Getting by

Bob fell into writing as an exercise in learning word pad, and dedicated his book of poetry,”Rainbows” to his parents who gave him the computer.

Getting' By
By Bob Curran
Everyone’s in chat rooms looking for a date
I relax in my easy chair contemplating my fate
I write checks to pay the bills and hope they're not too late
With post offices closed because of anthrax
Everyone thinks there’s poison in that mail sack
Of one thing, we got plenty
That’s gossip
So don't give me no lip
and CD burners are starting to rip
Only thing left to do is yell and scream
So road rage becomes the next thing
This high tech world is coming to an end
As the internet boom promotes nothing but sin
What are my chances in space
To get off this rock
More men go into space every year
It’s not the lack of an atmosphere I fear
Try to escape this hellish place
To get the checks to the mailbox I’ll need my can of mace
Don’t go in a bar on a holiday
That used to be the place you could go
But now there’s designated drivers all over the place
I just need some space
Help me help me they can't hear the cry
Of some poor soul just trying to get by