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Description
My toaster is made in Korea
or maybe China and the engraver lied;
My mobile phone is Swedish,
but it insists on French,

La belle langue.

These office supplies, are meant
to make life easier and lighter,
but I'm piled with instruction manuals.
Thank you, I can break them without
you telling me how.

The international radio is psychic,
so it’s probably by Apple,
And my ability to make lunch
Has sold itself to the "AUTHENTIC THAI"
restaurant down the street.

I’ve lost track of the phone book
And forgotten how many bank accounts
Exist under my name;

The Greeks are playing German football,
Curry is plotting world domination,
And I’m turning Japanese.

I can only express my desire
to save the ogapogo with
recycled paper from Thailand
and fifty foot tall robot-trucks.
The electric mice that live
in my holey pocket holiday in Sardinia.

My iPod is on a roll of Croatian music,
And I don’t think my calendar knows
It’s a few decades behind.

My watch is as Swiss as the
Belgian chocolate that shipped
Out of Shanghai yesterday,
Passing through Sarah Palin’s backyard
Only to melt on the suburban
Built-by-south-of-the-border-
labor gravel driveway.

Vancouver is a subset of Kowloon,
England isn’t English at all,
And I’m turning Japanese.

The speed-dial calls a
New Delhi taxicab instead of
The pizza delivery man and yesterday,
My therapist tried to sell me
Poached South African ivory.

I mix up Buenos dias and Ni hao
I confuse the and die,
I have lost the bloody phonebook,
And I’ve
Turned Japanese.

Description
My toaster is made in Korea
or maybe China and the engraver lied;
My mobile phone is Swedish,
but it insists on French,

La belle langue.

These office supplies, are meant
to make life easier and lighter,
but I'm piled with instruction manuals.
Thank you, I can break them without
you telling me how.

The international radio is psychic,
so it’s probably by Apple,
And my ability to make lunch
Has sold itself to the "AUTHENTIC THAI"
restaurant down the street.

I’ve lost track of the phone book
And forgotten how many bank accounts
Exist under my name;

The Greeks are playing German football,
Curry is plotting world domination,
And I’m turning Japanese.

I can only express my desire
to save the ogapogo with
recycled paper from Thailand
and fifty foot tall robot-trucks.
The electric mice that live
in my holey pocket holiday in Sardinia.

My iPod is on a roll of Croatian music,
And I don’t think my calendar knows
It’s a few decades behind.

My watch is as Swiss as the
Belgian chocolate that shipped
Out of Shanghai yesterday,
Passing through Sarah Palin’s backyard
Only to melt on the suburban
Built-by-south-of-the-border-
labor gravel driveway.

Vancouver is a subset of Kowloon,
England isn’t English at all,
And I’m turning Japanese.

The speed-dial calls a
New Delhi taxicab instead of
The pizza delivery man and yesterday,
My therapist tried to sell me
Poached South African ivory.

I mix up Buenos dias and Ni hao
I confuse the and die,
I have lost the bloody phonebook,
And I’ve
Turned Japanese.