Oh, handheld vacuum cleaner I love you
For one day I can clean the stairs if blue.
You have power and good design I see
As if your maker was an artist too.
I had a cordless vacuum once before
It emitted smoke, I chucked it out the door
As dying is no way to clean a floor.
Even if you are extremely poor.
The makers gave me all the money back
And then a newer cleaner, what good luck!
They charged me nothing for the second one
Because I was so humorous on the telephone.
I’d just got in from a biopsy then.
It was nothing major though, you ken
The taxi driver liked intriguing chat
And so refused to charge me, fancy that!
It seems my humour is a great asset
As I had cancer thrice then lost the cat
Not to mention my old man had died
So in my way, I have been rather tried.
But I do not grumble when I wet my pants.
Nor when the kitchen’s conquered by the ants.
For coughing is a dangerous thing to do
Wait until you’re sitting on the loo!
The anxiety I feel is of the moral type
Like who’s my neighbour, and what shall I write?
And is it bad to write about old Stan
And his mistress, neighbour, Lady Anne?
For we are told adultery is wrong,
Though not as bad as writing bawdy songs.
Yet here I am with meatballs inside me.
I think I’ll wash them down with some hot tea
I’ll say a prayer inside me for the pain
Of all the refugees and what they feel again.
It seems that empathy is getting low
And we’re more wicked than we ever know.
But soon I shall sort out the mess of years
When I wandered, weeping, down the vale of tears
I shall eventually reclaim all my bed
The empty space is full of books I read.
But then it’s very hard to get inside
Next to the place where someone loved has died.
And so my entire house is filled with books
Or clothes and shoes and radios, please don’t look
As bit by bit ,I let in emptiness~
By gum, life’s much harder than a game of chess
And when I’m empty I can wait for grace
Or find another man, but not in haste
As I may be gay for all I know
It never rains but sometimes we get snow
