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The Ballad Of Heretical Appliances Pt.1
Late one mornin', I was layin',
the sofa makin' me sore;
the fridge was hummin' nastily,
leakin' all over the floor,
while the fan noisily disturbed
dust motes of all kinds;
Sunlight was busy peakin' through
my carefully closed blinds.
I, then, started sneezin' with
horrid strength far too often.
At first at a loss for what
got me wheezin' 'n coughin',
it suddenly dawned on me,
it was my soul tryin' to escape.
So, I knew what I really needed:
a fresh roll of maskin' tape.
But, those connivin' appliances
were conspirin' against me,
for some reason, aidin' my spirit's
traitorous attempt to flee;
as I arose from the sofa, an
unholy fit made my chest tight,
dust blew into my eyes, robbin'
me of righteous sight.
Yet, like some noble saint,
I struggled ever on;
the sole, uncarin' witness was
the curious mornin' Sun.
Sufferin' from watchful heat
and fan-blown blindness,
made my way to the kitchen,
thankin' it's cool, linoleum kindness,
only to slip on it's tiles,
where the fridge's water'd settled.
Like Peter, my near-martyrdom
was ass-over-tea-kettled.
Resurrectin' myself, resentin' now,
the Sun's greedy gaze all mornin',
My sightlessness was lifted
to the chorus of robins singin'.
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