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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2208669
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2208669
A rhyming complaint
I think I’ve become disillusioned with life.
I don’t know the reason. It must be the season.
I love spring and fall, and I tolerate summer,
but winter’s a bummer, except when my wife
and I sit by the fire and suck down hot toddies,
or eggnog, or wassail. It all helps to jostle
those cold-weather blues and spawn jolly refrains,
while it kills off our brains and adds years to our bodies.

Our pets are enticed by the flickering flame,
and they’ll bask in the heat 'till they smell like roast meat.
Last night when I got up to throw on a log
I tripped over the dog, and this morning I’m lame.

I’m sitting here eating and watching the kitty
while she watches back and keeps trying to hack
up a fur ball, or mouse parts, or other surprise,
right in front of my eyes. That’s too bad. What a pity
that the rest of my breakfast will now be forsaken.
So far it was tasty - a blueberry pastry,
but somehow my appetite’s quickly diminishing,
and I won’t be finishing the eggs or the bacon.

I guess I’ll get dressed if I’m not going to eat,
and go dig out my hovel with my rusty old shovel.
My brand new snow thrower decided to die
when the town truck came by and dumped half of the street
at the end of my driveway where I had just cleared.
It’s driving me daft. I swear the guy laughed.
I sensed that my life wasn’t going so well,
but the slide down to Hell is more steep than I feared.

I’m ready to snap, like I’m too tightly wound.
Then my wife says, “Remember, it’s only December.”
I’ve acted like this every year since I wed her,
and I always get better when spring comes around.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2208669