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 Cliffette © 2012