Rich Pickings

There’s folk worse off than us, by far 

Worse off, worse off than us, by far 

Pass another drink across the bar 

There’s people worse off, by far

There’s people in dire straits they say 

Dire straits they say, dire straits they say 

I’ll sail my yacht across the bay 

There’s folk in trouble they say

There’s people with no food to eat 

No food to eat, no food to eat 

There are no food banks down our street 

There’s people with no food to eat

There’s folk who can’t afford their rent 

Can’t pay their rent, can’t pay their rent 

This mansion’s my main residence 

There’s people who can’t pay rent

There’s kids who have no shoes to wear 

No shoes to wear, no shoes to wear 

My Rolex watch shows wear and tear 

There’s no shoes for their kids to wear

There’s poverty in the neighbourhood 

And poverty ain’t particularly good 

It’s not good press and it sours the mood 

There’s poor folk in the neighbourhood 

Yes, there’s poverty in the neighbourhood

Steve Wheeler © 24 January, 2022

Photo by Steve Wheeler

Yasmina

I just recorded a reading of one of my new poems for YouTube. Yasmina is about the friendship between a young Syrian boy and a his little friend - a farmyard hen. The poem is taken from my new collection of short stories and poems titled Small Lights Burning. You can check it out and purchase a copy on either Kindle or in paperback via Amazon. 

All that's rotten in this world

fat cats and plutocrats 

industrialists and autocrats 

billionaires and bureaucrats 

always on the take

racists and conspiracists 

terrorists and narcissists 

fascists, white supremacists 

never take a break

web hackers, corporate frackers 

rioters and truth attackers 

hijackers, anti-vaxxers

they don’t feel no shame

sociopathic conscience lackers 

psychopaths and people whackers 

drug abusing gun attackers 

we know who’s to blame

crooked politicians lying 

while there’s people out there dying 

line their pockets, not resigning 

lead a merry dance

sea polluters, oil spillers 

arms dealers, serial killers 

living in their luxury villas 

in the south of France

wall scaling stalkerazzi 

member of the paparazzi 

he’s a telephoto Nazi 

breaking every code 

broker playing kamikaze 

in his shiny Maserati 

texting mates while drinking latte 

menace on the road 

fanatic climate change deniers 

culture gods and false messiahs

reprobates and other liars

excuse me while I hurl

narcotics dealers and their users 

pornographers and cheating boozers 

bullies, thugs and child abusers 

all that’s rotten in this nasty screwed up world 

Steve Wheeler © 4 February, 2021

photo by Steve Wheeler

On top of the world

He had the world at his beck and call 

He had no problems or worries at all, 

with plenty of money and cash to spare

he lived like a goddamned billionaire

He drank like a fish and slept like a cat

with golden cushions wherever he sat

his stocks and shares were doing well

his other investments were giving it hell

his palatial mansion in the South of France

was host to many a song and dance

On the top of the world, he had no doubt

… and then his liver gave out

She was renowned for her glitz and glamour

wherever she went the press would clamour

Known as a high class debutante

seen in the very best restaurants

Her global travel and her movie deals

and a jet-set life gave her all the feels

A party girl drinking best champagne

living the high life again and again

She came from the humble working class

but soon accumulated a wealth of brass

She promised herself she would never go back 

… and then came the heart attack

Steve Wheeler © 28 January, 2021

image source

Try not to stare

At the end of the street where the three pathways meet who knows where your feet will travel? \ past the strip clubs and whores, drunken bullies and bores, just don’t stare as their stories unravel \ there’s perverts and nonces, and deviants and ponces who’d rival the vile Jimmy Savile \ there’s clip joints and boozers, and gamblers, and losers, and hustlers and waste-yer-time rabble \\ 

keep your eyes dead ahead, and your thoughts in your head as they paint the town red where you travel \ on bad concrete tracks, over potholes and cracks having sheer heart attacks in the gravel \ you could choke in the mud of this bad neighbourhood, you could drown in the blood of the battle \ no one would care, you’d be left lying there in a bright neon glare that will dazzle \ near the ill-repute clubs and the alcohol hubs and the noisy hubbub of the razzle \ there's no semblance of law, there’s no order at all, there’s no fall of a magistrate’s gavel \\ 

move along while you dare but please don’t stop and stare at the urban despair in the city \ make no contact with eyes, and disguise your surprise because most will despise any pity \ put aside your alarm and disarm with your charm or you’ll come to some harm in the city \ the district is seedy, but the people are needy, stay away from their greedy ferocity \\ 

Steve Wheeler © 16 January, 2021

image source