Sunday 17 June 2012

DORA

Why pan Dora’s box?
Because: it’s full of socks and hopeless.
Like her box, bereft of hope,
Dora, drunk in her bedroom, has a grope,
Below faded pictures of the Pope.
Beneath her bed she keeps a rope,
Above which she dreams of hanging,
She’s frequently woken by next-door’s banging.
Tired, she blinks,
She’ll be late for work again,
Fired, she thinks.
Low-life regulars in her local buy her drinks,
Their breath and clothing, like her life, stinks,
Numbed to their advances, into depression she sinks.
She ponders her life, analysing links,
Occasionally feeling her life’s a jinx,
Gone are her chances of straightening kinks.
Her days of financial hardship and self-reproach,
Are lonely periods without a life coach,
But what could she learn anyway?
Except for definitions of shades of grey,
That corresponds with the segments of each day.
She has dark circles under her eyes,
And lacks things in her life to prize,
She’s neither extremely foolish nor overly wise,
She’s existing in a trap that’s crap and no surprise.


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