He who dies with most the toys is, nonetheless, still dead.

POETRY

You may find my poems

Druids




Druids

You get on my tits

With your standing stones

Your sacred bones

Pendragon clones

Daft dream catchers

Hairy thatches

Animistic

Polytheistic allegories

Penchant for cloaks

And ancient oaks

Doing your rounds

On your burial mounds

Are you having a laugh

With your willow staff

Your Herbal teas and remedies

Celtic crosses

Fucking tossers

Ashes To Ashes




We could drive a bus

Through a Pinter pause

If we ever felt the need

You could sit there

Calmly counting

One

Two

Three