Spineless

I had a friend by the name of Tim
He was accustomed to people walking all over him,
Used to being a peasant by the throne,
He lamented the day that he grew a backbone.
Because his friends would now say
'Oi Tim! Make us some tea!'
And he'd now say
No.

And they were shocked!
And they were stunned!
They said now, now Tim,
You're no fun.
And they cast him out on his own,
And he lamented the day that he grew a backbone.

And so he came to me to ask for some advice,
And I said woah Tim, slow down,
Firstly go make me some rice,
And while he did this I came up with an idea real quick
An idea I was sure would do just the trick.
And he followed the plan
And now people walk all over him and don't realise all day
As right now he's lying down dressed head to toe in grey,
Pretending to be part of the pavement.

So if you walk down the street,
And you hear the odd 'Ow!'
Just remember that's Tim,
And he's happy now.

Batman and The Joker

The Joker lay on the floor, foiled again. Sprawled across another scene of narrowly-averted disaster, he seemed unusually numbed, his ever-present and scenario-independent sense of self-smugness and gratification appearing to have deserted him. Indeed there was no laugh this time as batman put the cuffs on, there was no manic cackling or threats of 'oh you wait and see Bat! This isn't over yet', instead just a sigh. A tired, tired sigh. A long sigh as well, the kind of sigh which says 'You know, I''ve just had enough of this all'. The sigh finally ended, and the Joker muttered 'You know, I've just had enough of this all', confirming any preconceptions regarding the meaning of the aforementioned sigh this narrator may have had.

So Long Honey

A vacuum moves through me,
It tingles inside wherever it goes,
It makes me feel anxious and empty,
It makes time move so slow.

I don't see the point of anything any more
Without you.
I don't want to go to the beach,
To the park, in the car,
Anywhere particularly far,
Anywhere close

I suppose I'm sorry I had to let you go.

You're sorry too, sure,
I can tell from the way you look and lure
Me with your perfectly maintained physique,
Arriving at all these parties ever so chique,
You then tart yourself round the coolest cliques,
Locking lips with a boy or two, or even a girl,
While you pretend not to,
Though I know you stare at me while doing so.

You are too sexy.
I am too drunk.

I take you in my hand
I take you outside
I light you on fire as you do me
I'd missed you
I breathe you in more deeply than I ever have wished to before
Unnerving satisfaction at every touch of our lips
And I sudden realise I'm finished,
A minute gone, it's the quickest we ever did this.

I stub you on the floor.

The deed done,
And with it, whatever passion there was
That would've had me want this
Instantly evapourated.

Lust leaves,
Clarity returns, carrying the bad times,
The physical abuse you gave me,
How you trapped me.
How I wanted out.

I look at your brown and withered end laying on the floor,
I decide this time to be the last.
But know it will be hard
With all the drink at all the parties I know
Both you and I intend
To attend.

Some Feminism

Women are on the front of every magazine. Magazines directed at men will have a woman on the front, as naturally a woman is the object of man's desires and so it will sell. Magazines directed at women will have a woman on the front also, as women want to be like that woman on the front and, in doing so, become an object of man's desire. In essence, our magazines - which only reflect out culture - are dominated by men's desires, where the only desire of the woman is to be something that a man wants. This is quite sad I think, women should be promoted to have more of their own, independent desires, so maybe there should be more magazines with like kitchen cleaners on the front or something.

Thomas

Thomas was unusually afraid of death. He'd lie in bed, kept up til early hours while his mind would endlessly play out processes of aging, decay and demise. His sleep became thinner, as did he, who gradually grew gaunt from exhaustion. He tired further and further, while in turn any barriers which existed separating his weary thoughts of the night and his more alert and relevant thoughts of the day began eroding, and it was not too long before he limped through his days in a half-lucid dream, crippled by this ever present fear.

Thomas was a man who snapped,
Life for him was too much
When death was attached,
And his fear of ceasing to exist
Lead him to fling himself off a cliff,
Sillily then causing
His existence to be ceased.

He realised the apparent irony in his final act, and couldn't help but chuckle to himself one last time, before his head and back cracked on the jagged rocks below.