In the netherworld of nearly, but not quite,
the autopsied remains of Saturday night
fill the living room with evidence of life;
half eaten pizza slices and a dirty knife.
Words of wisdom, stale as undrunk beer
still echo, part forgotten, in my ear:
The truth of youth, uninformed by time,
has ended global warming, poverty and crime.
The Sunday morning papers missed the scoop
and report we are up to our necks in poop;
despite the wealth depicted on each page,
we are all as poor as lab rats in a mortgaged cage.
Throw open curtains; see the feral cats at play:
The freedom of the lark is to be their prey.
