Cliche Man

It’s hard to deny...
And I hate to say...
My life and I
Are a bad cliche.

I can’t keep pace.
I’m hung out to dry.
I’ve egg on my face,
And spots on my tie.

I’m not a good sport.
My ass is grass.
I’m down a quart.
I’m out of gas.

I don’t have a shot.
I’m just a lost cause.
I’ve gone to pot.
I’m grasping at straws.

As a rule of thumb,
I’m dumb as a post.
Beat like a drum,
It’s over. I’m toast.

What can I say?
I’m Barny Fife.
It’s more than a day...
It’s a bad hair life.

I’m watching “As the World Turns," * *David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
I’m sleeping at the wheel.
A fuddled, muddled Elmer Fudd,
I never keep it real.

No hope... no hope at the end of my rope,
My glass is not half full.
I just can’t cope. I’m such a dope,
Useless as tits on a bull.

A silly sap, all over the map,
I’m totally talk and no action.
I yap and yap and sling the crap
And get no satisfaction.

I have no house. I have no spouse.
I’m a bridesmaid never a bride.
Nor man, nor mouse, I’m just a louse.
My living will has died.

I’ve known nothing since I don’t know when.
I’m a compulsive hoarder.
I’m hen-pecked without a hen,
So low on the pecking order.

My back is all against the wall.
My teeth are tightly clenched.
The handwriting is on the wall
I bang my head against.

I’m a dodo deep in doo-doo,
Never given any quarter.
There’s no paddle in my canoe.
Both oars ain’t in the water.

I’m as dense as a London fog.
I can’t even pull up my socks,
A lazy dog, a bump on a log,
And dumb as a bag of rocks.

My bones are brittle.
My brain is fried.
Not fit as a fiddle,
I’m fit to be tied.

I’ve lost my youth.
My bones are thin.
I’m long in the tooth
By my chinny-chin-chin.

I’m so predictable,
Not one quirk in me.
It’s despicable;
Stick a fork in me.

I’ve lost my way.
I’ve failed. I’ve sinned.
Every day
I piss in the wind.

I’m totally beat.
I’m just a laugh.
Never the wheat,
Always the chaff.

Life is no fun.
I’m the one they all tease at.
No place in the sun,
I’m something to sneeze at.

Along in years,
I’m bored to tears,
A turd, on the whole,
In my own punch bowl.

I have no pride
I’ve lost my wits
I’m dead inside;
I’ve called it quits.

No ducks in a row,
Not even one.
I’ve nothing to show.
Call 911.

I’m bad at love,
No good in bed,
A bad cliche
And good as dead

I’ll bid adieu
As I began,
The sad but true
Cliche man.