Hour 4: Fighting Clichés


All bent out of shape, I abandoned ship

As the Cliché Monster destroyed every quip.

I tried to look on the bright side, but he was armed to the teeth,

He preyed on every word I tried to bequeath.


At my wits end, I beat around the bush

Writing lyrics I knew would fall at a push

I put my heart into it, but pound for pound

The monster threw curveballs and they all hit the ground.


I cried ‘all hands on deck!’ And help was at hand;

As luck would have it, the best in the land.

I had an ace up my sleeve that was good as gold

I invited her in from out of the cold.


The Poetry Fairy had got back from her hols,

From the sun, sea and sex, from the booze and the lolz.

“What’s up, m’love?” she asked with a grin.

Said I, “The Cliché Monster has wandered back in.”


“I’m back to Square One, and I’m bored to tears;

The monster attacks my work in all gears.

I wish he would just go and bite the dust

Or I’ll be unable to earn a crust.”


The Poetry Fairy sighed and looked pained

She took out her bazooka, took position and aimed.

The magical dust bomb puffed a plume of pink dust

Coating the clichés in a fine, single gust.


“Thank fuck!” I exhaled. “He’s gone back to the bogs.

Thank you so much; you are the dog’s.”

“No problem” she said. “Another day, another dollar.”

“Just a joke,” she tittered. “If you need me again, holler.”

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