Outrageous Rhymes
By Scott Norton
Copyright 2011 Scott Norton
Smashwords Edition
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Table of Contents
8. The Man Who Looked The Other Way
Part Three – Probably Shouldn’t Be Said
Part Four – Rhymes for Children Aged 3-99
13. Of All The Things I Could Ever See (A Seussian Rhyme)
They came from every corner, from the north amongst the palms,
They came from in the middle where the sands replace the farms.
There were some who came from coastal plains, where oceans grind the land.
Or way down deep within the ground below where most would stand.
They were coming for a meeting, a marsupial call to war,
And only native animals could help create their law.
The fences stringing through the land divided up their ground,
And growing mobs were left without the room to bound around.
So they sent along their leaders to represent each group,
A furry, feathered, native, marsupial, Aussie soup.
And they argued long and hard over every last complaint,
To try and find solutions, to please without constraint.
A furry little bunny bobbed along to join the crowd,
But the native Aussie true bloods with one voice shouted loud,
“You’re not an Aussie, ‘Hoppy’; you’re not a native here,
You don’t get to have a say, now kindly disappear.”
So the little furry bunny hipped and hopped off on his way,
And the full blood Aussie icons argued on throughout the day.
But those fences making patchwork of the famous sun burnt plains,
Couldn’t be prevented and acted just like chains.
The fat Koala up above decided he would sleep,
The possum with the curly tail he found a well lit street.
The emu standing proud on arms, was left to fade away,
And his mate the mighty kangaroo would also have his day.
The wombat and the bandicoot just hid behind the scrub,
While the dingo and the wallaby began to push and shove.
The magpie and the kookaburra laughed and took to air,
The fence below, not their concern, they didn’t really care.
Then the rest of those all proud true blue, slowly left the summit,
And for years ahead, like passing time, their numbers all would plummet.
The platypus was rare to find, the tiger gone forever,
That famous meeting, long ago, the last one all together.
And when koala bear awoke, from sleeping far above,
He found his own kind almost gone, along with those he loved.
So he called on burra’s laugh, to bring the arms to meet,
The kangaroo and emu came and argued at his feet.
They didn’t care about the health of true blue Aussie friends.
They only wanted to go back to distant southern trends.
The wise koala argued hard, “Those days are all long gone,
A new and different time has come and looking back is wrong.”
The arms that stand proud face to face weren’t ready to give in,
“Australia is what it is; to change would be a sin!”
The big red roo with thumping tail, bounded fast away,
His mind was set and wouldn’t change, as sunset found the day.
He bounded fast across the field to reach his loving mob,
But in dim light, vision fades and barbs his life did rob.
When old man emu heard the news that big red died that night,
It sent him into deepest thought, his instinct fight or flight.
He stood alone and watched the days that come and go with time,
He watched the quoll, the skink and bat and sensed the coming crime,
The potaroo and piping shrike, the kinkajou and rat,
He called upon the lyrebird to come and have a chat.
He asked and sat and listened clear, as lyre told him tales,
Of mobile phones and distant roars and funny facebook fails,
The emu with his feet so firm could see where they’d gone wrong,
Their foolishness to block and fear the growing foreign throng.
He walked and ran and travelled far to ask the hare to tell,
How had they used the wide brown land and always fared so well?
They came in late and weren’t true blue, but now thrive all the same,
While the native population was clearly on the wane.
“The fences”, Mr Bunny said, as he offered sage advice,
“You need to work together and never haggle over price.
We dig the centre post and the fence is on the ground,
And then we’re well away before the jackaroo comes ‘round.
Sometimes the very least will be, the very best to use,
So be careful what you say and do and watch who you abuse.
Rabbits and hares, who really cares, as long as we get through,
We’ve used the mice, once or twice, and they’re hardly on our crew.”
The emu learnt from what he’d heard; enough to change his ways,
He came back to the oldest bloods with an awful lot to say.
“It’s no-one’s fault, nor should we blame, what’s done is best we leave,
But not to open up our ranks will give us no reprieve.”
The big red roo, the next in line, he’d seen his father fall,
Was first to change his younger mind and first to heed the call.
He counseled friends and foes alike, some enemies for years,
To leap the greatest hurdle that included all their fears.
They’d be no less Australian, if the toad and hare took part,
They’d always be their true blue selves with a bright red centered heart.
