It seems that this is some kind
of national sport, worse even,
the current World Cup event,
tempting fate, living in a tent,
hunting just to vent,
blind, deaf, without a scent.
I remember how
my master told me one,
some heavy Chinese swearing,
"May you live interesting times!",
didn't understood, I forgot the moods,
alone in the woods, living in the hood.
For all that we lost, all except ourselves
no more dwarfs and elves,
running off the shelves.
Just a little cream, watching some old crimes
on the new television set, you bet,
trying to forget all the dreams
that we left behind, tolerating some
small forms of abuse, here and then,
just young chickens, one old hen,
bringing China into the bull den,
tiptoeing our slow dance
towards the apocalypse,
no more X-men to save the day,
just me and you, normal gents, but hey,
bring me the hay, my Pegas is hungry,
it's all hunky-dory, I bought some chicory
to make face coffee, or tea, whatever may be
I find writing as some therapeutic exercise,
none the wise, just old Blaise in the maze,
no more some middle-age phase,
was not the case,
I am not sold on this idea of getting old
I could not find the right mold,
the society made me question
even space and time, yet,
I am on the sofa now, watching some old crime
documentary, silly me, to be or not to be,
like a dark knight coming with all my might,
just to say: Good Night.
Nothing on sight.
No fight.
One flight.
Right?
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