Off the cuff

We have dined and died,
drunk and been drunk.
The butterfluy has floated
past us without notice
whilst the cricket
keeps us from falling.

I remember once;
men used to tip their hats,
but now they just glare
at each other
across the bar.

I sit, half drunk,
and enraged
that this poem
was already written,
but the computer age
stole my words from me again.
I had attacked all of you
without room for a backlash.

The cripple is wheeled through life
giving his carers the sense
of doing good,
whilst you try too hard
to be loved,
so hard
that it makes
it difficult
for the rest of us
to even
notice you.