Tap, tap, tap...
Won’t he stop that infernal tapping?
He’s driving me insane,
And to a point so unduly favored,
That I think - no, I know - I shall go mad.
I sit here in my peace and disturb no one else,
Whilst echoes of entertainment burden my educated mind,
And his remorseless tapping on the keyboard that is louder,
Than the most highest pitched scream,
That reeks havoc inside my torture stem.
What could he be writing?
What is so important that he can’t wait until I’m gone;
Tomorrow when he’s alone and no one has to listen,
To that confounding noise.
Why me now?
Why do I have to bare this underlying nuisance.
I’ve fed my eight and made the meal,
And sat down to read my book,
But now am interrupted by this corrupt psychopath,
Who indulges in and favors the approbation of removing my sanity,
And solitude.
I’m going to kill him,
But I just as much love him.
I feel like twisting off those crude fingers,
And stuffing them down his throat,
And telling him all the while:
“Shut up, damn you, and leave me to my ever needed isolation.”
He stops now and a sudden feeling of relief envelopes me.
Could it be that these tendrils of despair have suddenly been lifted?
Is he finally done with his endless torture?
I think he is and now I’m sane and feel at ease.
I now return to my lonely book,
And read word for word what some other torturist has typed.
How fine it is when it is finished,
And the words make no sounds at all.
Tap, tap, tap...
Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!