Rot

First came the relentless rain,

whereby rot took root in the wood.

As those helpless, dying fibers

silently decomposed,

a single, creeping worm

benignly supposed

that he'd found a hole

of the perfect size.

Deaf to the house's creaking sighs,

he made himself at home,

and the vile stench of his comfort

drew the fascination of his ilk

for relative miles around.

A resounding urge to milk

this sudden nest for its whole worth

gave swift, disturbing birth

to a hungry colony.

Far too busy paying the bills

to notice the sagging posture

of your dwelling,

you lived obliviously

until the very walls and floor were swelling

with the mass of your neglect.

In retrospect,

now left with nothing,

a cursory investigation

would have revealed the dire necessity

for an ethical extermination.

But now you're here,

and if you desire to hire

someone for the fumigation

of your vacant heart,

I know a guy.

His rates are steep,

but you won't hear a peep

and he does the job like no one else.

He might even have something

for those nasty welts

on your beer-battered brain.

I paid him once, an arm and leg,

but I never felt the same.

Do I occasionally catch a glimpse

of my old anhedonia?

Are there days when gray

is all I see, and apathetic pneumonia

chokes me half to death,

surrender slowly filling my failing lungs?

Of course, of course,

and you have my remorse, but I've sung

that dreadful round of karaoke

so long that it's lost its edge.

One day, I decided I'd try

to write a song of my own instead.