Modern Life is Rubbish IV He sits in his chair, propped up Like a temporary structure, Craning, yet, motionless, apart from his eyes, Which scan the streetscape, hawkish, Hungrily feasting on every morsel of detail: The street lamp, still lit at midday again, Wasting the council's money And increasing our tax bill; The family at number 8, arguing again, The children huddled together in their room For protection from projectiles; Those aspiring, entitled middle class kids next door, Who've gone in over their heads again, Brand new range rover in the drive and now Wondering why the bank is chasing them Because they can't pay the mortgage; The clapped out Ford Slowly dripping oil on to the driveway again At number 12; the kids from number 14 Abandoned to fend for themselves again, As their so called mother goes off down The bingo; the teenage girl from 16, Waiting that boyfriend again who'll Want to use her and get some pictures for The lads, takes another pouting selfie In an attempt to boost her bruised ego And forget about her bruised, Man-handled thighs. His days are strung out between gawping Through to the world he has become departed from, To gawping at the daytime television programmes He is totally divorced from. Programmes about: Petulant teenage mothers with claw-like, repugnant red painted nails; The abusive alcohol driven yobs spoiling For gladiatorial combat for the salivating millions Goading them on, boasting about how many He's fucking and his other sordid night time activities; The monotony of drawn out melodrama In bleak cityscapes, with stereotypical Regional accents grating on him, Like finger nails scraping down a blackboard; Channels full of useless junk With plastic smiling orange skinned Hosts droning on about the unique selling points; Bored people at home Commenting on the boring stuff on other Channels, and; sparkling gypsies Giggling inanely on occasions that should be sacred. Squashed into the gaps his fuel is slid under his nose. Always the same basic portion: Slimy packet mash potato; Nuked carrots so hard they can break his dentures; Putrid smelling cabbage boiled until It's unrecognisable mush; yorkies burned to carbon Crumbing to black dust upon the plate; Rubbery meat, which is hard to distinguish between lamb, pork, chicken, and; Gravy so thick it could be sliced. He looks out of that window at this mess, He stares blinkingly at the screening horror show, He chews numbly on the crap food he's been served, And he feels himself, just like this world, Inevitably rot. Another degrading piece of forgotten Junk left on the scrap heap. Just like those kids And all those who came before, Victims of callous modern life.
General William Booth, English Methodist preacher and founder of the Salvation Army, was born today in 1829.
Joseph Pulitzer, American Newspaper publisher and Congressman, was born today in 1847.