Hate

Hate by matthew irving

I hate so many things in life.
This causes me such grief and strife.
My list is long and overrun.
By evening I shall not be done,
Or ‘finished’ is what I should say.
And now I shall be on my way.

I hate the things that make me sick
And also insects like the tick.
Philosophy will make me snap.
‘I think therefore I am,” bull crap.
Wet carpet can be quite irksome
And hobos, the spider, not the bum.

I hate the sandal known as Crocs.
I would rather wear wooden blocks.
A messy room makes me irate
And people who are always late.
Butternut squash, tomatoes and corn,
Impatient jerks who honk the horn.

I hate more things than what I’ve said,
But this last one moves in my head.
I think about it day and night,
And in my dreams I gnash and bite.
In class I cannot pay attention.
Do you want to know this thing I mention?

The rolling backpack tops the list.
Lazy, slothful, get the gist?
You don’t, you say, why I have more.
Lethargic, sluggish to the core.
If Satan had to use a pack,
He’d pick the one not for your back.

Just speaking of this awful invention
Causes me such great contention.
The urge is here to punch and swing
At rolling backpacks or anything.
I’m flustered now I hope you know.
Thats it, I’m done, I have to go.