Minor Inconveniences
Methinks I loathe the word methinks.
It juggles into sentences like a smug little jester.
Tinfoil is my shining rival,
its metallic crinkling setting my teeth on edge.
“We buy any car” - a jingle, trolling
like a parasitic earworm.
A plastic-wrapped coconut,
as if its husk wasn’t armour enough.
Grammar pedants, holding the line of language,
not grasping their privilege.
Here I stand, besieged by trifles
a sovereign of minor inconveniences
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