Inanimate objects conspire against me,
Covertly colluding with the force of gravity,
Plotting evilly in ways I cannot see,
To deliberately, consistently and repeatedly annoy me.
Why do they do this? Are they malign?
Or bored? Is it their way of passing the time?
They always topple over, whenever I’m inclined
To put them in places for which they were designed.
If I stow them there, they will all fall,
If I put them down, they will roll away,
If fix them securely, they will never stay,
Whenever I need them, they’ve always gone astray.
Yet, how can they do this, when they have no limbs?
Have secret powers of motion been bestowed on them?
Do devils reside beneath their superficial skins?
What unknown powers are moving these damn things?
Should I seek an answer when I look in a mirror?
And regard my unburst pustules with mounting horror?
Am I just loosing it, and I’ll find it tomorrow?
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