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Vamoose.

Scram.

Make hast,

what a disgrace about the place.

Disgusting filthy beasts,

make hast.

 

I am taking a hit in my wallet.

Bankruptcy.

Foreclosures.

Disgrace.

More of the same

with the same shit,

but nothing to gain.

Get lost,

just please get lost.

 

Stop harassing my customers

with your existence.

You smelly

dirty

man-things.

Stumbling.

Staggering.

Propped up on a pair of welfare stilts.

 

Trash.

Fallen leaves.

Debris.

Rejects.

Washing down the social gutter,

cleaning the stench and

community refuse.

Typical bums,

diminishing my good service.

 

Excuse me please,

Tax payers have to work.

Your very essence,

disturbs my purse.

Now please leave,

you unsightly vagabonds.

 

You vagrants.

Leave.

Depart.

Your are stealing my client space.

Your presence.

Your aura.

Your continence.

Your very revolting self,

is chasseing my best customers

out of my place.

Please leave.

Just leave!

 

Hold on with your ignorant self

you fail to recognize,

Sir!

We are your forgotten prized customers.

Oh,

the shame!

The shameful shame.

 

It is you who look around us,

through us,

pass us,

beyond us,

and down upon us,

while failing to see familiar faces

in ancient relationships.

 

Can you not recognize your kins?

Though our usually faces lies behind,

grime,

and slime,

with hairstyles undefined.

 

Maybe,

your are looking through dirty lenses.

Clean your cornea,

if you please.

 

But,

We have the same heart,

the same soul,

if you look deep enough?

Did you really know us?

 

Perhaps it is because

we forgot to dawn the usually armour,

clad in Queen Elizabeth’s green back.

Brandishing John A. Macdonald’s

purple shield.

Wielding William Line Mackenzie King’s

red sword,

to cut straight to the chase.

Shrouded by Wilfred Laurier

blue robe to keep out the cold.

While flying upon high,

Robert Borden’s

brown conquistador flag.

 

Remember.

Recall.

Listen to my monologue.

We use to be “...pretty boys;”

Men with pretty haircuts with nips and tucks.

Sculptures of professional artist,

parlaying their products.

advertising wares,

snips and snipping of there fountain of youth,

rolled tight in plastic wraps.

 

Ah,

the shining two tone lizard shoes,

and designer Armani’s suits,

bought at Boutiques on a Sunday afternoon.

 

The silken,

not satin Calvin Cline’s underpants,

keeping the twins warm and tight.

I sure do miss them.

 

I remember our long graceful strides

down the boardwalk,

as though the streets were paved with gold.

We once owned the curb.

 

Just showing off,

pretending we are “all that,”

flashing bling blings,

of five finger diamond rings,

and a wrist advertised signature for success,

Swiss platinum precision instrument.

 

The good times are now gone.

The clock has struck 12:00.

Cinderella,

it is time to leave the ball,

for the pipe piper is here to collect.

 

I bid thee adieu,

My old friend.

But before I leave,

pour me a double-double to go,

please,

for the cold dark road.

 

 

 

 

 

Leegal Poet

Wayne Ferron

Wayne Ferron.All rights reserved @ Copyright