Saturday morning blues.
‘Let me sleep for one more hour!’
you yell yet whisper.
Dreaming of something
to do with Russians, mowers,
and manicured moustaches.
You’ve got a thing for the
Way moustaches grow, move,
and fly about demurely.
The Russians excite you,
as you think about bedding
another Oligarch or two.
Today will be a random kind
of day where you become
a semi-exciting philosopher.
The cat looks at you with
her resting bitch face;
she’s plotting your demise.
You knew when the two of
you met that the cat was a
capitalist, yet you melted.
She reminds you of your
tricky dilemma: Justifying
You move from your Egyptian
Cotton sheets to your lush carpet,
then to your opulent shower.
‘It’s a hard life being so philosophical’,
you say quietly, yet you’re a CEO of a
company and you just fired 40 people.
Looking in the mirror, you can’t see it;
there’s an entitled air about you and
it moves with you through your life.
You play the down and our philosopher,
yet you don’t care about people;
just the clinic of gold bars in your safe.
The cat looks at you with disdain;
She swipes your leg with a paw, then
runs away to her food bowl.
You know she is just like you,
yet you better go and appear as though
you care for all those slaves.