Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Please bring back paper bags,
I cry in genuine pain.
Those tight wrapped plastic covers
are driving me insane.

With scissors, knives and razor blades,
I hack and cut and snip,
trying to get the product out
from its clinging, shroud like grip.

I think I'm there, its giving way,
I've made a little tear,
I put my finger in and pull,
it jams, its a rabbit snare.

I cannot move my finger,
and worse it starts to bleed,
its got me trapped inside the thing,
but I will not concede.

I wave it round, I give a shake,
I slam it on the bench,
then tighten it up in the workshop vice,
and grab a mole grip wrench.

I jam in a screwdriver, 
to ease the hole a bit,
and force the mole grip jaw in,
and wangle it to fit.

The grip now covers my finger,
but I'm too stressed out to see,
I use all my strength to lever the tool,
and shriek when the grip squashes me.

The plastic wrap is still attached,
and I think I might use a saw,
but my fingers are very dear to me
so the idea I quickly withdraw.

My neighbour comes running to aid me,
when my screaming hits top note,
and he sizes things up in a moment,
and fetches a length of rope.

He rigs up a block and tackle,
that he uses on his boat,
and with seaman like knots and rigging,
to the task his skill he devotes.

After greasing my finger all over,
and fixing a hook to the pack,
he calculates the angles and distance,
and on the rope he takes up the slack.

With the rope's end tied round his body,
a shanty he started to chant,
and he heaved as he sang out those stirring words,
that sailors of old did chant.

The rigging was working its magic,
the packet was starting to shift,
and with one final plop I was freed of the thing,
as the pack could no longer resist.

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