What Life is Actually Like

I’d like you now to imagine some flowers

and how their sweet bloom can be measured in hours;

how, as they wilt, you can feel the time fly

and you suddenly realise that one day you’ll die.

You see, each bouquet is a great metaphor

for the fact that soon you’ll exist no more.

That’s why poets love demonstrating their powers

writing endless bollocks about fucking flowers

as though they’ve been given a unique premonition,

a privileged glimpse of the human condition.

But why pick a flower? Why not a fart?

Surely that’s just as ripe for high art?

It’s brief, it stinks and it’s gone with the wind.

Maybe most poets are just too thin-skinned?

They like that their flowers are fragrant and pretty

(unlike their real life which is generally shitty).

Hey poets! Hey poets! If you want to show off

try absorbing the fact you’re just like a blow-off.

You’re no daisy nor rose, you poetic twerp!

Your life’s much more like a loud bottom burp

and, if you think I’m being grotesque or unfair,

go read your own poems. They’re mostly hot air.