullets for lunch
footfall behind me
a champion walker.
to slow her down
like the Energiser Bunny
yes, gained altitude
she was pissing herself.
after her, before
resembled a zeppelin,
time sped up, caught
ankle and pulled her stockings down
I was in the Main Street
old ladies nylons, a group of parcels
that wanted to be in the poem
seven Japanese Tourists
away with their cameras.
I felt embarrassed
as the Beetroot on my T Shirt
sounds of seven dogfighters
from battle over Iraq
leap to the ladies assistance
back down to earth with
that serve as a parachute.
as it began, a double decker bus
the errant oldie, dropped her off
Smellinggrasses Hair Salon
all her worldlies were returned
dog made another appearance
a passing Samurai Master, sword drawn.
ability to place all her goods in the right place
to move off at the same rate
all, even when she flicked the Bird
right in place, and totally out of place
the context of this rather silly poem.
An Armless Tree
off indeterminate age,
like white blood
sees what I perceive,
A day in the life of………..
not any old Bus. No. It’s a Japanese Import, runs on smelly diesel and choking the environment with it’s endless
emissions. I have to take this bus, against my better judgement, as it’s
the only means I have to my disposal to get into the University. I suck in a
truckload of fresh air as I board it, and for the rest of the journey I exhale slowly.
Bear in mind this trip takes twenty five minutes. Yup, Blue…..
colour of her top
too young for my eyes
watch with a keen eye
sees me looking at her
campus suddenly stops
Massey Bus from Palmerston North bus depot is a ‘clean’ bus. It uses
biofuel and the atmosphere around the exhaust pipe is relatively clear. No need
to suck in deep breaths for this one. I watch the road eat away behind us, the
river flow under as we navigate the bridge, the onset of park-like settings and tall buildings poking above them. We enter the slow moving road zone, the start of the University proper.
I admire one with a dark top……..
taste of sushi
on her lips,
tucks her folders
the other arm,
moves on to another class,
into a steady trot
class isn’t enough,
Sudanese Bus driver
by going the other way
attention to the road,
to another young cutie,
my head in,
at the Registry
is well, I fit in
a biker beard
Bulldog T shirt.
road back resembles the road there, but in reverse. I’m no longer espying
young ladies, tall trees, and dirty buses (for now). I’m concentrating
on the work at hand, the papers passed in for administering. I feel a whole lot
better (and not just because it’s another clean bus), the sights well passed and forgotten, the knowledge I won’t
have to face that everyday of the campus year. Extramurally for me all the way.
lady with the pram,
pram heavy, I smile
it for her
take it off the bus,
deed for the day,
sit and wait for my bus,
with an old Maori man
we have a lot in common,
bus arrives, stinking
the bus driver
sit back gasping
of evil fumes
the back windows,
at the Golf Course
the stinking bus away
in my face,
staff welcome me home, ask if I had a good day, I just smile and say “great thanks” and meander up to my room. You’d think after a seriously testing day the internet would behave itself. Nope, not a chance. I sit here writing
this as I can’t get access and when I do it’s slower than ten snails playing hopscotch. Wish me luck.
I made Marmalade
desires of the Church ladies
wanting my specialty
each other this
at apron strings
the first time
who shy away
party of the street
disappears down throats
from island rock,
like soporific statesmen
for the advent of danger,
heads ever watchful,
lookout for life’s mysteries,
worshippers the world over, cringe.
as heavy as seventy eight tons,
from rock with precision,
with unerring accuracy
harbouring many of the ilk,
looking inland in bemused contrasts.
grasslands, trees all gone
as rolling poles, then burnt
the shortage, the end of the Moai
other engineering tools to accomplish,
monoliths a measurement of time passing.
alone on a canvass of choice,
room depicting a Hermits cave,
worn chairs, a threadbare carpet,
signs family have forsaken him.
office bureau complete with computer
lifeline to a world passing him by,
aroma of sweet smelling tobacco smoke
cups of coffee sweating brown ooze.
he changes his sheets, sweat stained,
shoes spread around the unswept floor,
are smudges on the carpet where tears drop,
pain of loss too hard to bear for a once great man.
walls are littered with the remnants of his life,
photographs, self portraits, Tangaroa art,
table holds a malfunctioning alarm clock,
him that life just passes by on a daily basis.
