You'd never know it but buddy, I'm a kind of poet
And I got a lot of things to say
And when I'm gloomy, you simply gotta listen to me
Till it's all talked away
It actually is a quarter to three and there’s no one in the place – except me
Not even a ‘Joe’ to set ‘em up, or to listen to One wittering on.
Would you Christmas Eve it, eh? First – can’t stop sleeping
Now – can’t sleep at all!
Repatriation to the Underground Lair brings the horror of One’s current situation to the fore.
One wonders if ‘crowd funding’ would be considered for a flollopy old has been like One, in order that One could live out the rest of One’s days in a quiet little retirement bung somewhere?
Any road up, should be starting work soon and hopefully able to sort some stuff out. Who’d have thought it, Dear Reader, that One would be glad to have a job that pays what One earned as a teenager?
‘C’est la vie,’ well it’s One’s ‘vie’ anyway, or so it would seem.
In the hours of daylight One’s ridiculous Pollyanna attitude is in place, but once enveloped by the dark, lonely gloom of the Underground Lair it’s another story. (I hope it’s one with a happy ending)
See! There One goes again, reaching for a tiny strand of happiness that floated past and trying to wind it round my chubby little digit.
See, the thing is: One is almost two, and as everyone knows: two can live as cheaply as One, but one on One’s own is struggling a bit at the mo.
Hey ho! Pass the Pinot. Oh I forgot, I can’t afford any! ‘Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’