drums on a saturday

a host of vultures on the thermals glide
seeking dead bodies on the living rock
nature provides but few places to hide

from peak to lowland we won't make the slide
a tree or bush our downward path will block
a host of vultures on the thermals glide

reality is what we can't elide
the living on the gravestones have to knock
nature provides but few places to hide

upon the highroad those on muleback ride
driving before them thirsty herd or flock
a host of vultures on the thermals glide

in this odd place we cannot long abide
we've barely got the time just to take stock
nature provides but few places to hide

the roads we walk on have no room for pride
we're governed by the calendar and clock
a host of vultures on the thermals glide
nature provides but few places to hide

Trolls' guide to the Internet

 The Internet, I find, is not so big
that I cannot poison the parish pump,
upon my kind hosts' best intentions jump
and on their bare heads dance a merry jig.
Here I can come clad both in mask and wig
and drop my anger in a single lump,
in the most public space just take a dump
and then complain when I am called a pig.
It seems the way to exorcise our ghosts
is just to shout that life is never fair
to those of us who lack honour and shame.
You feel much better annoying your hosts,
letting your flatulence pollute the air,
and that way others will think of your name.
The whole thing's nothing but a childish game
of shouts and shadows, loud and anxious boasts,
but nothing matters since my anger's bare.
I'm not the guilty one. I'll take no blame
for what I've written in my silly posts.
You cannot shut me up. You would not dare.
And so one boring life is given worth,
while others wonder at the monstrous birth.