Mr Cliché was known for sleeping in his socks,
Where, he dreamt of thinking outside the box.
For breakfast as always he ate rather plain
Just porridge as he never went against the grain.
Sometimes when dressing he would mumble and tut,
Making sure, to never put the shoe on the other foot.
When he looked in the mirror he called himself a winner
Then searched the fridge to see what to cook for dinner.
He often laughed about all the money he was makin’
As he ran to the butchers to bring home the bacon.
He glanced at his reflection and gave a little smile,
Deciding right there that he would go that extra mile.
He stated the obvious when the opportunity presented
As his colleagues nodded as if they were demented.
To busy to stop and to smell the flowers and roses,
As its much more important to strike the right poses.
When one day a child asked a question as plain as his nose
Did he base his life on the emperor’s invisible clothes?
No they are Armani you silly child what else would I wear
I look good in this suit and what others think I don’t care.
“Zoom” said the child as she waved her hand and walked away
We all die in the end Mister and that’s the real cliché.
Copyright © Seosamh De Burca | Year Posted 2016