The Modern Curmudgeon

I don't want to be writing this poem.

I'd much rather be on my way home.

But I've three lines to write

Now just two, end in sight:

Here's the last one. Now I must be going.

"I'm going to work" he explained The shirt he'd put on that day "Well you look to me Quite like a worker bee" "Actually, Dad, he said, "worker A."

Tomorrow I turn 41. What to do once these limericks are done? Will my idle hands seek Out some evil unspeak- able once this new freedom's begun?

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