The carpet's paid for; God Bless the TV
It keeps us informed.
Cosy in our little room with the curtain drawn
one thing's for certain, we still have
our window on the world
Slowly we've slipped
Rarely, we fight, over which shows are good
You hold the remote,"It's understood."
Flip, flip, you change channels, searching
for a show with some meaning to you, while
I with books piled high beside me, sit oblivious-
searching for meaning in poetry
I battle with inadeqate words against
the TV's droning tune
Some night I'll write one that
shoots holes in the moon.