If you like, he can whine for hours,
Casting a critical glance on every last thing,
And summoning Midas-like powers,
Disparage them all exhaustively. He's the king
Of turning upstanding milk sour.
Give him some random meteorological thing...
And moping shall result! All dour
He will say, "This darn warm/cold/wet/dry/windy fling!"
Oy, what a whiny, windy bore.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
In reaction to a previous poem my wife called me a whiner. This hurt my feelings greatly and so, after complaining a bit, I wrote this supposedly autobiographical poem in the third person singular. Take take, wife.