Rock of Ages
algae a coat
flow of water
flies, fishing fodder
a huge size ten
to right the ship
a reason d’etre
side to a hot sun.
Opening the Item Box
today, cherie, mon ami, bonsoir
the lid to be near your scent
inside, a hosting newspaper wrap
CD’s of your choice, animated chocolate
on a box the size of a cats paw
gift, a web cam, so you shall see me,
today, another gift from far away,
written in finest fountain pen,
with Opium I think, I know not my smells
writing indicating you have time for such things,
an epistle to let me know you are well, on the mend,
your daily walks to the beach and swim
you new life, new hope, new resolve
yesterday, you are but a memory.
shat on my shoe and made me walk a mile down the main street in town with stinky feet and a growing brown patch. It escalated into a full blown fight with a parking meter, a bystanding Whiskey Barrel joined in, bashed
me around the head and got me punch drunk, as state I most definitely didn’t need.
killed with arrows
ruling classes of Bovver Boys
Eye Wart Cream
the flippin’ well deserve it.
of miracles, she (Dado) walked into St Stephens to hide from my rabid stare. She
thought I was stalking her. Sure she’s a fucken hottie, man best bit of
hot ass in town, and she gives me the time of day by avoiding me. I daren’t
walk into a church, she knows that, no not because I’m the AntiChrist reincarnated, more the fact I’m wary of
what the Almighty will do if I disgraced his company premises.
fuzz cruised past,
a gun in my face
position of power,
her the bird
jam a finger
arse and lick it
so as she knows
scared of the scum,
from her path
think about going
the Mile Road
Saturday, lost five days there, the last thing I remember is running into Scatty down the Mile, and being passed a P laced
joint. I have some vague recollection of a party, with evil drugs and booze and
more of each. For days on end I was literally freaking out. Oh yeah the red Mitsi across the road, what a mean fireworks that was.
Oh yeah, well all fucked off when the scum turned up, each running to our own directions and habitats. I now hide in the squat, shit everywhere, rats crawling around the room, biting anything that stinks of
I’m Erroneous Rat,
with this fucking sick
for a Human Being,
in serious need of help,
don’t get off the drugs
is a plea from King Rat
rope slipped easily over the banister, the noose ready for a plunge into insanity. The
voices in his head were all yammering, asking to be shut up. The drug induced
psychosis just prayed for play. He stood on the chair, the noose ready, no note,
no one cared, and with a swift kick, ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
was none, the rats found the rope too tempting.
The Rafter Series 1.
swung on by
Seven Mile gate
is a ripening,
ability to think
the time clock
footfalls in spring
in St Mary’s
daily with feet
stands minus penis
in olden times,
work of an Artiste
The Rafter Series 2
a steady path.
ever ready cell
around their butts
in a hat
the elderly fought back
old crone in the gingham dress
a rude young man
handbag and brolly,
of giggles, raises his arms
listening to Schubert,
before a Beethoven classic,
the dial will wonder
The Rock, beat sounds
late grip personifies.
Did you hear the News today?
the war is being won,
by I ask, what war?
have I missed
past five decades.
war was won too
Name escapes me now
have my anti Vietnam badge.
the streets of downtown Los Angeles
with graffiti and tags
sign some youth
fight for their neighbourhood
not their country.
the News today,
in Alabama choked
endearing Boa Constrictor
snake escaped and according to police
a dash for the Amazon jungle.
saw on the Nightly Wrap
scientist has discovered a gene
holds mentally ill families to account
from mother or father
medication a key, drugs or alcohol.
a minute listening to the radio
major car accident up north
reluctant to say how many.
many I here you ask is Iraq?
many is the graves of absolution.
afternoon I got caught by a newsflash
and Hillary both triumphing
return of the forgotten soldiers,
in Iraq a distinct possibility
an American or British army to target.
you hear on the News today,
carted off to prison for stating
and untruth, lies and deception
eyes shadowed by treason
assertions woolly and light.
