I read about a book that brought
  Its author ample pain,
A simple book concerning time
  And its voracious drain.

Novel ways to waste a week
  Were given light in prose,
Praising those who navel-gaze
  Outside a bar called 'Joe's',

And never think of going in
  To see what drinkers do,
Past the doors with frosted glass
  That's used to veil the view.

The book advanced a plan to rule
  The men who live in bins,
By putting dreaming voodoo dolls
  In empty cans and tins.

Green toy soldiers would suffice
  As dolls in this pursuit.
Tiny magazines in tins
  Should hint at some great truth.

Other schemes to squander time
  Included spreading lies,
Stories told of credit gained
  By tickling wistful flies,

Tales of times you failed in life,
  Lies about mishaps,
Like spending time in jail for theft
  And laughter at this lapse.

The author of the book was left
  To rue his choice of theme.
His words made eyeballs bulge and ears
  Emit long jets of steam.

His views infuriated foes
  And even angered friends.
They said it's wrong to squander time
  On fruitless, futile ends,

And that he should endorse a wise
  Approach to spending time,
Investing it in fruitful schemes
  Without resort to crime.

I realised I'm profligate
  With time on priceless days.
I use it all on little things,
  In lots of pointless ways,

Like brewing bitter thoughts about
  A lasting lack of luck,
And how I'd be a brilliant pig
  Who thrives at finding muck.

I've wasted days fermenting doubt
  Too many times to mention.
TV shows I don't enjoy
  Get far too much attention.

I've frittered days without the fun
  Of feather-headed lords.
I had to spend my grant of time
  On deeds that brought rewards.

I started with a plan to build
  A bookcase near the couch.
I have some things that count as books,
  For which my friends can vouch.

I should have known that DIY
  And I would not be friends.
We'd stay inside and fight to mar
  The mood on hot weekends.

I had to buy more books to hold
  The feeble case in place.
The structure would collapse without
  Its Jeffrey Archer base.

I realised I'd over-reached.
  I'd set my sights too high.
I'd stepped in traps I couldn't see
  While staring at the sky.

I had to find an enterprise
  In keeping with my skills,
To stay on low, alluring plains
  Instead of climbing hills.

I've been collecting empty cans
  That once contained baked beans.
Now they house toy soldiers who
  Are reading magazines.

I've needed some distraction since
  The chaos of my wedding.
My fleeing bride procured a horse.
  It's just a lie I'm spreading.