From amidst slumber I awoke catatonic and somber,
Arising to clatter from railway carriages overhead,
Dust fell from cracks in the plaster
While I swept the cockroaches from my bed.
9 o'clock, "hell no" I was late,
A definition that I cared little for.
Late had no meaning in this state of mind
And urgency was a feeling that was not my own.
Covering the stunted body whilst staring in the mirror
I gazed upon a gnome-like face I had learned to hate,
Hate for looking so round and chummy and plump and red
And freckly and nice and jolly and now look away.
Cloaked by a bathrobe, applying streaks of 1851 boot polish,
Camouflaging darker things to be hidden deep within.
Striding out to the neighbours garden with a 9 iron
I smashed every statue and every water feature
Preying on my mind with their smiles, those little creatures.
Amidst the revelry in my revenge I realised the goal
My reason for appearing at the hole I called work
Day after day, month after month, every year:
I needed to scrimp and save to die another day.
Donning my cheapest suit and washing most of the polish from my cheeks
I ran to my rusted van and prepared to become reacquainted
With the repeated sound of misfires and the smell of burning clutch.
