Guacamole

It's all going to 

Come back 

To bite you on the A**

Everything you write 

Everything you say -

So why 

I ask -

do we even talk 

At all 

Why don't we have the sense 

To see this coming -

And shut up 

But what fun 

Would that be ?

As a child 

With no one to talk to 

A blank piece of paper 

Was a friend -

Someone who 

Would listen to 

All my moanings 

And groanings 

Now, I have no excuse 

Other than 

Pure cussedness -

I have learned to read, 

To write 

And to think 

And someone 

( maybe Al) 

Invented the 

Internet . . .

So now we write 

For a cloud of nebulousness 

Who is it 

That's out there?

That's the interesting bit 

I have no idea 

Who's listening 

Who's reading 

 But still, 

Like eating chips,

I dip 

Into the 

Guacamole . . .