High

Standard

O’ you, miserable, miserly wretched geek,

You are poor, even though you think you’re rich.

.

Because numbers in your bank passbook,

Doesn’t stand for smiles that take your look.

.

Waking up, you will see it one day,

You’re left alone, and the world has moved on…

.

All cooped up inside your little nest, you are

Like an angry, very angry bird.

.

As much you want,

You can peck and punch through your walls,

But no ear still, will hear your cries.

.

(You can’t eat your gadgets,

I know you will not ever–)

.

Ashtrays will go on piling up, more and more

The dustbin overflowing with paper and rust.

.

Decaf will always remain stuck to your mug,

But no one’s home to do the dishes tonight.

.

Old and haggard, you’ll turn with time,

No smile you’ll get, just scowls and butts.

.

Lying in your bed you’ll cough and toss,

But no hand will touch your forehead with love.

.

Then only two options you have: rub your fat snout,

With a clean white sheet, and come out, right now!

.

Or, live in it. And smoke up your life,

Puff by puff, soaring higher and higher,

Like a very angry bird.

By, Cyril Cliffetteย ยฉ 2012

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