The Ribbonwood Lane Reprise.
Ribbonwood Lane, the ladies did stray
children and buses on their way
cloudless sky joins the fray
days when love abounds.
Ribbonwood Lane the Jesuits do ply,
daily trade as cars whiz by,
set to live and die
when life resounds.
Ribbonwood Lane the cattle do chew
of chaff and Ribbonwood stew,
children just don’t know what to do,
when longing is bound.
Ribbonwood Lane the cars drive past,
longer the laughter the bigger the blast,
food at McDonalds exorbitantly fast,
when rogues are found.
Ribbonwood Lane the cycle of life
lonely vagabond causing strife
waves his cutting knife
when ladies are profound.
Ribbonwood Lane a painting is born
hunter puffs on his Hunting Horn,
lost children all forlorn
when babies compound.
Ribbonwood Lane the skies are Black
welcome sign says welcome back,
herding chains sag so slack,
when basketballs rebound.
Ribbonwood Lane the lights shine bright,
is the feeling deep in the night,
cars turn left, then right,
when night sounds.
in a mountain range
came to an impasse
days lost when climbers cry,
boats surpasses the end line
through like Dali to Art,
intonation elicits joy.
Double Bass beats the sound
laying on grass
each other in a daily fair.
a passage to the new boat landing
being held on the wharf,
mast of the boat swaying in the breeze,
Pass for the concert says stage left,
your passionate inclination
lay down and take in the music.
Why Don’t God Speak to Me
why don’t God talk to me?
I pray, and beseech him
I never hear him answer,
Daddy and you and I go to church
we sing and praise and pray
still God don’t wanna talk to me.
does God talk to you at all,
you’re a man of God, like Mummy
both have a good time glory hallelujah,
both have good lives, has God ever talked to you?
God, I’m praying to you still
no longer 8, now a stoic 17
you knew that, now didn’t you,
getting paranoid all the time
when you will answer
I’m worthy of your kingdom
a kingdom exists!!
Old Fella Up Top, I’m 49 now
I heard you when I went mad
a sad time to be the ambulance
well and truly at the bottom of the cliff.
A Mirror in a Window
flyer on the window says
into the Magic Mirror
things you’ve never seen”
congregate and wave
and shake in front of that window
images distorted in reflection
occasionally a clown will appear
his booty, smile woefully
the children would scream with laughter,
duck and dive, chase shadows
reflection now a rainbow
the young kid from the cantina
lonely watching nothing happening
his possibilities faltering in belief
other children shun him for his disability
a wooden replica, hopping along
other strong from years of practice,
he sees a wry smile form, tantalising
clown rubs his shoulders, gives him a pat
to the mirror, surprise, happy times,
ladies who are mothers stand back chatting
the by play and smile, mothers alike
won’t look in the Magic Mirror for fear,
of seeing a totally childlike reality
husbands are off to work or the pub
off their frustrations, their hardships
seeing what their children see, too busy,
on the way home past this magic store,
shadows flick the image maker, gone
the children are tucked up in bed
Google monsters silently asleep
of a clown and magic mirror
their journey into Lala land.
Hole in a Fine Wig
stole my hole, bereft I be
wholesale slaughter of epic proportions
loll neath the bole in my favourite tree.
draws coal in a fire hole
flames leap and dance
of hyperbole of the cakehole.
rigged my wig with fine hair
here and there, I don’t give a fig
myself, I take a swig of Twigs fine brew
is a fine Brig holding drunk sailors
think it’s big of them to be there
myself with the days distrust and swig again.
stole my fine line, a beauty to be sure
wine in the casket echoes my attire finery,
gentleman I be, that’s thine stance,
doubly difficult the tine on the fork says
dine on salad and tuna, sublime
refinery pumps out more juice for thirsty workers.
