Deep under the covers of an early morn,
Slumbers the saddest figure ever known,
Tangled in sheets, stale food, and ripped up porn,
Signs of a boredom clearly shown.
This figure has a pathetic look,
Built up from weeks of nothing to do,
Too lazy to even pick up a book,
So he keeps tripping on it as he passes through.
But back at the bed where he lays,
Half-naked and smelling like week-old socks,
This is an improvement of his recent days,
For he usually smells like rum and sweaty jocks.
Something far away causes him to stir,
An echoing ring of a distant phone,
With a glimmer of hope he wipes away the blur,
And picks up the receiver, just to hear dial-tone.
Frustrated that nobody ever calls,
He slowly climbs out of his messy bed,
But he trips over a book and steps on some tennis balls,
Crashing down and bumping his aching head.
Realizing that he’s kissing the floor,
He drags his sore body to his feet,
Slowly, he limps over to the bathroom door,
With a look on his face of utter defeat.
While in the shower, twice he hears,
What sounds like the phone in the next room,
Tripping over the book each time, he’s almost in tears,
As he realizes that it’s the television in the living room.
After twenty minutes of water but no soap,
He lazily dries off with a wash rag,
His face still filthy, how can he cope?
The answer lies with a forty in a paper bag.
Even with the T.V. on, he’s always watching the phone,
Hoping for someone to call him with a job,
But as the commercials blare, rant, and moan,
All he can think is “Who would hire a slob”?
Droning on like this, never changing a thing,
A vicious cycle day after day,
But he always remembers why the phone doesn’t ring,
For he never put in any applications anyway.