Sometimes when I’m cooking bacon
and the scent is all around,
the bacon screams quite loud at me,
and it gets me kind of down.
It squeals and spits like it’s alive
as it wiggles in its grease,
“I have no choice. I must eat you,”
as I fry my feast.
Sometimes I feel bad about
the things I can’t control
Okay, fine, I can control,
I admit it, now I’m full.
Sometimes when I’m on a walk
I step upon a slug,
It squirts quite gross as it explodes,
so I wipe it on the rug.
One second it was gliding home
to a wife and eighty kids,
and now it’s goop upon my shoe,
a long green slimy skid.
Sometimes I feel bad about
a split moment mistake,
Sure, I shouldn’t text and walk
but I’m bored! Give me a break.
Sometimes when I read a book
I rip across a page.
It stares at me accusingly
with its text-and-paper rage.
“I’m sorry that I did this thing,
but I can make it right!”
So I tape the rip as best I can
(but I know we’re in a fight).
Sometimes I feel bad about
my clumsy little slips,
but now I bought a kindle
so the paper never rips.