With apologies to Monty Python

When you’re chewing on life’s gristle

Don’t grumble, give a whistle

And this’ll help things turn out for the best…

And…

Here is a poem what I wrote,

I think you’ll find,

It goes for the throat.

If you don’t like it,

I don’t really mind —

It’s about

Life’s daily grind.

All bitter and twisted,

Perhaps.

Maybe.

That’s the working life —

It’s done for me.

On the bus, I’m late again,

Trapped by the present.

Pain, pain, pain — where is the gain?

Now it’s raining.

Bollocks.

I’ve missed my train.

It’s not that I wouldn’t kill

For this job.

After all,

It’s all that stops me

From being a slob.

You’ve missed the meeting —

That much is true.

But fuck ’em all —

They didn’t really

invite

You.

Just an anomaly.

No wonder you frown,

Something left over

From the last round.

Anyway, it’s better than Iceland.

Nor would working at Sainsbury’s

Make me a wise man —

And it most definitely

Would not make me

A nice man.

B&Q?

I wouldn’t have a clue.

That’s why I’m

Stuck here with you.

Past the scratchcard drunks —

If it was not for misfortune,

Perhaps they’d become monks.

On the platform, waiting again —

Where the fuck

Is the next fucking train?

Life’s a circus

And I’m the clown.

Once more,

I trek up to town.

If it was up to them,

You’d be in a skip —

Not on that train,

Trying to kip.

In assets, while richer than most,

Oddly, I can hardly pay

To heat up my toast.

I was almost famous —

But that’s not a boast.

Days to do,

After getting few,

And yet I have

To spend them here with you!

Where is that freedom I crave?

Not for you, son.

You’re not yet done

No fucking time

For you to have fun.

And all the while,

They are preparing

Your grave.

We are never free —

Wageslaves like me.

You made my bed,

Then made me lie in it.

Life’s a bitch,

And then you die.

Try telling that

To the big man in the sky.

The end.

The fucking end.