Dream a little dream of you

I’ve dreamed of us twice which is all very nice,
but I wonder if I’ve missed the point.
See there were some undead, commensurate dread,
and a leader I didn’t annoint.

We left two behind, the weak and the kind,
I’m not sure I cared, I confess.
The bloke who took charge, guns ever so large,
had stolen you under duress.

It’s hard to report on the one I purport
was the boss of all that was left,
as when I awoke with a moan and a croak,
I think I felt somewhat bereft.

Whenever I have a nightmare, it invariably involves zombies. They’re never really the antagonists, though.

All along the Clock tower

Farewell and goodnight ended my show tonight,
on the corner of west street and row.
Under the steeple, I beg from the people,
and slander them when they say no.

Some civvies stop to buy sweets from the shop,
so that’s when I go for the cash.
Some of them try to avoid meeting eyes,
but I need to replenish my stash.

The friends that I keep and the places I sleep,
are wherever they know my name.
I shed no tears when consuming my beers,
and wallowing in my own shame.

In the UK there’s a magazine sold by homeless people called The Big Issue. Towards the back, there used to be a poetry section. This is a pastiche of those. It was meant to be endearing…

The Autarch of the Glen

Here is that man of the undisclosed clan,
leading the charge of the brave.
All tartan’d and tanned with alcohol banned
he pulls at the ropes of his knave.

Once he’s outside puff-chested with pride,
he screams at the top of his voice.
‘AH SAY ONCE AGGEN, FER FREEDUM, MAH MEN,’
as if they are given the choice.

If Mel Gibson can make up gibbering bollocks about the Scots, so can I.