I don’t think I’m mad but
My memories..? Run
Don’t think I feel sad but
I’ve stopped having fun

I went up the stairs
and forgot why I’d gone
Came down and.. who cares
It revolves on and on

I can’t understand
How to drive anymore
My brain’s in the wind.. and
My foot’s through the door

My wool hat’s pulled on but..
My feet are unclad
I would wear my socks but..
Its just like my dad

If I could remember
The thing or the part
I’d rather September
Debouching debart

Than trapped in the feathon
Falanding krilane
The mourning.. the fostron
Suspicing the sane

In cough or in coffin
Take me and go off
They hide me – they’re laffin
I die and.. enough

The bath’s on the floorboards
It floods through the door
I paddle.. on.. onwards
To reach the far shore

With pies in the gas grill
And gas taps left on
I eat.. but the taste still..
Elusively.. gone

The world is my snap-trap
I pack up the bin
There’s more to this clip-trap
The bottles go in

And pills in the waking
And pills in the night
And pills are for taking
..I must get it right

I’ve taken tomorrow’s
The next day’s as well
It adds to my sorrows
A ‘medicine hell’

My cushions are splendid
Piled high to sit on
The programme has ended
.. The tele’s a ‘con’

Its always remote and
I can’t work it out
I bawl and I throat and
I stamp and I shout

I bathe in the morning
For shops that are shut
Its somehow the evening
.. I must dress my foot

Life’s ever confusing
That tray’s got to leave
And who has been using..
She’s dead – I must grieve

I sleep like a barmy
Old man.. and I fought
In the war in the army
In battle..? I thought?

My tales.. entertaining
Grow wild and remote
And hours explaining
Yes.. where is my coat?

But sitting and drinking
My corner’s still there
I’m chatting.. or thinking
Whenever time’s spare

My friends in the pub
Are a comfort to me
And habit’s the job
And just letting life be

Copyright © Charlotte Peters Rock