If you think only ‘anal’ people do things on time,
That preparation has neither reason nor rhyme;
If your favourite sports are putting things off,
And finding more targets at which to scoff;
If your circle of acquaintance is comprised
Of psychos, snobs, despisers and despised;
If your criticism is particularly acute,
And regarding compliments you’re more than less mute;
If your organizing prowess is going south;
If you take your foot out of your mouth
Only to insinuate it in the closing door;
If your chaotic ways have passed into lore;
When scraps of paper give you the slip;
When rivals’ successes make your ego flip;
When you can’t find a key in a hillock of junk;
When your shelves and your guts are groaning with gunk;
If when the rainy day, that you didn’t save for, arrives,
Your sense of justice, if any, nosedives,
It’s easy to blame the weather, a colleague, your genes,
The government, the media, the end or the means.
Is it always the malefic agent, system or destiny’s game
That for your distress must claim the blame?
To this other possibility some thought is due -
Can the words “Mea culpa” ever escape you?
(Declaration: This poem is my own doing. Mea culpa!)
