Bumhole Bumps’ idols,
pagan golden images,
that people worship.
The world has gone strange,
claiming one thing with passion,
to then deny it.
Dispite all the news,
showing this hyprocrisy,
they speak out proudly.
I do not like news,
I live a simple true life,
with my short Haiku.
There more than enough,
nonsense in the news for sure,
most of it is bad.
The sun’s breaking through,
the greyness of the morning,
for a brighter day,
Lunch was a pork pie,
and a cup of tea, that’s me,
it doesn’t take much.
My office’s a mess,
a lot of stuff and no space,
I want space not stuff.
Piles of stacked papers,
arranged in piles everywhere,
that all need clearing.
It is like my head,
there’s piles of things inside there,
arranged in a mess.
Well, the March is here,
trying hard to pull away,
from the winters grasp.
