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
