He won’t stop talking.
Just keeps on talking.
And I’m too tired to rhyme…
Three hours.
Must try to stay awake,
For three more hours.
But three hours of sleep,
Was not nearly enough.
And now I’m sinking,
…down,
…down,
…down,
Into a soft,
…deep,
…warm,
…down,
Pillow
of
Sleep.
Vancouver! Hang your head in shame!
I’m Canuckian but I know,
It’s just a bloody game!
There are many other things,
Worth protesting in the street,
But not because your home team,
Went down to defeat,
You win some and you lose some,
Advice ya’ll might want to save,
Now you’ve set Lord Stanley,
Spinning in his grave,
Your team lost in honour,
Despite the season’s works,
And you go and repay them by
Being pathetic jerks.
Ever since you went down south,
Not once have you ever shut your mouth.
You say so much and yet say nothing.
Meaningless words that just keep coming.
Which papers do you read daily?
How difficult can that question be?
Evade it. Avoid it. Talk around.
No direct answers to be found.
I really try but can’t figure out,
Just what on earth you’re talking about.
So please stop talking, take a breather.
Cause I don’t think that you know either.
You do not represent nor speak for me,
Former governor of Alaska, Sarah P.
Get off the kitchen table!
This behavior makes no sense.
You know you’ll get a squirt,
from the bottle of punishments.
Get off the kitchen counter!
Especially when I’m cooking.
You know you’re only allowed,
up there when I’m not looking.
It’s a good life,
Cuz I said it is,
And it’ll be the way I see it,
Anything I want to be,
I’m gonna damn well be it,
No time to waste on people who
are whining in frustration,
Too blind to know the seeds they sow,
affect their situation,
It’s a good life,
Cuz I see it.
It’s a good life,
Cuz I’ve decided
Decided that’s the way I want it,
No negativity drawing shit to me,
If I’ve trouble, I don’t flaunt it,
What I believe, how I perceive,
Counts most I’m well aware,
That’s why the well-known victim badge,
Is one that I don’t wear,
It’s a good life,
Cuz I’ve decided!
Migraine, migraine,
Feels like a bullet train,
Running through my head.
Wishing I were dead,
That’s only way I see,
The only possibility,
Of killing all the pain,
From this horrible migraine.
I’m not really suicidal,
But this bad poetry recital,
I simply can’t defend it.
It may cause some of you to end it.
We cleaned their lockers out today.
Broke the locks and threw away,
All the stuff they left behind.
This may seem a bit unkind,
But we trashed it all,
Except for books.
They will likely,
Give us dirty looks,
When they see,
What we just did.
How we shamelessly got rid,
Of all of their nice stuff,
But life is often tough.
We gave them lots of notice,
And told them we would do it.
We gave them all a deadline,
But many of them blew it.
Wheelers and dealers,
Bankers with knives,
Slicing and dicing up,
Every day lives,
Buying and selling,
As much as they’re able,
With nary a clue,
About my kitchen table,
No ounce of concern,
About who gets burned,
Just their own bottom line,
Does a profit get turned?
No ethical squirms,
As they rape and they pillage,
Just financial concerns,
As they sell off each village,
Families out borrowing,
Just to buy milk,
While they lay around,
Counting threads in their silk,
Gambling and playing,
With everyday savings,
All steered by the market’s
Random psychotic ravings,
People so powerful,
Yet incredibly dumb,
Who need to be finally,
Brought under our thumb.
I’m soft and out of shape and old,
I often forget that, truth be told,
I may not look it, but I am,
Quite old enough to be called ma’am.
I’m overweight and easily bruise,
Though I still get carded buying booze.
Pity the bitter optimist,
He wants to rant and shake his fist,
But just can’t seem to bring himself to do so,
He doesn’t want to think the best,
He knows the world’s completely messed,
From his mouth it never quite rings true though,
He’s certainly no giddy fool,
Thinks cynical is kind of cool,
But is cursed to always find the silver lining,
He’s tried to practice sneer and scowl,
Even worked up an evil growl,
Still he knows somewhere the sun is always shining,
He makes his outside sort of tough,
Wears shades and reads the darker stuff,
But somewhere inside lives Little Orphan Annie,
He’s even tried to turn to drink,
He thought it’d make him mean I think,
Found his ability to laugh is near uncanny,
So if you are pessimistic,
I’m afraid to him it won’t stick,
Despite the twisted ruse he tries so oft to borrow,
Yes his charade is oh so thin,
For very much to his chagrin,
He can’t help but hope for better things tomorrow.
Random Misanthrope 