Absolutely No Sense of Humour

 

Absolutely No Sense of Humour

 

Oh, my grim-hewed night, oh light so black,

oh, alack, alack, alack.

You - found, wherever day is not,

to borrow a phrase - bloodletting.

Maniac eyes; in the way you drive,

cut up weaklings behind the wheel

in Landcruisers built from far more steel

than is strictly needed. It’s lost

now – from where or which organic soup

your million hordes crawled, which whoop

or flange of baboons, which troop

called you to arms, but here you stand.

Accountable to a strict regimen,

each of you a humourless specimen

of phlegm and yellow bile

forging ahead - top value scrabble tile

ace high straight flush for faces,

any vestige of compassionate trace

barely begot, barely begun, there's none.

This your land of lions,

your scorpion tails,

of blank slates that at wakes leave trails

of paddle-churned pale white whey

pudding spots in forbidding grey –

why, you are fifty years flipped from here

and when our worlds moved on,

your misbegottens were forgotten.

Oh, brave new world that brought forth

such blocks, such stones, such senseless things,

while I buy her diamond rings

and she’s in love with me and - well,

you know – she said so – of course,

so the only advice I’ve left to give

is why not laugh and let me live?