I am upset
That my car gets
Ten miles to the gallon,
And the car I bought
With a defective horn
Was obsolete
The year I was born,
And my washing machine
Has a habit each day
Of coloring my clothes
A nondescript gray,
And my calculator's been
An unruly guide,
Subtracting when I add,
Multiplying when I divide.

Should I sit back in silence,
Pondering what to do?

But my mind can't solve this awful mess.
It's defective too.