Twitter is a bunch of arse A self-indulgent waste Of the time the good Lord gave us And a coffin-nail for taste It’s a way to boast and brag and crow About how you’re the best
Dinner is always gone too soon The plate too quickly cleared. Leaving worn ceramic patterns and a fat man’s lonely fears. In the darkened hours that lie ahead Before the next meal comes
Tiny paws upon my hands. Weave patterns on the backs. My palms against my stomach Where the skin is cold and slack. My buttocks on unyielding pine My pulse is long since gone.