Login’s For Me, Me, Me!
Some carers are shite, debasing and all that, not fit,
Because just when I’m speeding to end my session,
When they’ve come in on another patronising visit,
They come over, bend down and adjust their vision.
So I growl in a low voice “Wot?” and they even proceed,
To say “What are you doing?”, so I cover up the screen,
With my fist, glance to the kitchen, sit up and concede,
“Nothing,” then they recede back to where they’ve been.
I change my login each time a new carer starts,
‘Cos they peer, peer, peer at my action of entering,
The numbers, and don’t seem to understand their quarts,
Are not intelligent, that they are myself outmanoeuvring.
I can only change my passcode a certain few times,
Since I am not Kevin on Eggheads so only remember,
A handful of historical events for password recall oftimes,
And that memory efforts are not for my times of slumber.
It’s different if I’m playing a game, that’s communal,
High scores are topical and cheats are conversation,
But I never play, and even if I did, that’s personal,
‘Cos I’m not as quick anymore, feel like a station!
Categories:
outmanoeuvring, angst, caregiving, computer, discrimination,
Form: Quatrain