When your head is banging
Like there is a bad drummer inside it, And he’s rehearsing for his first (and only) gig.
And if I meet him later he will surely get a frosty reception from me
And will know where his drumsticks did go.
Anyway, the day may be quiet,
But that emphasises every noise that ever there was – it’s no picnic, I can tell you…
But, I shall whisper these written words
Because even their silent rustling is like a heard (yup, heard) of cattle passing by.
I did the coffee thing – managed to pour cold water on the granules and then had to nuke the bejesus out of the result. Now, I have to wait as the coffee is 3 degrees hotter than the hottest temperature known to Man. Pour me.
It’s a Saturday, Samedi same crud, no, not true, lots of good stuff soon;
When this hangover (from life, I don’t really drink) eases off a bit.
This was going to be a poem…
You may have noticed that.
I will poeticise lyrically later – maybe.
For now, you have a baddish (ting) bloggish blog yow thing that says little, does less, and goes nowhere.
Thank you for reading.
If you have read, please put:
‘Shhhhh… quiet, please!’
In the comments.