Filling the loft with leftovers, and
Everything there was mine,
And not because I bullied it in,
But because she had nothing,
And not financially,
But spiritually, personally, tastefully,
And with regards to repetition,
And her relationship with it,
I feel I have to inform her of
Disorder; her frail inability
To attempt a new hill a day
Has left her reliant upon hand outs.
But there’s something I hate more than
Her ignorance and that’s mine
For enduring it still; she was a kid
By numbers, coloured as she should
Be but overlaying a frame of few program
Lines and with no vision in her mission statement.
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