But if the new could stand up strong whenever they were needed,
A nation’s shame would be their want if in good times they impeded.
Some anxious moments followed, true, not everyone agreed,
Some even left the meeting, but their sons all stayed to heed.
And when the forum ended, there was good will all around,
Even ringtail possum came from well inside the town.
They were going to sure their country up, this time they’d all be one,
They wouldn’t do it violently by using any gun.
They’d use the skills that each possessed and sweep across the land,
Nothing dared get in the way of a force once hand in hand.
The bunnies did what bunnies do and burrowed underground,
The magpie and the burra brought whatever could be found.
They laid it on the barbed wire fence, that now lay flat and low,
The land was theirs again to use, or just to come and go.
The lucky country kept its luck because it grew and changed,
And it’s still a lucky country with its droughts and flooding rains,
But it now has something extra that has come from far and wide,
And no longer just marsupials can swell with Aussie pride.
GAY MARRIAGE
The sanctity of marriage is the new topic de jour
Anyone can do it, doesn’t matter, rich or poor
It’s a sacred oath to God that shouldn’t be ignored
Unlike other oaths to God that make us kind of bored.
But don’t let those gay folk reach the altar
They wouldn’t know their fingers from their ring
They’d decorate the church in gaudy colours
And they’d all be booking Elton John to sing!
Marriage is a union, till death tears you apart,
Unless you’re young, you rushed a bit or needed a green card
The ring, the dress, the spot-lit vows, it’s all that we adore,
And I should know, the records show, I’ve done it twice before!
But don’t let those gay types reach the alter
It’s reserved for those who understand the vows
The church is not a toy, like a priest’s young altar boy,
It’s entirely there to join the Herr and Fraus.
HATE CRIMES
Delivered message not condoned,
As I was walking hand in hand,
On darkened street and else alone.
We jumped and looked as tires squealed
A beast to feel in terror taking flight,
It drove at night, sped away.
And then we walked alone,
Our hands still holding tight,
The darkened night was ours to own.
We said a word and labeled them a hoon,
Then passed it into memory soon.
Sad too little fuss, hardly a cuss,
It’s not the first bottle thrown.
This is part of who I am and what my life contains.
Why tell when others yell or comment under breath.
I hardly notice anymore as stares that last,
From those that pass, seem hardly worth my time.
And never tell of moments feared,
When two or more find me alone with he.
He who lisps a bit and glides,
He who laughs so loud and high,
He with hands that signal every word;
The man whose life my own is blurred.
I never tell when fear comes grim.
When I can’t act for fear of him.
How I just stand and cower long,
In hope he isn’t hurt,
In hope we stay alive.
So far so good, but why?
It’s not a happy thing to say,
I wish I’d gone the other way.
The sisters shake their fists at those that hide,
They yell of heads not held up high in pride.
But every time I see a friend,
Now at the middle of the weary drive,
A friend with son or daughter’s mirrored face,
With shared inflection sharing grace.
I see the moment’s love conveyed,
The child to parent and back the other way.
I see the soul that’s grown,
Asking urging begging to be shown.
I think of all the moments shared between the two.
Years of moments I can only rue.
And all those moments good and bad,
That I will never have or had.
And then the memory of that bottle thrown,
And I am standing once again alone,
Or staying clear from those who disagree.
But why am I a threat to anyone but me?
TWO I.C. MEN
Or at least thought he could,
So he ran; this Two I.C. man.
If he could, I’m sure he would.
He’d be in the know, C.E.O., with an income to flow,
A bonus, a package and a golden hand when let go.
He’d be of the elite, unknown on the street,
Like any you meet,
With a lifestyle of kings.
But those type say no to that place, no disgrace,
For the want of a face, unknown.
But the Two I.C. in his suit needs more.
For he doesn’t know of the second logo.
He wants to own a face well known,
Flown and bemoaned, by those set to dethrone.
So what does he need to heed such greed?
To forgo C.E.O of only thousands to stow.
He hasn’t the choice, like many in suits,
Not drilled for the office to settle disputes.
The degrees may be held, but the practical lacked,
So he’s now on a quest, provided he’s backed.
And that’s how they arrive, those who lead us so bright,
The two I.C. men, who could never take flight.
And they stand at the doors as you pass them your votes,
Promising all and spewing out quotes.
You never did know a more trodden on grave,
The democratic ideal, once dreamt of so brave.
