I am poorly and
listening to James Taylor
on loop,
wishing that I was he
and that I was
going to Carolina
with the secret of life
in my back pocket
instead of snotty tissues,
sitting in a call centre
feeling sorry for myself
with a heavy head
so full of mucus
that if I was so inclined,
and mucus dried
much the way plaster did,
I could plaster an entire room
with its contents
and with this it has just dawned on me
that I couldn't be further from
James Taylor
if I tried
and now I'm sad
and
congested
which we all know
makes Thom a ratty boy.
No comments:
Post a Comment