Sunday, October 6, 2024

Tired of Being Broke

 
Male hands opening empty wallet.

"Broke Again" - Bahamas AI art
©A. Derek Catalano


Tired of Being Broke

Oh, the woes of my wallet, perpetually thin,
Every payday arrives, then vanishes again.
My bank account balance? A sight to behold—
Like a winter breeze: bitter and cold.

I shuffle through pockets, both empty and light,
Hoping some cash might pop out in sight.
But alas! All I find is an old stick of gum,
And a coupon expired, for ice cream—yum.

I dream of a life where riches abound,
Where dollars rain down without making a sound.
But here I sit, in this broken-down chair,
Imagining wealth as I eat stale air.

The landlord comes knocking—not now, oh no,
My rent’s overdue, and I’ve nothing to show.
I flash him a grin and a tear in my eye,
“Could you maybe accept, another excuse as I try?”

Electricity? Pfft! Who needs all that light?
Candlelit evenings are kind of a delight!
And water? So what if the faucet runs dry?
I’ll bathe in the rain like a cool nature guy.

Wi-Fi’s a luxury; who needs it at all?
I’ll read an old book—or stare at the wall.
Though Netflix would help me escape from the strife,
I’m stuck watching paint peel—an exciting life!

I wander the aisles of the fanciest stores,
Dreaming of caviar, filet mignon, and more.
But reality hits when I check out my stash:
Just instant noodles—my gourmet cache.

Yep, Ramen again for the fifth night this week,
My palate cries out for some flavor to seek.
I add veenies and hot sauce to fix it up—
Voila! It's a feast—now it's time to sup.

Oh, how I long for that five-course cuisine,
With desserts so sweet they’d make me feel serene.
But alas, it’s just cereal—dry, without milk—
A crunchy delight, but lacking in silk.

I walk through the mall, see clothes full of flair,
But my bank account whispers, “You better beware.”
Designer threads sparkle and call out my name,
But my wallet says, “Nope! Play it safe, it’s no game.”

My wardrobe is vintage—a relic from time,
With pants from the ‘90s and shirts that don’t rhyme.
My shoes have seen places far too long ago—
They squeak as they walk, making everyone know.

Oh, how I’d love a new suit, fancy and slick,
But I’ll settle for this shirt that’s mostly…just thick.
The fabric’s worn thin, but it still does the trick,
I pretend it’s designer, though it smells like wet brick.

As I watch sleek cars zoom by with a roar,
I trudge to the bus stop—as usual once more.
My dream car’s a beauty—sleek, fast, and bold,
But all I can afford is the bus fare, pay first I'm told.

The bus arrives late, with a groan and a wheeze,
The seats smell like socks, and the windows just freeze.
I hold on for dear life as it lurches and sways,
While I dream of Lamborghinis speeding through bays.

But hey, public transit’s a thrill all its own—
You meet friendly strangers and feel less alone!
Except for that guy who’s been snoring on me,
I ponder my situation, as I stare out to sea.

My credit card’s magic—I swipe with a grin,
But then comes the bill, and my patience grows thin.
Interest? Oh no! How did this come to be?
The numbers keep climbing, and they terrify me!

I look at my purchases—did I really need
That blender, that gadget, or was it just greed?
The impulse buys haunt me, they tug at my soul,
A financial black hole, where my budget can' t hold.

I vow to cut back, be fiscally wise,
But those online sales are my ultimate demise.
I whisper, “This time, I’ll show some restraint,”
But my checkout cart’s full, and now I feel faint.

Retirement? Ha! That’s a joke on its own,
My savings account is a sad little drone.
Each penny I add feels like tossing a stone,
Into a well where echoes have grown.

But who needs to retire? I’ll work ‘til I’m dead!
I’ll dance through my office with cheer and some dread.
Or maybe I’ll live off the land—grow some crops,
Just need to learn farming and make less pit stops.

Yet still, I keep dreaming, though my pockets are bare,
Of vacations, new cars, and a millionaire’s lair.
One day I’ll be rich! (Or at least I’ll have hope)—
But for now, I’m just tired of being flat broke.

So here’s to the broke life, chaotic yet free,
Where laughter and irony are your main currency.
If you’re tired of being broke, you’re not alone,
We’ll all laugh together—while pawning our phone.

Life’s full of riches, though money’s not one,
It’s in Ramen, old couches, and cheap dollar fun.
So lift up your wallet—though empty it be—
At least being broke gives you great company!

©A. Derek Catalano/ChatGPT