[Read the title; yes, there’s a lot of unnecessary, syllable-filling bad language in this one. Sorry. Enjoy!]
Paying bills is a fucking headache,
Like burning your breakfast sausages,
Or mowing your fucking lawn badly,
Or fucking shit broadband connections,
Or fucking bad use of bad language.
See, I ain’t expecting ‘happiness’,
And I’ve no time for ‘jolly, jolly’
(perhaps the rhyme is too obvious,
or maybe it’s just too difficult)
But I love word of ‘folly, folly’,
Of the pathetic fuckin’ stories
Of the singer who takes voice tablets
So he doesn’t sound fucking gory,
To not sound like his father, and it’s
Still a desire, a desire to look
Like a fucking king; Tom Selleck
And his moustache and his famous luck;
Maybe it’s beards that we should select
As our source of rhythm, of rhyming:
You get the point? Yes, you get the point,
Like bleeding the paint of nail varnish
That claws your skin, so hard it cut you,
That chips away at the skin’s surface
As your child chomps on the cheesy chips
Donated to him by charity,
Cheating like chocolate mixed with champagne
Under a chandelier where you change
Ever-changing charms of the charmer
Under cherry blossoms of cherry
Red girls with their charm and their cherry
Maybe it’s just the chocolate Jesus
That says that your throat should choke on this
As you champion the champing of
Garlic bread, that oxymoron food,
As you sign signatures on your bills.
I feel I should explain. In my Creative Writing seminar, we were asked to provide two lists: things you would stereotypically find in poetry, and things you wouldn’t.
Being a bit of a prat, I copied the “wouldn’t” list down, and incorporated them into, well, what you’ve just read.
Beginning to see why nobody writes poems that include Tom Selleck (yes, he was on the list).