As fate would have it,
hope springs eternal,
but walk a mile in my shoes
before you go against the grain,
because wonders never cease.
Year in and year out
we search for that special someone
till we’re in over our head,
chilled to the bone,
crying our eyes out.
That dog won’t hunt.
We’re long in the tooth,
and at this point in time
we need to give a wide berth to
pigs in pokes. People need people.
When hell freezes over
we’ll go off the deep end,
throw caution to the wind,
and, against all hope,
let bygones be bygones.
12 comments:
Only you could make cliches sound so apt and perfect, Carver.
How wonderful, all the cliche eggs in one basket, not that I'm counting my chickens, of course (glad you didn't use that old chestnut).
It just goes to show you...
And yes John, it would show us, unless it's a case of the blind leading the blind and then we'd all be up Shit Creek without a paddle.
Out of the frying pan, into the creek, eh? It goes without saying we should look before we leap, then, no? Because still waters run deep...
A good job then because the red herrings would be on the rocks in a vale of tears.
Might as well hit the road, no rest for the weary in the heat of a cliche battle. I am bending over backwards here, busy as a beaver, working my rocks off to find another, but it may be better to keep my mouth shut and let everyone think I'm a fool!
Now I don't know which way to turn, am I coming or going? These boots were made for walking but I am afraid that the toes I step on today might be connected to the ass I will have to kiss tomorrow!
My, Minx, you're brighteyed and bushytailed this morning, aren't you? Well, I won't beat around the bush--heaven knows that's the kiss of death, the road to perdition, if you will--but I really must put my foot down. I say that more in sorrow than in anger, but you're young, you'll get over it. You see, we're balls deep to a tall Indian here, aren't we? No way to separate the wheat from the chaff, slice the melon into the duck soup, if you see what I mean.
I know you do. It's a jungle out there, Minx. It's hotter than a depot stove, or a three-legged goat in a field full of nannies. To make it short and sweet, between you, me, and the lamp post, it's a whole new ball of wax. Coals to Newcastle doesn't begin to say it. It may be a drop in the bucket, but we can't cry over spilt milk, can we? And by the same token, we can't cry wolf, which might be the unkindest cut of all. So let's put it in mothballs until the cows come home, OK?
Absolutely not! A friend in need of a cliche is a bloody pest. I should avoid you like the plague but but I'll do whatever I can to get the job done. Quick as a lick I'll drive you up the wall and have the last laugh. You see, you're just a flash in the pan where as I've been there, done that and got the t-shirt and I'll have you hopping like a cat on a hot tin roof.
I am better than sliced bread, Carver. I'm in the cliche groove, going the whole hog and laying it on with a trowel!
Here's mud in your eye, cos I'm fresh as a daisy, no burning the midnight oil for me, or candles at both ends. You'll have to get up pretty early to pull the wool over my eyes. What's the matter with you - have you got potatoes in yer ears?
I think I do, yes. I must.
Only you could make cliches sound so apt and perfect, Carver.
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Oh look, there you are again and you have a new friend!
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I've always loved the story of Echo and Narcissus. This is a great take on it carver!
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