poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2007


Here I sit
Thoughts I spit
Loaded with tension
With humor and wit

It's just a bit
Odd and ironic
A mash of societies
Quite lies mixed with tonic

Makes you sick
Makes you vomit
The sounds play symphonic
Around town it's all chronic

Is there a problem here?
No fear - I'm on it!
Don't run away
Just take aim and fly off the runway

Downtown, at sundown.
Until your skin is tanned golden brown.
I'll see you, around . . .

I sit on my throne with my suburban bowl of burbon
Clad in my verbal crown. You heard them.
Get down.