Fred R. Kane prides himself on being the world’s most admired underachiever. His reason for doing anything is strictly S#!ts ‘n’ giggles. He feels no need for competing, and since he joneses for nothing, sees no reason to keep up with the Joneses... or the Smiths or the Kardasions for that matter. 

Kane has been writing verse (mainly song lyrics) since he was eight. He first saw publication in 1991. As of 2021, his writings have been accepted and have appeared in CCTC Reflections ‘94, Walpurgis Night, Morpheus Tales, Necrotic Tissue, Pedestal magazine, and The Horror Zine.


Depending on the pack it leads, an alpha dog
may be nothing more
than the loudest terrier in a turtleneck sweater.
But a lone wolf...
He’s always a wolf. 

Nothing heroic in his character.
Tail between the legs to guard his nuts,
he’ll follow any given pack.  From a distance.
When opportunity affords, the lone wolf will sneak in, 
help himself to the nearest willing female,
and to any meal within grasp, 
then flee before his invasion has been detected. 

Yeah, he’s alone, and appears a coward to wolves, 
but no easy target for you; little terrier:
teeth bared and voice loud.
The others stand behind to see
if you will take down the apparent threat.
But all you have in actual defense
is hope.
Hope the lone wolf
will turn away. 
Shit, in the light of the full moon,
you appear to lead an insignificant pack,
and you look so stupid in that turtleneck sweater!


I can feel spiders eight legging in and out my nose leaving
a web around the brain.
Flies dine on lacerated meat, and bone protrusions. Ants,
they vie for the ground level stuff.
Smoke from the elements inform me: fire ‘s imminent. 
Hot damned.
With eyes glazed, I lurch forward.
Rain washed away and fire arrived.
Everything has been dirty-cleaned.
Pavement looks hostile enough without gasoline intervention,
but not much for looks is no excuse
for sitting in this flaming wreck,
so I’ll pick myself up, and drag these bones off
to face the brave new world...


Left tombstone cold in my gravest of nights.
Left tombstone cold in my gravest of nights.
Why would she think it’d be all right
to leave me soulless
to the crows?
Wonder if she ever cried?

Leaves got covered, but the book, it ain’t closed.
Leaves were covered, but the book, it never closed. 
Though she turned a page, thinking, “that’s how it goes” 
things don’t stay buried
even in the deep snow.

No tracks led up to the window or door.
I left no tracks by the window or door.
Through the window I saw the light on the floor
from the fire
that wouldn’t
burn for me anymore.

I’ve been a long year cold since they left me for dead.
Because she left me to the cold;  I walked away as they bled.
Now my woman sleeps forever by the man in our bed,
and if I once was loved,
it ain’t bones
to the dead.

If I ever was loved...
ain’t even bones
to the dead.