Rants In My Pants
Some may have noticed, I like to have rants
And mostly those rants are while I’m in my pants.
Not pants as in trousers, but pants as in smalls,
The kind that are fashioned as hammocks for balls.
My near-bare expunging of thoughts in my head,
While wife calmly sleeps up the stairs, in our bed.
Of Trump and of Brexit and all things right-wing,
Angrily typing, while morning birds sing.
Some say it’s obsession, some say its a curse,
The raging and cussing through potty-mouthed verse.
“Donald’s a fuck-job!”, “Nigel’s a twat!”
“Theresa and Boris like fingering cats!”
Perhaps it’s a thing and I’m losing my mind,
But rants in my pants really help me unwind.
So next time I spout off on Nazis or Don,
Just know that I’m typing with nothing much on;
Spouting my venom and being quite rude,
Half-losing my shit, whilst I’m half in the nude.