Felt like writing a poem for this week’s tirade,
Grasping for words that rhyme: how about Miami-Dade?
AT&T just sent me an invoice, for which they want paid,
Regarding long-distance service on my Verizon account, canceled on the 8th day of May.
Since I have a cellular device with another phone number,
I decided to place my landline asunder,
Now disconnected from the grid,
Placed in the graveyard closet where my old electronic components are hid.
So now I have to hassle with AT&T’s corporate machine,
By calling an “800” number, stating I used only two days utility—billed for thirty it seems.
Most likely I’ll be placed on hold after being transferred to someone and being told,
To hang on again, not to worry, I won’t be left out in the cold.
Don’t you hate those MIDIs being played,
In between the messages that regularly say,
All agents are busy, and please remain on hold,
While listening to that lame music, if I may be so bold.
Even worse, after putting up with all those elevator tunes,
Holding the phone against one’s ear, feeling like it’s about to fall off soon,
Not wanting to miss the next available agent, hoping to have my problem resolved,
But getting disconnected instead, wanting to throw the blasted phone against the wall.
There’s always something to bug me in my life,
Why can’t I live without something that gives me strife?
Is it Karma that comes to play,
Weekly, monthly, yearly, every day?
A song sung by the Grateful Dead,
Contains a lyric which the band once said,
“Cause when life looks like Easy Street, there is danger at your door,”
Something I can agree with forevermore.
What else can I complain about in this week’s poetic diatribe,
To make up my 500-word quota, now 197 words shy?
My neighbor downstairs hasn’t been a twit,
No cigar-smoking, nor calling the cops, having his regular fit.
That’s ‘cuz I’ve stopped playing my drums,
Such a shame not being able to have some fun,
No single, double, triple or flam-paradiddles,
Ratamacues, dragadiddles, stroke rolls or paradiddle-diddles.
I like especially the ratamacues,
Yet I can’t even have a barbecue,
Out on the terrace of my flat,
A township fire ordinance is against that.
Methinks I need to move,
Said that last year before my lease was through,
But here again I renewed it until May of 2019,
Boxing up all my stuff is definitely a pain in my spleen.
Not looking forward to moving again,
Having done it too often, my friend.
Hold on while I count the times…,
‘Twas 35 or 36, but that doesn’t rhyme.
If not such a procrastinator,
I would be packing some now and a little bit later,
Until the dreaded deed will be all done,
Throwing out mounds of junk until there’s none.
For the furniture I’ll hire a moving company,
These old bones have moved too many times already.
I’m finished lugging stuff up and down a few flights of stairs,
Let someone else do it, I don’t care.
Too bad, because I really like this place,
Aside from the inconveniences I hate,
Mentioned oh, too often in this journal as of late,
So I’ll not bring it up again until another date.
My 500 words have been met,
Thanks for allowing me to share my discontent,
Until the next time I feel like rhyming,
I’ll say good day and night. How’s that for timing?