The Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website



Rusty Broadspear

Did they arrive in a meteor storm

One wild and primitive night?

Were the first ones delivered by parcel post?

Or an interstellar flight?

Whatever the case, we've all seen the face,

Bloated, purple, in pain.

Multi-coloured clothes on two wobbly legs,

In pairs, in groups, insane.

Taking over planet Earth

Infiltrating the Human Race,

We should organise a controlled cull

To put them in their place.

In the 'burbs or countryside,

Slick in smugness and sweat,

And if you ain't seen one with shades on his head,

Then you ain't seen nothin' yet.

Shellsuits, tracksuits all colours of the 'bow.

Stop one and ask What's the time?

He'll huff and blow, say I don't know,

He won't stop though and he's way past his prime.

When you see em close up they look knackered,

Like they've just crawled out of the grave,

Too late to send back where they came from,

Their persona is dead, too late to save.

I once knew a lady, overrun by this menace,

She took a gun to them only once in a while,

But she bagged the odd one then the rest were soon gone,

Then she would sit down in peace, with a smile.

Now, I've not mentioned the women of this peculiar race,

Whose boobs hang down to their knees,

With wrinkles of wrath all over their face.

Say Hello gorgeous, then watch everything freeze.

Early morning, midday or late in the evening

Spring, Summers, Autumns or Winters.

No getting rid of this dreaded disease

Of zombies, or joggers not sprinters!

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.