I met a spirit on the stairs.
It said, why didn’t you speak up for yourself? Turn the volume knob to 11.
Why did you make that so easy? What are you? A Sunday morning?
You’re not a trampoline, designed to catch them on the rebound.
Tell them you’re brilliant, like a James Blunt song.
Why did you fall back on jokes? You’re not a bloody comedian.
Tell them everything they’ve done,
Everything you felt and hoped and dreamed,
But in a funny way. You’re a bloody comedian.
Why didn’t you say ‘you’re full of so much rubbish, they’ve started using you as landfill’?
You’re a four leaf clover, in a field of bovine incongruity.
You’re a hedge fund that’s a safe bet.
(Your investment can go up as well as down.)
That decisions, like optical illusion,
Are best viewed from a distance.
You should have said they’ll be back in three months.
Show a bit of backbone, instead of a cold shoulder.
Put up a fight, not flight. I thought you had a fear of flying.
Used those feet of clay, to show that you have ‘stickability’.
I let the spirit talk it’s self into the shadows,
Smiled sadly and said good night.