Unmoved

I put on weight when I quit cigarettes,
I put on weight the year that I retired,
I put on weight when our new maid was hired
(That didn't bother Becca, who took bets
On when the maid, who suffered from Tourette's,
Would cry, "Get off me!"), and was uninspired
By exercise, which only made me tired,
So all that fits now is my epaulets.

My heart's dishonourable as my discharge,
So I no longer wear the uniform,
But I am unmoved in the harshest storm
And have been likened to a fine Thames barge:
As sturdy as an oak, and twice as large,
As friendly as a Labrador, and warm.

Choosing Winners

No, I'm O.K. I haven't drawn a blank
In choosing winners from among the fools,
The squandered talents, atheists, and ghouls.
I do admit I don't know whom to thank
For all the bad advice. So let's be frank:
When you gave up the use of human tools
And joined the Revolution, there were schools
Who praised you, but my heart called you a crank.

The following are things you may resent:
Those rent farmers attempting to evict
You from your home, calling it derelict;
The new sum they demanded for the rent;
Your lack of friendly hands in Parliament;
My choosing winners, leaving you unpicked.

These Busted Days

Does any of this matter? Was I nuts
To think the world was ready for this crime?
Was it important that one missing dime
Should halt proceedings? If a thousand cuts
Did not result in death, and homeless mutts
Won prizes at the dog show, was it time
To publish details of our ruinous climb
Which took us to the tops of toxic huts?

All hail the unexpected shout of mirth,
The inhospitable hospice design,
The mighty puzzled oak, the knotty pine,
And all the friendless moles that dig the earth.
I can't be sure what anything is worth,
These busted days, these evenings without wine.

Honour Faltering

I've given up respect: for me, for you,
For anybody. Time to pace the roads,
Describing all my enemies as toads,
Imparting wisdom to a chosen few
Who don't deserve it. No one has a clue
About respect. I've written many odes
Explaining virtue and old moral codes,
And honour faltering is nothing new.

Here's where it ends. Here's where the blurting ends,
The truth, the lies, the basking in the sun,
The hope, the desperation, and the fun.
It's over, all the triumphs, trips, and trends;
I'm finished with my enemies, my friends,
My relatives, and strangers. I'm all done.