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.