Michael Gale Poems

India, New York City, Oklahoma City, London-Where does it stop? ...
All have died, civilians, Government officials, firemen and many a cop.

Who are these terroristic vermin? ...
...

Stranger in the wind...
Beckons at my door.

Stanger in the wind...
...

Fi, fi, fo, klan...
This is th' one-th' beastly man.

A'for i hate th' color of he...
...

I'll keep on smoking, till my choking day of death...
I'll keep on puffing, untill, i'm out of breathe.

It must be those chemicals and that tar...
...

(This poem was only meant as a reminder that there might be ignored husbands out there playing second best to the
wife's spoiled pooch.)
...

Fat, is where it is at.

Flab, is fab.
...

Can you imagine what would be, if Batman was fat? ...
He would be called Fatman.

What would happen, if Robin became Anorexic? ...
...

My stomach gnaws at me...
Like my guilt.

I, now am like a flower, unwatered
...

One last poem...
Into the fire of the infernal pyre.

I choke-on consuming grief...
...

Th' glass was half empty...
As empty as his hair...
Do i dare say, that not i care?
The all surrounding hooplah creates all tempting...As i myself am self exzempting.
...