Hating wasted poems as I do, here is one which came nowhere near winning one about a fortnight:
A holiday takes fourteen days and nights.
Who thought this up, I really cannot figure:
The booking of hotels, the queues for flights,
The packing of essentials, and the rigour
With which each item’s ticked upon the list –
The lotions and the potions, travel pills
For fear of motion sickness. Nothing’s missed:
The forms in case one’s prey to foreign ills.
The passports and the currency are tagged,
As are the children (think Macaulay Culkin).
It runs one ragged till the whole lot’s bagged –
So small a space to carry such a bulk in!
And then, when you imagine nothing’s tougher,
You have the fortnight’s holiday to suffer.
Quite a miserabilist poem of course. And it it just me who hates the neologism staycation?