As I glug my big tea mug,
a question I must ask of me.
Am I self-satisfied and smug,
assured in smirking priggery?
For those whose egos bob on wave,
and have regrets and second thoughts,
within my binary conclave,
are never ones but always noughts.
It may be deemed a little thing
to be consistent, plain as day,
as long as is a piece of string,
as right as rain, as good as may..
as wholesome as an apple pie,
dependable as butterscotch.
You'll never catch me, eyes rolled high,
scratching unseemly at my crotch.
No wide-eyed sighs the long day through,
or troubled pangs disturb my brain;
I sleep just as a log might do;
my dreams... I can't recall, again.
And as I glug my morning mug,
a question I must ask of me...
But first I'll swat that little bug
who dances on my crockery.
YOU ARE READING
Potatoes
PoetryHot, Sweet, Saucy, Spicy - always filling/fattening. Donder - vb. To blunder about aimlessly, not knowing what the feck one is at.
