Poor Impulse Control

I just want a veranda.

I'm no longer quite sure what that is.

But it's pleasant and quiet,

And it's where I drink my coffee.

I don't need the money, or the cars,

And I need but one woman.

I don't need a big house, just a small one.

It has my coffee in it,

my woman next to me,

and I,

The blathering of the self-righteous.

That chokehold;

Politically correct.

Participation awards gold and glimmering,

Shining on each proud child’s chest.

Endless excuses writhing in a liar’s mouth

Insects writhing en masse, and breeding.

It’s these pigs and vermin

That wallow in self-pity like fresh sewage,

Green and bubbling that burns my eyes.

The taste of smog;

A brown cloud of laziness hath descended,

And my tongue recoils and my mouth clamps shut.

I watch each husk of a student,

Speak in braggadocios tones of homework incomplete.