isn’t in this iteration of what drives men crazy -
there’s the long planning sequence you missed
to begin with; was it psychopathic, yet kept at a
super-defused level of intransigence, of maybe
secret latency you’d better get used to; for sure
you’re trapped in it with 24 hours still to endure
before the legal moment of emotional release
You can complain, gee, it’s only Fathers Day, if
that sort of insanity’s defence is being as weak
minded as a nexus of ridiculous; reality says its
everyones day to celebrate, otherwise you’ll be
sipping a coldie watching the footie solo mate -
it sometimes happens on the aforementioned
Then there’s the grander view; where our fairer
sex’ demands aren’t negotiable because family
considerations superordinate, and you’re stuck
with it, so you’re into your rostered duty; prawn
preparation & meat marination plus mushroom
dip jus for the whole gang. At least it doesn’t,
As yet, include ‘house grooming and cleaning’,
which progresses with vapidness deflating the
evanescence you’d like to redress as soon as
safe to do so; & meantime you keep in motion
to defeat observations you’re bloody idle - the
irony is, tomorrow’s your bloody birthday
© 5 September 2015, I. D. Carswell
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