Feeling sorry for himself can be addictive,
A solitary Life can still be conflictive,
Dislike of himself can be so vindictive.
Insults when he passes involuntary lively emissions of wind,
Essential that he has to remain thick-skinned,
They can be lethally pungent & musical like woodwind,
They make him feel guilty, as if he has sinned!
His angina he names Anne Gyna in fun,
His haemorrhoids feel at times like a blow-gun,
His dodgy reflux valve can stupefy and stun,
His WC visits on waking must be begun.
Arthur Itis ever present for the home-bound nomad,
But this does make the Nottingham lad a tad sad,
His repaired ticker still goes, making him glad,
But his relationship memories are so bad.
His lack of social skills are the worst ever seen,
He left school uneducated at the age of fourteen,
Got himself a job as a goffer and he was very keen,
Until he fell off the back of the lorry, rupturing his spleen.
Many woes and accidents were inflicted over the years,
So pain and frustration for Inchy hold no fears,
He take the insults and vilifications that he hears,
And the mocking, stares and incredulous insults he bears.
Easily he falls out with himself, on a daily basis too,
Happy memories can make him feel despairing and blue,
Yet self-destruction he seems intent to pursue,
He knows his failings and accepts them, although few.
What makes the old chap depressed and irascible?
Impecuniosity, frustrated with life? – Possible,
His ailments, unseemliness or his being gullible?
Or his being incapacitated and full of bull?
Is he really lonely, or is it imagined or an aberration?
Can he cope any longer with his lack of acclamation?
Why does he think he is doomed to cremation?
Never to know any true affection?
Hello… he’s cheered up and showing signs of jubilation?
Ah I see… it’s come back on has his BT internet connection!