The Walking Dead


In this bleak limpet on a blown volcanos lip

there have been those whose shoulders wore a chip,

in past times they have scratched the itch

and in sour verse they had a bitch

and rightly so because it’s required

or else this village makes you tired.

So in respect to those who fought

the fight of warring schemes of thought

I will add a few brief lines

and try to keep it mostly kind.

There is a certain style of bloke

whose inner light is probably broke,

a flat screen holds his eyes on stalks

and he blathers on with grog fueled talk.

He has a team and lurks in a crowd

and sometimes is a bit too loud –

Whaddaya eh? You’re living in Pig Island State

where boys are boys, and mates will be mates.

Yet if his style gives you the creeps

he’ll get a free pass from his peeps

What did she expect from this red blooded stag?

He’s not some mincing PC fag –

It was HER fault, the dirty wench,

so leave our fella on the bench

to sleep off his inner reptile brain

for this basic model feels no shame.

He leads a rather dim lit life

filled with noise and cash and strife,

he listens to the FM buffoons

and cranks up all their shitty tunes

He loves the crook for whom he labours

and thinks his pay check is a favour,

he struts the town tanked up on piss

but finds it hard to land a kiss.

Takes pride in things he doesn’t know,

and swims the way the river flows.

If you feed him pies and games

occasionally some rock star gone lame

he’s happy as a little boy

with a row of matchbox toys.

Votes with the boss and quick to sneer

at greenies, pinkos, blacks and queers

this rugged dude may look self reliant

but everyday is most compliant.

His taste runs to things that make a bang

and drop things dead or go kerrang.

He has some shades and a smartphone,

lives on a card that gives him loans –

he thinks he’s on the winning side

and may think this until he has died,

playing a part that he was handed

with half a brain stamped and branded

he’ll roar with glee about tits and bums

that magnify his cred with chums.

And if some nights he’s so scared he cries

this is something he must hide

from others of his matey clique

because feeling is for weepy chicks.

I’m almost feeling sorry for

this hefty hairy snoring bore,

a real Kiwi through and through

swearing in a McDs queue.

And yet we all share this commonwealth

of moral swamps and rude ill health.

We have to stick it out and to him say,

we don’t like the way you play –

it’s your backward ways we query

because you make things f*****g dreary.





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