You’re gonna get you just desserts, your time will come,

You’re gonna rue the day, when my work is done,

It’ll  be odd but you’ll swear, you saw it a few days back,

You’ll never know what hit you but you’ll feel an awful crack.

By some strange and uncanny, uncommon happenstance,

You will incur your unhappy, deserved, comeuppance.

Your name will be mud, your career in tatters,

Your precious bubble burst and your dreams shattered.

For some silly reason, you’ll come out in a rash,

You’ll feel sure you should’ve had more cash,

Your nerves will be frayed, your life put on hold,

Your ego battered and fried and left out in the cold.

Is it right that I should think like this, wish you dread and fear,

It isn’t really is it, and I think your life to dear.

All Material on this site © Beth Dismore 2002 - 2018