Trixie's Funny Orc Poem by Timmy Curran

Not so much to slow the mold,
and the harmonica is slowly told,
to play to part of stars of old,
humming and strumming to ears so deaf

And where are you, all of the blue?
So quick to harmonize so true,
about injustices in your shortly nightly view,
Just rubbing your shining clefts

You're letting old Trixie have his way,
I see your resolve dissolve away,
Is it fatigue or just dismay?
Your sturdy lungs victims of theft

Well me, I'm not a bore
I take a little water with alcohol,
Yet my courage is my resolve,
And I succumb to every breath

There ain't nothing truly new,
about what the sky has within its view,
you're all so smart, i thought you knew,
That a white grip, is gripped for death

The lonely agents that we saw,
crashing into stores and bars,
hiding crosses within their stars,
growing stronger while you all rest

A flummoxing kind of deal,
the old way the old tend to rob and steal,
their senility has a way, a certain feel,
of an Orwellian, Huxleyish complex

When he looked up to the blue,
concentrated on its certain hue,
got bored with nothing to do,
thought, 'for our lives, it's for the best'

Certainly his pint sized little orc,
who never laughs at certain jokes,
smiled as he handed a silver fork,
to Ole Trixie to sign away those dreaming gents

Where are those waves of voices,
that carry harder types of choices,
to have their comfort null and voided,
for something right, to represent

I'll tell you what a poor man sees,
across vast lands and higher seas,
the word that comes to mind is 'lazy'
you don't show holes, nor make a dent

Those dents that lead to cracks,
that crawl across the tracks,
that yellow, brown and black built with their backs,
pay for your groceries and the rent

Suppose there's not a care,
turn on, tune out and stare,
make your due and pay the fare,
your blind eyes are just consent