I watch my life go by
In factors of sixty.
That little rotating stick,
The flashing colon,
The unending count
Of passing seconds.
No matter how angry the birds,
How many temples I fail to escape,
Or how many aces lay buried
Beneath twos of their own suit,
The hand will not speed up.
My hopes, and my battery, are dead.
When will this meeting end?
Filed under Poems
When life is dull and boring,
And your mind is full of snoring,
And your sanity has lost it’s mooring,
We turn to solitaire.
It’s a stupid little game
Of cards. though having fame
The hobby is still rather lame.
The hobby of solitaire.
And now I’ll announce this:
(Correct me if I miss)
No one has fun in the abyss
Of desperation called solitaire?
Maybe when you were five,
And the game was so alive!
So fresh and new, the jive!
The jive of solitaire.
And so this poem ends.
Did it have a point? Depends
On how your viewpoint bends.
Now I’m leaving, for solitaire.
