Sofa (poem)

Sitting on my sofa in my second-favourite pants,
I scan a hundred channels in a Stella sort of trance.

I can only deal with people shrunk and at a distance,
Or stuff about polar bears, or distant solar systems.

I fantasise about being, about living life aquatic,
Doing something dangerous, sexy, enigmatic.

But the truth I fear would be rather more traumatic,
So I scratch myself at length, watching Cash in the Attic

Al Bundy

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