Paparazzi

I am tired of the paparazzi
infesting my neighborhood,
like leeches and vampires,
they're out to suck the blood,
from skid row denizens
who've done nothing wrong,
these paparazzi dressed in blue
sometimes fifty strong
have been issued gestapo license
to intimidate and demean,
it's time we come together
and confront this harsh regime.

Everywhere I look and turn,
they're gawking in my face,
undercover Klansman
strategically in place
on the streets of skid row
to sprout their racist seeds ,
basturds of a brotherhood
doing dirty deeds.
They swagger up and down the streets,
armed with club and gun,
their victims are the powerless,
and by some rule of thumb,
they think they are laws Elite
dealing with gutter scum.

I, for one have witnessed,
this paparazzi crew,
violate the civil and human rights
of a defenseless few
for merely shaking hands
or assembling with a friend
to exchange a pleasantry
or to some other end.

This paparazzi in blue attire
with unchecked authority
force people to the curb and wall
and taz their dignity.
I'm tired of the paparazzi ,
tracking where ever I go,
dogging my every move
because I'm on skid row.
I'm a law-abiding citizen,
and deserving of respect
instead of being mistreated
like a societal reject.
It's time we come together;
end this nightmarish dream,
raise our voice in protest
against this foul regime,
stand up and fight for freedom,
end the quasi-occupation,
and let the powers know
skid row's not the new plantation;
let this paparazzi bunch
know they're pinching our last nerve,
with unconstitutional arrest,
when their job is to protect and serve.

Margarida Yurico

Now, Margarida Yurico,
Inwardly, outwardly,
Never again to chase abstract shadows
Of Life's illusive shadows -
We friends and kin
Are deeply saddened
By your sudden premature departure,
Yet awed and keenly captured
In the ken that you remain
A total presence,
An entity merged in synchronized
Rhythms embellishing celestial choirs.

Now, Margarida Yurico,
Your melodious voice
Cuddles snugly in comforting nuances
Of gentle, playful winds -
Vibrantly alive, your Spirit
Integrates universally
With sun rays and moonbeams.

Your eyes once curtailed
By definable limits
Are become luminous lights
Penetrating boundless space and time ...
Now, Margarida Yurico,
This is your supreme hour
To laugh and dance again,
Sing and play in the welcoming forest
Of immortality...

Watch over us,
Intercede on our behalf
With God and saints
Until that day we reunite.

Who Killed Michael Jackson

Who or what killed Michael Jackson,
Tell me what the reasons are,
The ticker tocked out of this superstar.
Whoever to fault won't get away;
be made accountable for that day.

All around the world people are asking,
Who or what killed Michael Jackson;
Somebody's got to shoulder the blame,
Something with a label otherwise a name.
Dropping dead at the age of fifty,
Seems kind of strange and not too spiffy.
A lot of finger pointing's going around,
Some professional people might go down.
All around the world people are asking,
Who or what killed Michael Jackson.
Was it diprivan, Morphine and oxycodin,
No way can we blame Osama Bin Laden.
Surely there's an answer for Michael Jackson's fall,
Will we ever know who knocked him Off The Wall.

Who or what killed Michael Jackson,
The FBI have moved into action,
They're gathering names and compiling a list,
They've talked to Michael's publicist,
Questioned the nutritionist,
Queried the cardiologist,
The anaesthetist, dermatologist,
The dentist and cosmetologist.
The feds are leaving no stone unturned,
There's a lesson here to be learned.
All around the world people are asking,
Who or what killed Michael Jackson.
Not me said his photographer,
Not me piped in the biographer,
Wasn't me said his choreographer,
Similar denials from producers and promoters,
Financial advisors and managers.

It's not as simple as ABC,
Do, re, mi, or one, two, three;
As time passes by things will become clearer,
Maybe he was killed by The Man in the Mirror.
And the Smooth Criminal is a suspect,
And with guarded caution and due respect,
Dirty Diana and Billie Jean,
have got to prove their hands are clean..
Some people say he died a long time ago,
Due to paparazzi and the Media Row;
Accused of being a serial pedophile,
Who masqueraded Behind the Mask of a child.
Maybe it was that flawed Pepsi ad,
With the pyrotechnic display going bad,
Setting his hair and scalp on fire,
Like a burning funeral pyre.
Or did he die in the prime of his youth,
At the hands of a father who was crude and uncouth?
Or was it Bashir's two-faced documentary,
An exercise in journalistic treachery?

All around the world people are asking,
Who or what killed Michael Jackson.
The search for clues to ID the killer
Has the trappings of a whodunit thriller.

******************

Have we witnessed the passing of a man,
Who in actuality was Peter Pan!
Maybe with time the rumors will cease

I LOVE YOU MICHAEL JACKSON.....

REST IN PEACE BE UPON YOU.

Let's Do It

http://drewlesso.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=45&Itemid=43


I know a mellow fellow,
his name is Fiddle-Faddle,
He sometimes dibble-dabble
At monopoly and scrabble,
Nothing seems to bother him,
His 'tude is twiddle-twaddle.

He has a foxy lady,
Her name is Frizzle-Frazzle.
Everywhere she opts to go,
it's an instant razzle-dazzle,
when she walks down the streets,
her hips go wiggle-waggle ...

He's a cowboy, she a cowgirl,
upright square dancing,
Toe-tapping, two-stepping
spinning and prancing on the dance floor,
They're an artwork on the dance floor,
A terror on the dance floor,
let me tell you more,
I've got to tell you more.
They're the undisputed
Queen and king
of the bossa-nova
and the ding-a-ling,
let me tell you more,
they're an artwork on the dance floor.
They do the hoochie-koochie,
now and then they smoochie-moochie,
there hips go wiggle-waggle
as they do the boogie-woogie,
they're a terror on the dance floor:
taking on all comers,
confident and smug
as they do the hully-gully
and a raunchy jitterbug,
let me tell you more,
they wreck havoc on the dance floor.

He's pleasingly rotund,
She's enticingly trim,
they're masters of the huck-a-buck
and the funky chicken,
I've got to tell you more,
just a little bit more:
East coast, West coast,
Lindy hop and swing,
the pop-lock, robot,
Watusi and the wing,
they're an artwork on the dance floor,
having fun doing their thing.

hoodoo Man

http://drewlesso.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=40&Itemid=43

Now that we're together make yourself at home,
Let it be known I am the Hoodoo Man,
Reading stars, interpreting bones,
Tarot cards and the Ouija board,
I'm also the master of herbs, ribbon and root lore.
Have no fear, I'll put your mind at ease,
I refuse to hypnotize or tease you
with raw lies and alibis, I was born with a glint in my eyes
and the mask of truth over my face.

What Thoughts Are

Ever wonder where thoughts come from,
especially, weird, extraneous thoughts,
seemingly, without rhyme or reason;
harmful, destructive thoughts,
dark and challenging as Rorschach inkblots?

Ever wonder where thoughts retire,
when put to rest from baggaged memory,
never to resurface unless in life's fleeting passage
or a terrifying bump in the night?

Thoughts are phantasmagorical gossamers,
independent of synaptic impulses,
an immeasurable expanse of infinity,
residing in spatial adumbrations.

How To Recognize An Alien

Coming Soon: How To Recognize An Alien