by Mark "Scrope Davies" Selcow
I’ve recently had privilege of taking flight
Across time and space, at great speed, with great mass
To see San Francisco and its ocean of city light
Whence I lifted myself off my hairy English ass
And I saw past the city’s sadness, filth and blight
Through my eyes flowed tears, through my rectum flowed gas with great sprite.
You with your Pilots, your cells phones, your e-mail and blackberries
All mystical objects clad with thousands of small buttons
Used to find people and meetings, sadly even people to marry;
I feared these tools as false beacons for gluttons
Would they bring joy and truth, or evil demons so scary?
Whence I was accosted: shut up you poet, you scarf-wearing stupid ass fairy.
I stumbled on Josh with his great shining dome
On a strange vehicle with wheels, chains, gears and tube
He bellowed out orders "clear the trash, wash your dish, clean our home!"
He wore tight, colored clothing, his hands darkened with oily lube,
Surrounded by minions who tolerated his endless stories, tales and tomes
Not a soul would tell him to "shut it!" or at least put it in a poem.
Near him was Chris, white-maned and spectacled, a creature so tall
Such a specimen I’d n’er seen, with enormous hands and feet
Yet when examined in his naturalness, revealed a manhood so small
He lured young females, prized dark busky maidens as treats
But when ready to pounce, his snake would announce – it’s time to do fuck all
Alas, poor creature, with your tiny feature, at least it won’t drag when you
crawl!
Further on in my journey to the future, there came Steve, a traveling bard
When beckoned to entertain, played tunes of discord and despair
Now from whence I come, such music stems from the devil and retards
I mused, I’ve heard sweeter melodies when passing effluvia from my derriere ;
Yet he was a man of great gift and talent, and of thoughts held in highest
regard
I had some small advice, a clever device, claim you play weddings on your
business card.
As did Rome, as did Greece, as did the Jacobins fall from grace
This decadent city will fall to dust, its demise as certain as Her Majesty’s
ass is broad:
Its people’s arrogance astounding, their hubris abounding, they just don’t know
their place!
I pined for my island, my England, my daily meal of fried cod,
And off I flew to the past, 'cross the Atlantic at last, leaving, pray God with
no trace
Yet I ponder tomorrow, with hope and not sorrow, since while there I bought
stock in Sybase.