Chewing Cliches Poem by Paul Brookes

The Crow and I sit on a wall
he picks and scratches at the moss.
he cannot stay still or silent.
I suck a pencil not very dignified
for one of advancing years I admit.

the Muse for it is she who
sometimes comes as a femme fatale
or sometimes like now an ornery Crow,
all ruffled feathers and spite.

dialogue he says,
meaning no disrespect,
which you know means it will be, disrepectful,
is not your forte, .......he fishes for the right word,
more your bête noire

we seem, I say, to have become the essence of cliche.
I suppose that in its own way can be camp.
or not like the potted palm in the corner
a la lace doilies tatted by maiden Aunts with too much time on their hands.

they should have taken lovers, the Crow says,
that would have given them a reason to live.
tit for tat, he roars at his own supposed cleverness
which sadly in neither clever or comic.

well he says times a wasting
cliche again, I retort..
oh have it your own way he says.

Crow is not happy flapping off into the distance,
feathers put quite out of shape.