For the hollow suits walk down the halls of the laws,
And they guide without knowing what’s behind the closed doors.
They never should lead, the two I.C. kind,
And usually do, from way back behind.
And why are these little men all we can choose?
The leaders we want are too smart to be bruised.
They don’t want their lives in a blind trust hiatus,
Or the prying eyes of a new public status.
It’s the system we’ve fostered,
The system above,
When comes a real leader do we greet him with love?
Or pick on his wife and find a drunk son,
We ignore his real talent and search for the gun.
Because a story is here in a man who won’t fight,
He came down to lead and he’ll do what is right.
The gutters no place for a leader to lurk,
So his arms remain holstered as he gets down to work.
But the public keep reading and they’re not growing near.
They don’t understand as the sheets generate fear.
He’s on the first carriage, as the two I.C’s cheer,
It’s back for their close-ups, another fine year.
For they made all their promises when we lined up to vote,
The odds they’ll be kept are not for the tote.
They’re two I.C. men; they were two I.C. boys,
And they’ll lead us as if we’re all two I.C. toys.
They’ll stay in their club, the house with no name,
Banding together in teams with no game.
They look like they’re playing, with pseudo respect,
Amplified speeches to heighten effect.
But the words are not theirs, for they’re two I.C. boys,
If they spoke their own phrases it would all be white noise.
These are the men who lead us to where?
And why do we follow? - Because we don’t really care.
One law in a thousand raises eyes, if at all,
But they keep their stamp moving and answer their call.
There’s no thrill in creating red tape everywhere,
That wraps and binds like the most humid air.
Let them stay where they sit, alone on their hill,
Two teams and a few, signing their will.
Look east and west, but no-where near them,
For we’ve all had enough of such two I.C. men.
THE CORPORATE WAY
In all things.
At the cooler as the water flows,
By the lift as numbers grow
There’s a way to behave,
Be brave and it will be your grave.
But once you rise ahead of those,
Who crawl and lick at larger toes,
You smile, and wave and slap the backs,
Of foes who strive to knife attack.
They smile and grin as hand folds firm,
Around a blade, your name has earned.
The crimes are many,
Incompetence rife,
But all is fixed with a swift strong knife.
You can’t speak up or talk of things,
That makes upset or truth that rings,
It’s silence all, and silence gold,
A stellar career to the corporate old.
And tasks that lie and go undone,
Are not relayed to anyone,
Ideas of fresh and exciting scope
Lie in minds that have lost all hope,
The corporate way is a silent one,
Those who survive have avoided the gun,
By lying low in mediocrity,
And choosing a path where they pay no fee.
Their heads below the grasses stay,
That’s the only corporate way.
Part Two – Philosophical
He visits every day
And even when I lock him out
I know he’s come to stay.
He came again this morning
To greet me when I woke
Accusing me of doing wrong
Without a word he spoke.
He talked of those in struggle
And how I turned my back
He added up my foolish buys
Relentless he attacks.
And as I argued every point
His patience caused him wait
And then a moment’s lull in time
Before he castigates.
He thinks I’m foolish, hiding out
He thinks I run away
He thinks it’s only time before
The truth will come my way.
And every soul whose eyes look up
While walking separate tracks
Will realise what he says is true
I’m holding them all back.
I’ve tried to reason with him
And he seems to understand
But then he’ll bring up something else
And we‘re back where we began.
I really hope he leaves today,
This friend who’s come to stay
Not to be rude, but time has come
For him to go away.
THE RACE.
No-one came around my way,
They didn’t puff and blow on by,
No effort going, no will to try,
Dust remained unturned and still,
And no-one saw an iron will,
As laws of greatness passed away,
I did not see a race today.
And when I slept to end alone,
My feet felt heavy, made of stone,
As if they’d run and pushed on through,
With sweat and grit and teammates who,
Had never been ahead of me,
Behind my feet I couldn’t see,
A single soul that raced today,
Those who did are well away.
Tomorrow’s gun will fire still,
And call for those awaiting will,
To clamp their feet and curl their toes,
As crowds give roar and shooter goes,
Another race will start again,
Another straining path and then,
Those racing will be well away,
By the bell to start the day.
Tears will fall when at the end,
From long behind a signal sends,
“It isn’t fair how far to go,”
As health and memory outward flow.