What’s wrong with being one hundred
a dram of whiskey a night
on my corn cob pipe,
tapping to Gene Pitney
bore on my stereogram
Chandallah Rest Home’s great
ladies hitting ninety plus
me in my motorized wheelchair
in old persons ways at catching,
come visit, now retired
Scrabble and Draughts
about their mother,
tears well up and dry eyes cry,
as party last week, one hundred
celebrated, though most in bed
the staff locked the doors,
alarm clock echoes past endeavours
asks me when I’m going
the truth, I can’t see death
foreseeable future is celebration
one hundred and ten.
another dram, raise my glass
salute to the love of my life
I meet her again wherever that may be,
hot liquid breaths new fire (and resolve)
Movement in E minor
to the wall
in E Minor
clock ticks by.
Hallelujah Choir entreats
the weather settle
dosage too high
rock and roll
sings through windows.
dollar measures wealth
Vietnam a distant reminder.
Taste of Bitterness
the Dark Tigress,
deep cut Sabre Tooth of old,
the size of Colossus
rainbows with a sharp wit.
the deep oceans
for the masses, extinction
a dead Whale on the surface
whim of nature, decay.
things, it’s my way
large lamp in the lounge
suspended from the ceiling
light shines up, scurrilously.
feather tendrils in an opaque sky,
feats matched by Jehoshaphat,
clowns on the Evermore Show
of David Lange at full flight.
of tea sour from curdled milk,
all participants with wet feet,
medalists reaching for gold falter,
winning of a heart so hard to do.
a lame Tigress smiles
that special cat smile, before pouncing,
ducks in the pond waddle for fare
they’re today’s menu.
The Resounding Success of one A.L.Literration
push past the lines end
as of Dickens best foray.
Chit and Chat, cousins
like Bob Hope
with rhyme and rhythm,
to be confused with Chitlins
arsed Babes on linoleum floors
goo goo to their mothers content
chastise and with chagrined looks
for the cover of the latest North and South,
verbiage for the middle men to discern
puzzle springing metaphors
swimming in cryptic lines.
they cried when the Newsreader got it wrong.
Harry Potter’s Cerebral Breakdown
not a poem about some goony kid
black magic and doomsday witches
a poem about the relationship between
three octogenarians on heat
five thirty something’s chasing tail
the story of Gertrude Gummerstance
her happenstance delivery of self
time clock on the factory wall counting
flies by in a poem about jack shit
a faithful rendition of Dickens and poorness
relativity generated by Einstein in a complete
of utter clarity, the theory that stunned,
Gertrude again to interject, to meddle
are want to do, old witch,
a tale of the Black Flamingo’s left hanging
painted pink to provide aftertaste
floor covered in brown detritus, black goo
stirring her marbles, marbling her stirs
grotty rendition of How Great Thou Art
out on an Old Age Home’s stereo, sound
a faithful facsimile of seven men in the Arctic
from reality, facing the truth of devil worship,
printed warnings on their sleeping bags missing
threat to their safety, if they’d only seen,
perhaps the octogenarians and Harry Potter
have hiked a ride to score reality, hopeful
day they all met on the Streets of London, Soho
a stark recording of miniscule endeavours alight
sky painted purple by dexterous ball point pens,
children staring out windows looking for Santa
Auld Bearded One stuck in a December Time Warp
proliferation of Reindeer shit on windscreens
out by the devil wind from the North, seasons
out for the aged and young to bury new ones
light of day surveying scenes of melancholy tales
a comprehension of the world as we know it, round
the cheerful faces of the thirty something’s
gaited for horseracing and the Deer Industry,
Gertrude for instance, she uses horsehair whips
daily S and M sessions, horse haired violin bows
Bach’s Symphony in E Flat, the music enticing
drawn to her house, to her parlour, to her self
measures, poisoning minds, bodies
remnants of youth wasted by her aging processes,
a shame, the end, I have run out of pages for a 10 liner.
