Ode to My Remote Control
Ah! Plastic box that lies just out of reach,
Many-buttoned friend of I and I;
I long to touch you and to massage each
Button, nipple-like, before I die.
You are the thing I live for, you and whisky,
Single malt, of course, not on the rocks.
Sometimes on Wednesdays I feel so frisky
And then, on Thursdays I must wash my socks.
When you are cracked and old, your batteries dead,
I will not chuck you in the rubbish bin!
Oh no, Not I, not I, Oh No! I said,
I'll probably hide you in the biscuit tin.
