Here's a poem for the work weary...
You know that page you were reading last week?
No, not really; that was a long time ago.
Not so long I think.
By whose method can you apple that thought to?
My own, perhaps.
Then so be it.
Here we go then…
How’s it going?
Well, okay, you know, so-so.
So, do you need a loan to get you through it?
Now that’s a good question.
I thought it might be. How much do you need?
Enough to buy a pair of wings that fit.
Can I interest you in a nice bottle of wine?
You could.
And would you like a pair of silk stockings to go with that?
What are you getting at?
Nothing at all, it’s just, we’ve got a lot of sales on at this time of year.
We will need a minute’s silence soon if you don’t go away.
I am but the midnight’s watch on all your doings; and this is where the records are kept.
Are you insane?
Insults can fly both ways you know.
Explain yourself now, or be forever damned.
There was this moth once that fluttered here, and fluttered there, until it couldn’t flutter anywhere as it burned up on the flame of its surrender.
What has that got to do with anything?
I don’t really know, I just thought of it.
I think I’m beginning to understand you.
Really, you are?
Of course I am.
And what do you understand?
I think you’re past your prime to be of any use.
Subjectively; or otherwise; do you understand.
It’s a big universe, you choose.
My dear sir, I am not here to make your mind up, and sell you a pair of pink pyjamas.
Then what are you here for?
I am beginning to have my doubts that I am here for anything.
Can you elaborate on that?
Not beyond the average.
My sister runs a dance school you know; maybe she could fit you in.
Am I a blabbermouth, do you think?
No not much.
Then it is time.
Shall I ring the bell?
No, let me do it.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have now reached past it to midnight, and found much to talk of. So let us now die on the flame of what we’ve found
Image from Pixabay