I must get back to my desk again, this lunchtime has flown by,
And all I ask is that if I’m late, I won’t catch the boss’s eye;
And if I’m ill and white as a sail with limbs and body shaking,
And I call in sick (third time this month), my boss won’t think I’m faking.

I must get back to my desk again, and complete my tasks with pride.
Because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure my leave request will be denied;
And all I ask is that someday it’s acknowledged I’ve been trying,
And I get the promotion for which Smith and Jones are vying.

I must get back to my desk again, to the constant corporate strife,
I hope and pray my meagre pay can feed my obese kids and wife;
And all I ask is that today, the ****** printer won’t keel-over,
And that retirement comes swiftly, so this nightmare can be over.

My garden once was green and lush.
Until on mass there came a mush
of leaf munching slimy things.
Vegetation annihilating thugs…
…an invasion of Spanish Slugs.

I’ve tried to stop them but I can’t.
They’ve decimated every plant.
In my shrubbery they dine like kings.
Sombrero wearing baronets…
…proudly clacking their castanets.

Monday’s child will slap your face,
Tuesday’s child is a disgrace,
Wednesday’s child stamps on your toe,
Thursday’s child just won’t go,
Friday’s child is most unforgiving,
Saturday’s child won’t work for a living,
And as for the child that’s born on a Sunday -
– they’ll tell you lies and steal your pay.

I post on my wall when I’m Happy.
I post on my wall when I’m sad.
I post on my wall for no reason at all,
and upload snaps of food I’ve just had.

I’m ever so popular on facebook.
I’ve got nine-hundred-and-eighty best friends.
What? – no, of course I’ve not met them all!
That’s a custom our deep-bond transcends.

You whine, you moan, complain and groan,
on & on, a cyclic whinging drone.
I listen patiently – what a glutton.
But how I wish you had a mute button.

A fellow got into a fix
Trying to teach his dog some new tricks
His canine named Rover
Refused to roll over
And seemed totally blind to thrown sticks

On warm sunny mornings, down by the canals,
trudge humans with canines – their supposed best pals.
I often wonder which is the smarter species.
The one that can’t read, at the front of the lead?
Or the one on-tow, clutching a small bag of faeces?