I’d rather be the bum that shits out all the scum: A poem 

I don’t know if I prefer my tomatoes 

red or green; do they come in any other colour? 

I dice them and then I toss them in 

after the onions go golden. I am left alone 

to be my own gourmet and my own chef 

But I am aware that the world gets a taste 

of the brew and the broth in my pot 

I swear I don’t take anyone’s recipe or advice;  

call it my vice. But suffice to say 

the cacaphony of my choice may end up 

in clarity of the processes in production 

You may presume my masterpiece is an accident  

or madness! I just feel enraged to be an  

enemy of myself. But alas! How self-defeatist is honesty! 

How can I be held liable if I lie, though I’d rather avoid 

the rancour by simply shutting the trap door! 

There is so much deep seeking investigative work  

undertaken and so much manipulation conducted against me 

that I even leave wisdom to conjecture! 

So, you can’t tell if I befriend an enemy and 

subvert my army. I just happen to be reckless 

in the patience of the ambience that is permeated  

by treachery; and there is so much estrangement due to  

that treachery that I feel careless to believe loyalties  

will sort themselves out in the eventualities. I just feel I want  

to be dedicated to being the bum… that shits out all the scum!