Morning Routine

Thomas woke
with a croak,
then he loudly spoke:
“That’s it,
I quit,
life’s shit,”
and he fell into a pit
of despair
as he did his hair
wearing nothing south of there.
“I don’t care,
I swear,”
he proclaimed,
and with locks untamed
and spirit maimed
he blamed
his whole misfortune on his boss:
“Listen, Joss,
my departure is your loss;
I’m the secret sauce
which you would toss
aside without a stutter.
No, I don’t bring home the butter,
barely speak, I mostly mutter,
eyes aflutter
when I talk
to you. I gawk,
it’s true, but I will walk—
it’s not a balk—
the line was drawn in chalk
and you erased it,
defaced it,
and never replaced it—
come and taste it!”
he said with sass
directly at his naked ass;
Joss was in the looking glass.

poetryJake NovakComment