Alan Bruce Thompson
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Alan Bruce Thompson Poems
Free Market Economy
The world began with me, there was nothing before, History what's that? Your past is a bore. What's there is here, was simply not there,
It's a bit rusty at the edge, falling apart at the seams, Its times are past, its hopes, its dreams. From inside our glass house, its easy to scorn the past,
Missing Your Voice
I hear your voice sometimes now, It's in the wind when it blows right through. I hear your voice daily now, There's no mistaking that sound quite true.
If you look another person in the eyes and they look away, Then your soul is free to look another day. Don’t look a dog in his eyes, because you’ll never be free,
Is it possible with just words too conjure up a smell, Do the words ‘burning flesh” remind you of Hell? And the mere mention of the breath of a lady’s perfume,
She stood there pouting, adopting a film star pose, As her curvaceous virile body, pushed shape into her clothes. She perched on her stiletto heels, threw back her blond hair,
Speaking Some Truth
Diplomacy I know is something I should find, Because people don’t like it when I simply speak my mind. I find it quite dishonest not to speak the truth,
I can get what I want if I stamp my feet, If I make enough noise, I get what I want to eat, Exactly what I want, very colourful, very sweet.
She looks into the mirror with a loving stare, Wallowing in her beauty, adoring with care. She turns herself around in her selfie affair,
Granada Mi Amor
In the time of the almighty Moors Granada had open windows, open doors. Together were the crescents, stars and crosses,
Deep beneath the surface of the sea, Away from the tides and the winds from lea. The mighty kraken floated as if lighter than air, Their tentacles swirling like octopi without a care.
The Coming Of Summer
After the rain, the street smells clean, Fresh and washed, ready to dream. The summer’s coming, the snow is gone,
Autumn Means Winter
It's the time of year when the sun begins to turn down, The leaves start turning, they fall then they're blown. Each day is shorter, each night a little long, Quite soon at midnight we'll hear the midday bird song.
Chain Of Lies
I told an untruth, a little white lie, Now it’s blown out of proportion, a mountain high. The first lie was really nothing, just avoiding the question,
Comments about Alan Bruce Thompson
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Free Market Economy
The world began with me, there was nothing before,
History what's that? Your past is a bore.
What's there is here, was simply not there,
Whether it took millennia to develop, I simply don't care.
It's all for me to steal, to take, to sell,
If you object, you will be sent to hell.
The oil, the water and even the air,
Is for me to consume and to make profit my share.
Who cares if it's all gone when I am old,
There's is nothing left, it's all been sold.
There was nothing before me, an empty world,
It was mine to abuse, and I have the ...