Oh no, oh no,
What will be my fate,
I’m running, running,
I’m running late.
If only they’ll let me,
Let me explain,
Why I’m late,
Why I’m late again.
Oh dear, oh dear,
I’m late once more,
But I’m only little,,
I’m not yet four.
I looked at my watch,
But read it wrong,
For I’ve not been telling,-
The time for long!
Lo, Meursault, the hero, of the novel, 'the outsider',
Is spun by absurdity, like the web of a spider.
Neither religion nor society does affect him,
Nor does anything like Faith and Hope make him sing a hymn.
Takes truths compatible like peanut, jelly, or butter,
Or simply interchangeable like a knife or cutter...
He admits his widowed mother in a home for the aged,
When she seeks his filial fondness he's fiercely enraged.
His mother's demise, like an orphan, does not affect him,
Not mourning for her, with his girlfriend, he enjoys a swim.
He's not sad, about murdering someone, for no reason,
His darling finds another; he doesn't feel her act treason.
He spends his time in prison working, eating, and sleeping,
He lives like a wooden log; no system; no timekeeping.
He takes his capital punishment too, just like a feast,
One could see his existence ending like that of a beast...!
08 May 2023
Couplet Poetry Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
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