17 minute rant.
Tis 9.21 on a Sunday muggy, sultry night and I am feeling twitchy;
palms all itching and scalp all itchy.
Nothing on the telly and my mind is on the run,
sat down at the PC and thought “let’s have some fun”;
I leaned into the soft savage glow of screened letters and try not to be too bitchy.
It’s 9.26 and the lines don’t look too pretty.
I know there’s something there that’s worth rugged ore to say, I’m feeling rather angry
over those who need to pray. This tit for tat exchange of riffs in prose of ab rhythmic crap can emanate all day; but what’s to say?
Thank the doctor and his skill, thank the pharmaceutical pill for curing all the ill; not by will but skill.
Thank the nurses and the other staff who got you here on time, thank the one who called them to your aid for they have not committed any crime.
If you must give thanks to the thing that isn’t thank it for the ill it caused, for in its omnipotent ramblings it never gave a pause; certainly not for you in your conceit. That’s some feet.
If its will be done then why do we stand in its trundling mindless way, step back and let it all go down let thy will be done I say.
If ten thousand souls is menu sought then thwarting will is what you do, when red cross bound you gallop in and help five thousand fish pull through.
It’s 9.38 and getting late and I must rise to teach, the end is nigh and my soap box low and minds I’ve failed to reach; are you reading this?