Miserable old git

 The open book,

The clicking clock,

The unspeakable sound

Of distant traffic,

A TV set’s inaudible

Programmes,

Distorted by the stud

Partition wall.

The turn of a page,

The blink of an eye.

Channel hoping at random

But none have caught

Your waning eyes –

A third cup of tea

In the space of an hour,

The children outside,

Get on your nerves,

An earthquake in Asia

Doesn’t enter your equations.

Dutifully bound,

To your ignorance and spite,

You sit,

You just sit, sit, and sit

You miserable old git.

 

Solitary,

And immobile,

The armchair arm

Has started to fade,

Cursed by an inertion

That developed,

Early in the womb,

Disgusted by progress

Appalled by any boom.

All these traits

Align in chronological order,

A depressing portfolio

In your CV of failure,

But not in the sense

Of shallow goods or

Material gain,

But in your huge inability

To convey your expressions.

 

A fear of emotions that

Flares up when pressed,

And triggers a defensive

Mechanism, that reduces

Your nearest to tears,

Oh yes…how so very, very

Very, very, unproud they are,

Of you and your ways,

Of your habits and charms

Of your knackered tatty

Chair, where you sit, sit, sit

On your pathetic fat arse

You miserable old git…

Waiting for death

Like an animal with rabies

Get up of your arse

You wining old git!