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Old Dec 27, 2015, 3:44pm   #11
killcrazy
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you fair went off on one there...dr killcrazy prescribes a bottle of flat coke and a greasy fry up.

here, have a poem i wrote recently.


Why is the post office always closed?

For reasons largely undisclosed,
They're only open while you're at work.
When you do get there expect the clerk,
To faff about and finally say,
They don't have your parcel anyway.

You've got the card that says it's there,
But they can't find it anywhere.
Perhaps your neighbour took it in?
And have you checked behind your bin?
It might be redelivered today,
But at what time, we cannot say.

No wonder this country's in decline,
When you spend your lunch break in a line,
Between ebay traders with thirty-two,
Identical parcels to get through,
Each one needing its own receipt,
To satisfy the balance sheet,
And old, confused, befuddled dears,
With pension books. Who bend cashiers',
Ears with tales of nineteen fifty-four,
And things you just don't see any more.
While here and there within the snake,
Tempers flare as psyches break.

Why does nothing work the way it should?
Everything's plastic when it used to be wood.
Did someone script this? Was there a plan?
Is that why the call centre's in Azerbaijan?
What's the endgame? Where do we go?
Does anyone even pretend to know,
What the hell we are doing here?

Are we marionettes for some puppeteer,
Who makes us kneel and bow and dance?
Do we have a prayer? Is there even a chance,
Of getting back before one o' clock?
Or will our flexi-time end up docked,
Because some stuffed shirt in Milton Keynes,
Decided he would count the beans,
And save a few quid by closing at five?

Knowing full well this would deprive,
Everyone who has something to do,
Of the chance to stand here in this queue,
That now extends beyond the rope.

A faculty of forlorn hope,
Who try but fail to comprehend,
Why no-one ever sought to end,
This poor charade.
This tired farce.
'Next day guaranteed' my arse.

Kc
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