Channel Hopper

It’s Ten O’ Clock, let’s see what’s on the box,
I want to laugh, or be brought out in tears,
So flick until something catches my head,
From typical telly I hope I’m freed,
So flick and flick to find a good channel,
Something to calm me down, or boil my blood.

The host; suited, hostess; her dress is blood,
In colour, she’s typecast; ticks every box,
I’m just about to turn over channel,
When suppose-ed celeb bursts into tears,
Upset ‘cos she’s been voted off and freed,
Dancing on ice she was dropped on her head.

A blue light shines upon a long old head,
It is severed but singing, bathed in blood,
It talks and chats and warns our star Siegfried,
Then dead, silent, it is put in a box,
And as the crowd watch from their chairs and tiers,
I press a button to switch the channel.

After an ad, a fragrance from Channel,
Comes on a game show to puzzle my head,
The champs get prizes, losers left with tears,
Though unlike boxing there’s no sweat or blood,
Just Noel Edmonds and money in a box,
Players must then guess for it to be freed.

From pattern this show will never be freed,
Forever same time and forever same channel,
All the stories can be put in a box,
Always a risky op. to someone’s head,
Every time someone loses too much blood,
Someone lives, someone dies, and always tears.

Within the ring there’s lots of sweat and tears,
From that famous saying we would be freed,
If it wasn’t for the mention of blood,
Mention we must; it streams like a canal,
The bloody gash weeps from atop his head,
This violent game, men paid to fight and box.

Envoi
No laughter or tears, every channel’s shit -
It’s time you were freed – start to use your head,
Spill some blood- turn off the box – it’s time you read.

by Shane P. Grant

Other poems of GRANT (9)

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.