Poo on the Carpet (A post modern exploration of 21st century single suburban life) AKA my first poem )

Why’s there a turd on my carpet?

Was it me? I thought I just farted?

Why didn’t this next line, rhyme?

Oh it did? It was just a disembarkment from what the previous two lines started.

I’m obviously not the smartest alarmist.

Despite the size of what lies in my undergarment.

But this still doesn’t clear up who pooed on my carpet.

Philip Larkin - This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had,

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn,

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern,

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.