He can be any age, he can be any race, he can be any colour, and he can probably be, your brother.
He’s not bad just completely mad, he can kill or maim himself, or others, this very stupid brother.
His car, or bike can be very large, or small, have all the bells and whistles, or not at all.
He’s in the park, in the dark, or quite possibly in your street, making the heat.
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When the wheels spin he is in his element, the engine shrieks he is off leaving dense, throat choking white smoke, what a joke.
But the jokes on you, my brother, when someone’s dead, you won’t be able to get it out of your head.
By then it will be too late, so wait, and think about what you’re doing, so Mum can get some sleep.
Sunday morning is my time, I make myself a croissant, crispy and hot to dunk in my coffee; bliss. I sit in my favourite chair by the open window; a breeze will waft in and sometimes I can smell the sea. I have my book and I can sit there reading and listening to the Magpies warble and sing in the trees across the road for ages. Sometimes I just sit and think. It is so calming and a great way to end the weekend. This last Sunday was suddenly shattered by a car, it screamed down the street, stopping three times and each time the driver restarted, spinning the wheels and generally making an absolute nitwit of himself.
It shattered a beaut, sunny, quiet morning and it got me thinking of “Hooning,” as it is known, what do you think of it? Do you have these nitwits in your street or suburb?