by Angela Prew
“Do we have to go?” we ask each other
as the day draws near.
The invitation looked like fun,
a Sunday braai with friends in the sun’
but wasn’t the forecast rain?
And Bill will be there telling his stories,
we’ve heard them all before,
and Jane will be making eyes at Jim
whose wife will refuse to talk to him.
It will all be a terrible bore.
If we go we’ll leave as soon as we’ve eaten.
We’ll come home and watch the match on the box,
take off our shoes and loosen our belts.
We’ll feel happy we’ve done our stuff,
shown our faces, that’s enough.
Now, what have I got to wear?
Oh, look, everyone’s left!
Finish your beer, they want to clear.
It’s been such fun, we’ve enjoyed it so,
Why are we always the last to go?
Pleached Poetry 