My Home Away From Home Poem by Etienne Charilaou

This is not a poem.
‘This is Sparta! '
This is not arta.
This is my home.

This is poetry of the absurd -
hadn't you heard?
Some people can stand on their own two feet.
Other people by society are beat.

To write a book is no mean feat.
I'll write a thriller - that's sure to sell!
This whole business of earning money can go right to hell!
Vacuum cleaners're whining - Monday - back to irk!

Well, enough vitriol;
forgive me while I take a spin in my cabriolet.
I'll pop in on Holmes, open his windows,
let out the clouds of hasheesh;
and maybe even feed the feesh.

The transformation has begun,
I'm on the first rung.
Next stop the Magellanic clouds -
the view of the spiral is omega-splendid.

It's a rout! And I've got to get out!
From the whale a very big spout.
Would you like to be harpooned?
No, then don't do it to my friends!

The injustice! The injustice of it all!
Some men rise and some men fall.
By it we are all appalled!

The tax on tea was the final straw.
Now, look who has the last haw-haw!

Hire a hirsute suit,
and dress up if you dare!
I can guarantee some you will scare!
Look at that animal out there!
Look at that furry-ous monster!

Convention. Detention, Suspension. Election.
What fool would a politician trust?
Wave banners if you must;
redress there'll never be
in a world so totally crazy!

My recollection now is hazy….
I guess I'm just too lazy.
Forget-me-not, imbibe a tot.
Forget your lot.

What is honking outside?
What strange bird, Clyde?
‘Tis a mower or a trapped bee,
really nothing to see.

The sun is back at last!
Do the washing fast!
When my I Q was calculated
they forgot to take into account
future earnings can be tabulated;
all-seeing brain, dear Murray,
at the top of the mount.

The final, final, final blast
ushers in Ragnarök at last.