99

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.

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