Delta40
07-19-2011, 05:49 PM
She says her room is just messy.
More like Katrina whirled in for a visit.
How to get from the door to her bed so we can talk.
It's the floordrobe which prevents me getting closer
Garbage and valued possessions blur my senses
as mysterious odours ominously warn,
Get Out While You Can!
All her clothes, clean, unwashed, torn
meld into mini termite hills
and I imagine her as the queen larva
squeezing out can after empty can of power drinks.
Please Lord, make sure she gets a daughter just like her!
Numerous high heels stick upwards
from the hidden jarrah floor
like an indian bed of nails.
Three bathroom towels are wound into turbans.
There is definitely more than one elephant stashed in this war torn room.
She can grow toadstools in the night without a second thought.
I spot splashes of candle wax on my precious DVD.
The Best of Catherine Tate
Now the steam really blows out of my ears, my face tomato red
like some old Looney Tunes cartoon.
Her bed is covered in moulting cat hair
and I demand answers that I know are at least another two years away.
For now, all she does is look steadfastly at the ceiling thinking,
How much longer will that old cow go on for?
I try to rescue the DVD from the infestation of rot
but fear the hidden land mines that could blow my limbs apart.
My opinion bounces off the walls, only to land at my feet.
It hurriedly scuttles out of the room, gasping for air.
So I retreat from the floodrobe with a futile request to clean her room.
She carelessly shrugs her shoulders and replies,
Is my face bovvered?
More like Katrina whirled in for a visit.
How to get from the door to her bed so we can talk.
It's the floordrobe which prevents me getting closer
Garbage and valued possessions blur my senses
as mysterious odours ominously warn,
Get Out While You Can!
All her clothes, clean, unwashed, torn
meld into mini termite hills
and I imagine her as the queen larva
squeezing out can after empty can of power drinks.
Please Lord, make sure she gets a daughter just like her!
Numerous high heels stick upwards
from the hidden jarrah floor
like an indian bed of nails.
Three bathroom towels are wound into turbans.
There is definitely more than one elephant stashed in this war torn room.
She can grow toadstools in the night without a second thought.
I spot splashes of candle wax on my precious DVD.
The Best of Catherine Tate
Now the steam really blows out of my ears, my face tomato red
like some old Looney Tunes cartoon.
Her bed is covered in moulting cat hair
and I demand answers that I know are at least another two years away.
For now, all she does is look steadfastly at the ceiling thinking,
How much longer will that old cow go on for?
I try to rescue the DVD from the infestation of rot
but fear the hidden land mines that could blow my limbs apart.
My opinion bounces off the walls, only to land at my feet.
It hurriedly scuttles out of the room, gasping for air.
So I retreat from the floodrobe with a futile request to clean her room.
She carelessly shrugs her shoulders and replies,
Is my face bovvered?