Bus Stop Prophet

In Dwite’s desert there’s no oasis;
his wall of faces holds no aces.
‘You wanted a bloke with a six pack,
well it’s sloshing around in here somewhere baby,’
read his tattered second hand t-shirt.
Dwite’s greasy beard
looked like
a penicillin coated golf ball
glued to his chin.
Bewitching wisteria charmed him like diphtheria.

It was obviously a spy pod,
that purple crowned lorikeet flying south.
The young man trembled and he screamed,
waking never banished what he dreamed,
a frantic warning tumbled from his mouth.
‘Beyond this foggy schoolroom planet
there will be no hiding.
W
e’ll be garnish on the cockroach quiche
of homicidal swans.’

‘Come again’ I gazed at him perplexed.
We discussed murderous swans at length.
In exchange for an emu feather talisman
I give him my mental health services directory.

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