I’ve got 99 problems and the fridge is one,
It won’t keep things cold because the motor’s gone.
I can’t buy myself my yoghurt in a family pack
Unless I’m going to eat the lot of them as soon as I get back.
I’ve got 99 problems and the cats are two,
As I’m sifting through the litter for a shovelful of poo.
There’s an ex-mouse in the kitchen that’s been scraped and squashed
And a hairball on a cushion that I’ve only just washed.
I’ve got 99 problems and my job is three,
‘Cause the boss needs a scapegoat and he’s looking at me.
A client sent instructions that don’t make any sense
And my wages for the week are twenty pounds and seven pence.
I’ve got 99 problems and this poem is one.
I started it five hours ago and still it isn’t done.
If it’s still like this by midnight, I’ll give up and go to bed.
I wish to God I’d tried to write a Limerick instead.