Sonnet twenty hate, or, the careless irony of green capital

Stretching with my belly out,

my skins’ sticking to the sofa.

The water’s boiled in the kitchen spout;

I’m worn out like a loafer.

The time seems to hardly move

when the Sun hugs the sky so tightly.

You can’t even hit your groove

when you’re in bed at 8pm nightly.

But I’m sure one day it’ll all be better,

and we won’t shield inside thereafter.

There’ll be nothing that can block or fetter

the waves of all of our laughter.

We’ll put our money into ‘Big Water’,

and send the poor to the slaughter.