Go Away Cliché

Go Away Cliché - a 'bot poem from the future

They sold him a bill of goods, some say,

which had not happened in a coon’s age.

He flew off the handle that summer’s day,

stood in the middle of the road to greet the stage.

Nowadays they would throw him under the bus.

This always happens when push comes to shove.

You are what you eat, they always told us

and walk on the wild side in ways of love.

Hell is other people, a lesson he learned,

like teaching chocolate’s taste.

Instead of fiddling while Rome burned,

he let the humble pie go to waste.

He was a prodigal son, on a path straight and narrow,

he smiled like big Cheshire cat.

And five by five, always being a straight arrow,

his morals were not to be sneezed at!

Heavens to Betsy he was a run of the mill kind of guy,

lost his shirt when he shot from the hip,

A dyed in the wool Indian Giver, nobody knows why,

he went to Hell in a handbasket – short trip!

He had his mojo working, and that’s all she wrote,

he made his bed and lay in it they say.

'Shiver me timbers,' he intoned, in his best pirate quote,

'bought the farm, but every dog has his day!'

So lay on MacDuff, push the envelope ’til it breaks,

pull yourself up by your own bootstraps.

Be as patient as a spider, on the QT from the jakes,

or wait for the fat lady to sing, perhaps.

Oh, you are pulling my leg, damn your eyes,

an apple a day won’t keep the doctor away,

I’m letting the cat out of the bag on your lies,

and then you never will have a nice day!

Jumping Jehosophat, the devil is in the details,

on the horns of a dilemma you sit.

The females of the species are deadlier than the males,

so have yourself a fit and fall in it!

No really, feel free to go jump in a lake,

even if you are a sight for sore eyes.

If you eat it then you cannot have your cake,

it is a hundred miles, as the crow flies.

We are at sixes and seven, we must disagree,

to the victor must go the spoils.

Now that I’ve got you on the ropes, you see,

it’s an embarrassment of riches that toils.

A stitch in time saves nine, so they say,

but their tongue is in their cheek, you see.

You can trip the light fantastic during old home day,

but you will never be fit as a flea.

Rules were made to be broken, for him,

the big Kahuna, born mouthing a silver spoon.

They threw the baby out with bathwater full to brim,

in the nick of time before the blue moon.

An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure,

it allows you to hedge your bet, if you catch my drift.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop is boring, I’m sure,

even dead on his feet, the race goes to the swift.

He ended up paying through the nose, got taken down a peg,

in the sun like mad dogs and Englishmen.

The fickle hand of fate was busy pulling his leg,

and then all Hell broke loose, again.

Pipe down, they would shout, as keen as mustard they were,

to be forewarned is forearmed, so I hear.

The cat’s pajamas are not really covered in fur,

and a cold shoulder is like a kick in the rear.

Tighter than Dick’s hatband is this rhyme, so I hope.

it is the spitting image of truth, I must say.

I have entered the whole nine yards, I’m no dope.

at least I have avoided cliché.

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I know it is cliché to say it, but I HAD to do it!

Shared with DVerse Poets for Open Link Night, because nobody asked for this.

©2022 Christopher Reilley 

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