My Address Is....

 

 

Complain Avenue,

Depression Boulevard

In the awful parish of Despair

Where life is very hard.

 

I like to complain

And hold pity parties

Though nobody listens to anybody

And everybody is angry.

 

Disgruntle, my neighbour,

Lives next door

And his wife, Yapping Nag

Is a real bore.

 

Minister Hard-Ears

Is the constituency rep

And he listens every five years;

Otherwise, he is vexed.

 

He’s a busy man

And loves to tell us so,

Not at election time though;

That’s when he’ll show.

 

My area is very quiet

Except for the noise

From the yapping complainers

Void of poise.

 

We are a contented lot

Never mind we complain

And we are used to death mutes

That numb our pain.

 

 

 

Almost thirty years

At Complain Avenue,

I have seen nothing change

Except for the view.

 

Where there was grass

Is now forested

And the vermin that live there

Have us frustrated.

 

There are rats and mice,

A mongoose or two,

And monkeys are taking over

Complain Avenue.

 

 

Well, we routed them

But now they are fighting back,

All is fair in love and war;

Give them some slack.

 

I like the Prime Minister

Boy, she can talk,

Busses coming soon but until,

You’d have to walk.

 

The garbage trucks lost

At least, it looks so

Though not so the garbage tax;

This continues to grow.

 

The sewage tax too

For people with a well,

Peter pays for Paul; Paul pays for all,

I guess that’s swell.

 

 

 

Stop complaining!

I hear you, man

But that’s where I live, yea:

Me and my clan.

 

If I stop complaining

I would go mad,

I get a warp feeling of satisfaction

And this is not all bad.

 

That ends this edition

Of satisfactory complaining,

Minister Hard-Ears hard of hearing

And won’t be listening.

 

Complain Avenue,

Depression Boulevard

In the awful parish of Despair

Where life is very hard.

 

Stewart Russell © November 1, 2024