Poopsticks, enumerated.

My whine collection
With thanks to my beautiful sister Jo for reminding me about the things that give me the screaming irrits. She's also much, much better at being mean.

My mother always told me
If you can’t say something nice,
Then just say nought,
And so I ought
To follow her advice.

For years I smiled quite nicely,
I was civil, I was meek,
But underneath,
Behind clenched teeth,
There brewed a storm of pique.

So today’s prevailing practice,
Shall be ‘better out than in’.
I need to vent
The discontent
That swells beneath my skin

And so, below you’ll find it;
The airing of my spleen
From gentle gibe
To diatribe,
It helps me stay serene.

First up: Karl Stefanovic,
Who’s a man not to my taste;
A slick veneer,
But ‘twixt each ear
There lies a barren waste.

Those little ‘Magic Happens’
Bumper stickers that appeal
To those who think
My aura’s pink
And unicorns are real.

Those weasly corporate managers
Who say “we’re working smarter”,
“Proactive”
And “incentivize”
Which mean precisely nada.

Those vacant, pretty actors
Who call their job a “craft”;
All pouty-lipped;
Without a script,
They come off rather daft.

Those so-called ‘cosmeceuticals’
That claim they’re ‘age-defying’.
They promise youth,
And claim the truth.
I promise you they’re lying.

And Ms Dion. Celine Dion,
That warbling, scrawny loon.
Only became
A household name
‘Cause she can shout in tune.

And you, Indian Mynah,
Who swoops as I walk by;
Your call’s absurd,
Cruel bully bird
And cockroach of the sky.

So there you have it, gentlefolk,
I’m feeling quite relieved.
From now on I’ll
Be sweet and smile
Until next time I’m peeved.