But still they’ll call in voices loud,
Ignore the past and speak up proud,
It seems they’ve finally woken up,
And now they want to hold the cup.
But races end as sun sinks low,
The time to run will come and go.
You did not see a race today,
The time for racing’s gone away,
The fear and doubts that stopped you then,
Will haunt you now in folds of ten,
So move your feet and start to run,
Only fools await the gun.
THE MAN WHO LOOKED THE OTHER WAY.
My eye sees upside down, while I look the right way up,
It takes a view like mirrors and the mind is what corrupts.
Inside a skull, like software code, the vision pours on by,
The mind of past recollections makes to find the missing lie.
A sight I see a thousand times is shown as if brand new,
But not before it’s twisted round and decoded of its clue.
And while this concept critics hold as though it’s not bazaar,
Another thought rarely said seems drifting from afar.
When earth became from clouds of dust as twisting gasses flew,
And spinning discs all settled down surrounding our small blue.
The idea goes that force ejects and pushes all apart,
But when we slow and come to halt an inward force restarts.
And back we come as where we were, and passing by what went,
The distance traveled now retraced, the outward dusts re-sent.
These forces larger than a mind, and consequences more,
Who says we haven’t been this way and passed on by before?
Perhaps my life is shorter now, than my father has to live,
Perhaps my Grandma’s brother’s soul, his sacrifice to give.
Perhaps when thinking of the past, it’s all still yet to be,
While my mind has lost what just went by in memory still to see.
And as the mind restructures all, the spiritual to find,
Are not the gifted with next sight, but the rest of us are blind.
If I could have my time again and make good all my wrongs,
And know the fears which lie ahead are worries not held long.
If I was now the wrong way round and heading back to front,
It means my worry’s wasted on a futile long past hunt.
And while our lives progress away and youth comes into sight,
And as our children younger grow, in spite of what is ‘right’,
And when you sit in softer chairs and talk of how you ran,
Perhaps you should be open to the fact that you still can.
Part Three – Probably Shouldn’t Be Said
God’s older than time, that’s not just a line,
Even Gaydar would list him above 39.
He’s certainly single, no wife on the shingle
No fiancée, or girl, no regular twirl.
And a lot has been penned about God and his friends,
But never a line of a girlfriend spoken
In his house the male form goes unbroken
So he’s up their alone, in a home he calls heaven,
Avoiding suspicion with Romans 1:27
But he’s not all alone as he works on our fates
There’s talk of his friend, attending the gates.
Peter his ‘flat mate’ who works the front yard.
Toiling all day, his abs cut rock hard.
And the bible tells more, about others before,
One of them Gabriel who God once adored.
Cast out of heaven in a terrible fight
God took off his wings denying him flight.
And unlike straight couples who argue for debts,
A gay separation is about wardrobe and pets
So Gabriel’s wings, the metaphor clear,
The wings were designer, the season last year.
And why should we argue or take any bets,
When Noah’s quite famous for taking the pets.
BEGGARS.
The beggars are better in Moscow,
Than those you’ll find on the tube.
They have more of a style for theatrics,
And hanging limbs they can’t move.
For the handout that’s asked on the circle,
As polite a request ever made –
And he stands with a cup held in both hands,
And speech well rehearsed for his trade.
“I’m sorry to bother you people,
As you silently ride on this train,
But I need to buy food and find shelter,
To keep me out of the rain.”
And he stands with both arms working,
On legs that look firm and strong.
And his teeth all line up, in the suit that he wears,
And his beard and his hair are worn long.
And I’m wondering why he expects this,
From people worn from the fray,
To give him their change, just give it away,
When they have been working all day?
Does he answer to bosses promoted?
Who served in his place years before?
Does he stress if he’s late and work through his lunch
Has his work become a great chore?
No, the beggars are better in Moscow,
They don’t even need to speak,
There’s the man with no legs on a skateboard,
With only one arm limp and weak,
And it hangs like a tail as he travels,
And swings from in front to behind,
But no-body seems all that bothered,
For this stump on the skateboard is blind.
And the woman whose face rests in fire,
And the skin that’s now fused to her bone,
She doesn’t ask for a handout,
She just stares with a hideous groan.
And the grandmother blind on the corner,
With the scarf wrapped tight on her head,
With her hand outstretched and arthritic,
Come winter in Moscow she’s dead.
