Tony bought a lottery ticket today
on a hangover that by lunch time had still stayed.
A £2 dream about all the wonderful things
he’d virtue signal atop the hills and sing.
Little did he ponder how rich he already was,
clocking off then going to Cat’s on the bus
where five veggie tacos and a glass of Rosé awaited.
One thing you can say about that gem, she always caters.
And here I am sitting tapping about myself in third person.
Channel hopping from the BBC to C5, watching the muck worsen.
Tory this, Labour that; Everyone’s falling into a hole.
I’ve never got the scorn towards a microwaved Weetabix bowl.
The fuel of my 9 to 5 active listening and little faith.
There goes a week of conformity, of ethics going to waste.
I do the Sully tap atop another tin of San Miguel.
I’d prefer a craft beer of high percentage, but oh well.
Everyone waits at the crossing but nobody presses the button.
Gormlessly looking into nothing is not the kinda something
I’d have anyone teach another. I’d rather cover
my brother from another mother during a drive by
of a maniac custard cream lover.
Shouting ‘Brew me a tea! Let me dunk my biscuits within’.
The news agency’s customers stand shaking and grin.
Saying ‘literally’ or ‘awesome’ out of context isn’t a thing.
He or she who master the mundane shall be king.