The Rafter Series 3
Hallelujah Choir sings
in his deaf state
the night before
in confetti and roses
leaves by the back door
ladies ply their trade.
and pig his prey
child with access to guns
‘em up at school.
is spring here
leaves pop out
a mild winter
the cow chews on.
the lies flow
a drain that is society.
A 300 – 600 word Poetry Critique
into the nuts and bolts of the course
as the title says
a man who finds it difficult
50 words in a poem.
really dumb thing about it
to write it for an amateurs poem
frankly I find it difficult
a critique for a really bad poem
I don’t want to totally gut that persons words
I have to do it, tonight I will trawl
find that which I seek
be ruthlessly efficient
just gut it to pieces.
I am Lucifer and The Grim Reaper.
The Rafter Series 4
Cerebral Palsy girl
to call home.
on the High Veldt
the eons away
is a banana
to be peeled
not be leaking
the USS Arizona.
give me most pleasure
been four long years
I had a cuddle
on the cheek
to see them grow.
as a sheep in high spring
as the Eiffel Tower
as a Cheetah
as Katherine Hepburn
lover par excellence.
Life at the End of the Road
is a sign at the end of the road. It says “God’s Waiting Station
– Please Queue Here”. I can see the sign now, clear as mud, even
though I’m 49/62’s of the way down that road. Yes I have my life
mapped, I’ll happily shuffle off this planet aged 62 jam packed years. I
fear not the God part, but queuing displeases me, it’s a rather onerous task.
Jelly Beans counted
at party games
about yesterdays play
drinky poos with Beer
their wives dish food up.
scurries across the ceiling,
stuck in a hotel room
the rain relentless
monsoons bucketing down
flooding a pool so inviting
a sacrilege no one is out.
a pact with God once, if I should be considered worthy I’ll pass on the 62 years and go for 70 ish, just so I can see
children blossom, their lives mapped by happenstance and planning, their mother ripe and healthy at that age too, to see all
I need to see. The get out clause at 62 suggests I have options. Plus I still have a novel to write, and a few children’s stories to invent.
Rasmussen at number 42
the key to Life)
with Sandy from 18
games Doctors and Nurses
belief that one day they will
assuredly be Married
having babies of their own,
this at 9 years old, such revelations.
displaced children of Mumbai
tourists for a rupee or two
they find so hard to earn
country where outcastes
49/62nds down that road. I look back in wonder, how 49 years have slipped past. I’m eagerly awaiting 50, is that possible?
At my age I should be counting back. I did once, when I was manic, thought
I was 24 when in fact I was 42, yeah, dyslexia. Not to mention dysrhythmia! Today,
I melted in a bucket of snow and became a circumspect cluster of non reality.
Heavens Lovely Creatures
all around us
depictions of angels
devils in red wings
paintings of the great masters
when a child
size of a small dog
with Holy Water
some are not
(well a lot really)
their time with no images
from place to place
for monetary wealth
next four wheel drive
on Hopping Hill
for the next big paycheck
house full of gadgets
wealth over hope
lead lives in the gutter
a weather torn Bible
no way of reading it
scrape for pennies
from a waste bin outside Subways
lives unsullied by life
like little babes
at new understanding
many others chase the old
day of rest
we rest too?
sky and the sun
foot and the shoe
answer does be
and the tree
answer of course
wall and the door
answer for now
jitterbug and the jive
answer my friends
ball and the sticks
answer kind people
answer true friends
fence and the gate
Calvin and Klein
answer good buddies
us do it over again
answer dear comrades
The Rafter Series 5
as a nun
mind of a sailor
from a mouth
lost in love.
what is that word?
my mind likes the role play
kick a ball
watch from the safety
in the annuls
eye make up
the Jewish demagogue
pavement coated in sweat,
in the game of life.