I know, I suck at poetry.  But, as Charles Bukowski would have attested, sometime’s it’s all that comes out of you.  If it helps, read it like Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer.

CONSUME YOUR ASS OFF

Raised to work

Your job must define you

“What do you do?”

As if it really matters for most of us

Put your happiness aside

Earn the scratch

It’s all about the green

Taxes taxes taxes

Pay up

The generals need a few more bombers

And the bureaucrats, a $600 toilet seat

Buy buy buy

Shit you don’t need

Or really even want

Because the ad agencies told you to

Buyer’s remorse

At least makes your numb soul feel something

Collect plastic cards

Spiral into debt

Drink yourself stupid (spring for the good stuff)

Fill out the right papers

And it’s wiped off your conscious

Consume your ass off

You don’t want society to collapse

Do you?

I got an A on this sonnet in creative writing in college.  I’m sure my girlfriend at the time, later to be my ex-wife, played a big part in it.

DON’T MUSS

She said, “Don’t muss your shirt, it won’t look right,
“And fix your pants, your knees both look like knobs.
“Make sure your tie is straight, and nice and tight,
“I don’t want them to think that you’re a slob.

“Come on! The party starts at half-past eight,
“Go start the car! You men are slow to learn.
“Speed up! It’s quarter-past, and we’ll be late,
“Slow down! I think you just passed by our turn.”

And so her voice pecked on, and on some more,
And as I drove, my brain clicked out a scheme.
So I reached over, opened up her door,
And shoved her out. (She scarce had time to scream.)

And as she disappeared into the night,
I said, “Don’t muss your dress, it won’t look right.”