In some lonely office world
the latest problems are obscured
by jargon witten on a board –
nonsense scribbled on a wall.
Let flip-charts flip and markers scrawl
because I could be fishing now.
This man like a scratched record
with stationery profanes the word
of Abraham and Solomon.
The air is thick with tedium.
Where pupae hatch and spiders crawl
you know I could be fishing now.
Meanwhile, in some London suburb
silent in their prison yards
the yummy mummies exercise.
Let lonely runners pavements plough.
Let clippers clip and mowers mow
because I could be fishing now.
Waves of chatter bathe us all
like an electric cloud
in layers of banality.
I could escape through a green door
while files upload and pixels glow.
while files upload and pixels glow.
You know I could be fishing now.
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