These are all career beggars,
Not the hobbyists found on the tube,
To assume that you deserve money,
For just asking is foolish and rude.
And why are you even riding,
On a tube criticized every day?
It’s not like your job is the city,
And you’d lose it if you moved away.
I once saw a beggar in Paris,
And his choice made me nod and agree.
If your goal is to work as a beggar,
Why not choose Rue Rivoli?
For begging’s a fluid position,
With few roots that really take hold,
The weather is better in Paris,
And it’s hard to beg when you’re cold.
I’d like to see a progression,
Of Tesco carts all in a row
Heading away from the city
To the Chunnel and Paris the flow.
But once they are all lined up there,
They should stop and consider it done,
For there’s little left in a beggar’s career,
Why not retire and have yourself fun?
Then there’s a question I’d ask them,
When retired do beggar’s start work?
Wouldn’t that be a wonderful end to it all,
And add a colourful quirk.
There are so many questions to ask them,
And only one thing I know,
It’s a simple fact, but one to be sure -
They don’t want to end in Moscow.
Part Four – Rhymes for Children 3 to 99
Go sailing by
Zig zagging round your room
With a high pitched zing
And a see through wing
Ahead a window, boom.
It’s a funny thing
Of all things winged
We call this fool a fly.
We attack with spray,
Or shoo away,
Or electro zap then fry.
Why not call buzz,
This blackened fuzz
With whizzing fizzing yell.
As he dives and zings,
Loops the loop and spins,
His sixteen eyes serve well.
With his big bro blow,
Who is fearless though,
As a house invasion looms,
So we take fly spray,
And aim all day,
Then bizz, buzz, bing, bang boom.
Into walls above
Into windows - shove
His head must be so sore.
We chase and flay,
Won’t he go away,
Can’t he see the open door?
Then he’s out of lives,
On a power dive,
For him there’ll be no later.
On the window-sill
And spinning still
Like a Russian figure skater.
Black Buzz is gone,
No more bing, bang, bong,
As he bounces off my ceilings,
As he lies there long,
I don’t feel wrong,
For a fly I have no feelings.
GETTING AROUND
When I was small, I wanted to crawl,
That’s all.
I’d crawl on my knees,
And jump round with ease, like fleas.
Then I started to walk,
I started to talk, to stalk.
As I stood on my feet,
And walked on the street,
My friends I’d meet.
I’d go on a hike,
To see my friend Mike,
‘Cause he had a trike.
A three-wheeled trike was what I liked,
Then I saw a bike.
On two wheels fast,
It sped on past, a dream at last.
I wanted to ride, down the hill I’d glide,
Full of pride.
Then I saw a board,
On a half pipe broad,
I won an award,
Ollie and hop, a Casper stop,
And a killer tail drop.
Mike wanted to trade,
He put on the blades…
We both needed first aide.
Then I got old,
The board’s buckled and cold.
I’m no longer bold.
I watch from afar,
As I pass in my car,
And tell tales in the bar,
Of the days when I rode,
Tall I once strode,
From the tricks we all showed.
And now with a wife,
For the rest of my life,
Twin boys full of strife.
The day will soon be,
When both of them see,
What sets young boys free…
A shiny new trike.
Yike!
OF ALL THE THINGS I COULD EVER SEE
Of all the things you could ever see,
There are probably some you don’t want to be.
There are things your friends will be dreaming of
But they may not be the things you love.
I’m sure you’ll discover your very own dream,
Then watch out world as you head down that stream!
But it’s time that you started, so I’ll get out of your way.
And let you be off, for today is your day.
Go conquer your dreams and find fortune and fame
Go find out if others will remember your name.
Go off to all parts, I don’t know just where.
But promise me this, go with great care.
Some things you’ll find quickly and some vanish like air.
I could tell you of each, but that wouldn’t be fair,
You must find them yourself, as you travel around,
For you may not agree with the things that I found.
So I am letting you go and I swell with great pride,
As you head out my door to a world big and wide.
Never be scared or doubt you are ready,
Chart a straight course that is swift, safe and steady.
And when you need port from any old where,
Make sure it’s my door you return to for care.
Now go and catch fire! Let the world know your name.
Burn out a path that helps stake out your claim.
There’s so much ahead that begins with one stride,
And once you start moving you’ll be in for a ride.
If you work really hard and let yourself grow,
How can you guess how far you will go?
