Furnishing Farce

How many men does it take to deliver
A table and several chairs?
You’d think I was kidding
The joke would seem hidden
The first one just ‘didn’t do’ stairs

With telephones trilling, the second, unwilling
Could not get the top through the door
The third tried to shame me,
And name me, and blame me
For furnishings to the sixth floor

Solution: to dump them on pavement
Just junk them – delivery over and done
Denying they’d tried it
(My boss wouldn’t buy it)
The whole thing becoming a pun

For what good are services that don’t deliver
The minimum bang for your buck?
While companies try
Not to fall for the lie
That the ground floor is somehow the top

My Big, Red Button

I could never be a world leader.

The world is full of wonders,
Filled up with far too many things
That make a big, red, shiny button
Too great a temptation.

For my own fuse, slow though it may be,
Once lit, I speed to anger faster than a bullet
Or a trans-Siberian express train
Trying to outrun an avalanche.

When fuelled by the flash of offense
In a truly selfish moment
Injustice swells to tear at my senses
Like halitosis in a lift.

I watch the last straw floating
A feather in the wind, waiting to settle,
Wanting to tip the scales.
I inhale, slowly, deliberately. Taste the poison.

At this point I am calm enough to kill.
Dispassionate, serenity masks the inferno within,
Stoking my fury to incandescence
As I clutch at sanity, taut as a bowstring.

All at once the straw lands, the scales tip
My fingers itch for a weapon large enough
To slay my nearest demon, wreak bloody
Vengeance to destroy the world that wronged me.

So despite my fondness for launch codes
And shiny discs marked ‘do not press’
For this reason I consider myself ill-suited
To the narrow corridors of power.

Also, I dislike crowds, helicopters and
Tedious, formal banquets with too many forks
Having no great need to pretend a liking
For dogs, pretzels, or other peoples infants.