There’d normally be some massive image of me, naked and sprawled across an animal or two. But I go on holiday in 3 days, and I genuinely can’t be arsed to draw, so you’ll all just have to use your eye spheres to imagine me naked, then read my words and imagine me naked again. Then wait for me to find my arse and draw again. So here is the poem that goes along with the naked imagery of me! Enjoy….
As I begin to walk to work,
To start my day as a clerk,
I pass the cows and they all stare,
Perhaps I’ve left the house too bare?
They’re all gormless, dribbling and such,
Then between my toes I feel slush,
I’ve stepped in shit,
And that’s when I start to lose it.
My phone sounds off a chime,
I’m aware I’m losing time.
So I set off in a rush,
To catch my bus.
My cheeks all a flush.
I see it coming, number five five five,
But I think ‘Maybe I should skive?’
I look up as it rushes past,
That arsehole was driving too fast!
After him I shout and curse,
How can my day get any worse!!
The taxi drops me off in town,
Its 15 pounds, I can’t help but frown.
I feel obliged to pay
But what a shitty way,
To continue this terrible day!
I slam the door feeling hawkish,
Turn around and think ‘Shit! I’ve awoken the Cornish!!’
They follow me through the streets,
Their spit hanging from their cheeks.
What a bunch of freaks!
I hide behind a corner,
Then they’re distracted by a foreigner.
‘Get out of our county!!’ I hear them cry,
This gives me a chance to slide right on by,
Whilst avoiding their third eye.
I pass by a bin,
But my, what a din!
I open the lid,
Find a couple of quid, and some mouldy old squid,
But under the squid, I find a kid,
Gasp I did, shouting ‘Christ, you were well hid!!’
He’s covered in cloth, and from his mouth I see froth,
Or perhaps it’s just broth? I guess his parents were Goths,
How could they be so brash, to leave him in the trash,
Covered in squid and ash,
They could have at least sold him for cash.
I push away the decay,
Asking ‘isnt this a school day?’
Not a word has he to say,
Only wants to play,
So I do the right thing, perhaps a cliché,
Passing him to the RSPCA
But alas, up the hill I climb,
Towards the end of my rhyme,
It’s off to work I go, passing by the wrinkled old ho,
I fear I cannot go slow, as she’s offering a strip show.
Dancing on her bench, just like her days as a wench.
I run and jump the fence, just to avoid her stench
I must not be late, as I’m needed at eight
Sure my wage isn’t great, but I really cannot wait.
I arrive with a smile,
Sure I’ve walked a mile,
But I feel like it’s my birthday,
Because I work at Food Surveys.