And whenever you rest along your way
I hope you look back to here and say,
“That was the place where I got my start.
Where I found my strength, my voice, my heart.
That’s where I found what I needed to go
And to them goes some credit for the seeds that I sow.”
So hold onto the tail as that tiger roars past,
Hold on for dear life and hold on to your last.
I know there’s no chance of you being eaten,
For you are too fast and bold to be beaten.
My last piece of advice, to help you fulfill
Is to dream bigger dreams and then dream bigger still!
Remember your loved ones, we’ll cheer from behind
As you seek out a path that is all yours to find.
You are only you and that is your fate.
But just so you know – we all think you’re great!
RAIN
Sliding down the drain
And taking leaves away.
I like the shine,
From a day less fine
As the fine mist forms a spray.
The streets go dark,
And the empty park,
Where the dogs delight in play.
And the faces hide,
With umbrellas wide,
Under awnings scared they stay.
I like the smell,
And the thunder’s yell,
And lightning’s wild display.
When the wind whips by,
And the papers fly,
And the world is drenched in grey.
I like the feel,
Like a sliding eel,
Of the wet shoes on my feet.
And the world goes by,
Just as if it’s dry,
With a drumming rhythmic beat
And I like the still,
When it stops to spill,
And the cloud no longer purges.
Then the world revives,
And while wet, survives,
All other life emerges.
And the people say,
As they chat all day,
That the weather’s been so bad.
But they’re talking rot,
And thinking not,
For a bad day’s never had.
When it rains on you,
And soaks you through,
Think of barley, wheat and oat.
And next time greet,
A soggy street,
With a water-proof raincoat.
RIGHT OF WAY.
When you’re walking on the street,
That certain other people,
Don’t like your shuffling feet?
And the moment that you take a step,
Off the sidewalk curb,
They scream and shout and wave their fists,
As cycles skid and swerve.
But cyclist always hate the slow,
As they plod and trot on by,
They say we do not watch before,
We cross the street or try.
They’ll come spinning, fast as wind,
Without a single sound,
And swerving to avoid our feet,
Will leave them on the ground.
But cyclists aren’t the only ones
With grudges growing old,
For drivers of the smallest cars,
Hate cyclists too I’m told.
They hate them in the big wide lanes,
And climbing up a hill,
With scant and total disregard,
They hunt out new road kill.
And cyclists hate the drivers back,
Especially while they’re parking,
And open up their driver’s door,
A crash, then fights they’re sparking.
But in the end it evens out
As hatred spins around,
There’s another whole new group who hate,
They’re easy to be found.
The big rigs running interstate,
They rule the roads with fear,
They run up close and push them on,
And want the roads kept clear.
There’s a circle going round and round,
As trucks aren’t loved so well,
And the group who hates them most of all,
Is who, or can you tell?
Those walking and just passing by,
On corners wait to cross,
And then comes by a ten ton truck
With logo loud embossed.
So maybe we should stop the hate
And smile and wave on by,
The ped can greet the cyclist with
A warm and loving smile.
If cyclists loved the cars and trucks
They’d learn to love them back,
And jams will never clog the way,
As patience clears the track.
And all can drive in peace and calm
A vehicle state of Zen,
Our roads could be the example set,
A bitumen U.N.
Part Five – A Little Bit Emo
It’s an act, no more; for everyone.
We heroes too scared to show a flaw.
I sit and watch and walk and talk and say nothing real
I answer true to faces upset on subjects I didn’t begin
I see hollow faces enduring times they will gloriously recreate
I say hello to facebook friends to greet but not to meet
Another neighbour died last month, I know because he rots
And in my car I sing and yell because the airtight shell protects
At night I dream and wake in tears, I laugh and hug and feel
So long as no emotion’s spilled in time or space that’s real.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Scott Norton began writing for theatre and studied at Australia’s Victorian College of the Arts. His play ‘Clipped Wings’ won the Australian Writer’s Guild Theatre Award and was later published by Playworks. Since 1994 Scott has worked as a writer for television and films. He set up television dramas in Indonesia, Poland and Russia before returning to Melbourne Australia in 2006. He’s a keen sportsman and has recently added water polo to his long list of sports played.
Discover other titles by Scott Norton at Smashwords.com: Inner City, Three Karmic Short Stories.
Connect with Me Online at: Smashwords; Facebook; My Blog