Don’t get me started. . .

Don’t get me started. . .

I’m angry when I want it NOW and I’m told I’ve got to wait –
(I worry when I get it, that it’s going to be too late);
I’m mad, when on the telephone, a cheery voice implores:
“Please hold the line. . .Please hold the line. . .”
Then plays the fucking Corrs.

I detest all forms of clutter and the swift accumulation
Of statements, bills and paperwork: such dull administration;
Each manilla envelope just brings me to my knees –
As I contemplate the plight of my bank balance – (and the trees).

And. . .
I’m peeved by office politics: the hapless hierarchy,
And its poxy pecking order, down from him, to her, to me –
The bitches and the Yes men: they get right up my nose;
If I ever get promoted, will I end up one of those?

And. . .
I’m cheesed-off at the checkout – (though I’ve very often felt
Empathy with anything on a conveyor belt);
I hate the way they rush me, though I sometimes think it funny,
That day-by-sodding-day, I still return to spend my money.

And. . .
I’m fuming when a vagrant sets up camp outside the bank,
Begging for my ‘change’, (a silly question, to be frank),
Dogs on bits of rope, a can in hand, a fag in gob:
With all the homeless comforts – without a frigging job.

And. . .
I’m furious when women, who pop children out like rabbits,
Teach their offspring nothing but bad language and foul habits,
Then expect the State to subsidise, from cradle unto grave,
The products of the one-night-stands they shagged outside a rave.

And. . .
I’m livid in the knowledge that the man who got my vote,
Snatched my hard-earned taxes, with this promise – (and I quote):
“Education! Education! Education!”, he intoned
(It’s said that short-term memory is shitty if you’re stoned).

And. . .
I’m ticked-off with the taxman, when I pay my bloody due,
Then get a snotty letter, from the Inland Revenue,
Saying that I’m underpaying with regard to my N.I. –
And if I want a pension, I must work until I die.

My anger’s not unfounded: I’m provoked by what I sense:
I rage against the system: it snaps back in defence;
Mirror, Mirror on the wall: it seems that you are sneering,
So I’m angry that I’m angry –
that wrinkles are appearing.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved


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