This poem was written mid January for the theme "The End of The World". Another 'grumpy-old-man reflection on society. Grr. I'll bite the table.
“It’s the end of the world!
I want straight hair, not curled;
My mascara has made my eyes red.
I’ve gained twenty grammes
And you don’t need exams
To see what I’ve got on my head.
If I can’t lose that zit
Then he won’t think I’m fit
An’ he’ll go off with somebody new.
I’ve brought the wrong lippy –
I look like a hippie –
And look: his name’s on my tattoo!”
“Our world’s at its end!
We can never defend
With our goalkeeper in his sick bed.
And as for the ref
Well, he must be deaf –
He ignored what his own linesman said,
Though he should have spied
That their bloke was offside;
The moron is just without reason.
Kick our manager out
For our team’s – without doubt –
In a lower division next season.”
It’s an overused phrase
Used for every malaise:
The “end of the world” for all maladies.
One could be excused
If the phrase was abused
Purely for personal tragedies,
But this overreaction
Is just a distraction
Diluting the meaning for fun.
Unless this is evidence
The end of the world has begun.