I am not a social butterfly; I wish that I could be
But really, I am a recluse and hiding pleases me
I write, and read, and sleep a lot, morning, noon and night
The thought of meeting someone will give me quite a fright.
I only do the shopping if I run out of milk and
Make trips to the doctor, and that sort of ilk
I will work in the garden and no-one sees me
But when the neighbours are too noisy I run inside with me.
I sit at the computer most of the day
And I’m sad when messages don’t come my way.
But they are mostly offers; buy this; join this; donate
So then I turn to writing for that other stuff I hate.
You see they want a part of me and what I have to spend
And when you’re on a Pension your funds will quickly end
I suspect those that want my cash can run a nice new car
Or dine in a restaurant I see from afar.
Do you think I’m growing bitter from life experience?
I’d give you my last penny, if you wouldn’t take offence
In my heart I am a giver and if you had a need
I would solve it somehow and answer with speed.