The Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website

Baby Johnson

By

Rusty Broadspear

They call me 'Baby' Johnson

Yeah

I know I'm 26, 

But youngest of six.

Live on the outskirts of Paris.



This very moment

Sitting on the South bank of the Seine

Pondering the murky depths

Of my life.

Oh, yeah,

Very high highs back then,

Until I was hooked.

No - I mean really hooked

You know -

Like a fish.

Yanked upwards

To new skies and highs.

New world

Strange atmosphere

Unable to breathe

Writhing, floundering.

Then they slit me

Gutted me -

Oh yeah - I felt gutted alright.

Salted me

Then threw me into this chair

And said I was lucky.

Yeah

They still call me 'Baby' Johnson

Maybe for different reasons

Like

I can't walk

Can hardly talk

And I dribble a lot

I get pushed around

I sleep in a cot.

Oh yeah

I also lost my woman

She was in shock

Then delayed reaction

Slammed her backwards

Into a brick wall.

When she recovered

She denied the truth,

She didn't know me

She never knew me.

'Baby' Johnson

Is 26

And ready to sign off.

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.