Seventy Six

So today I'm ripping off this fine blog, in which Tim writes a 16 line poem every day (and therefore does about three times as much rhyming as me. Something like that anyway.) His are infinitely better, and all at http://twentington100.wordpress.com

There's a man who works in an office near London Bridge station and I see him sitting at his desk every day. I don't know why I speifically look for him, but I seem to have picked out a couple of people to look out for every time my train is going throuh the bit with all the offices around Tower Bridge. Anyway, I now haven't seen him around for a week and a half so I started to wonder where he'd gone. And then imagined where he might have gone in a 16-line poem format. As you do.



One day a bald man at his job
Was busy doing 'work'.
He made some tea and ate two meals -
Some things he would not shirk.

Sometime he'd also have a nap
With slippers, dressing gown.
Then somone called him 'lazy' and
It really brought him down.

It turned out that most colleagues did
Not think him good at all.
When he wasn't drooling at his desk
He'd gone out playing ball.

So he left his job that gloomy day
And glumly went to bed,
Ate takeaway and had a sleep,
Then painted the town red.


(I wanted him to be happy in the end - he seems like a nice enough bloke. Or, at least, the back of his head through the window always seems nice enough...)




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