I fretfully fear filling effing forms.
My phobia is futile – I’m flummoxed, frankly.
It certainly seems stupendously silly
to mutter melancholy murmurings
and to weakly whine and wail woefully.
I procrastinate. The prospect of pushing a pen
around answering awfully aggravating
questions, makes me quake queerly,
quibbling, queasy and querulous.
I sit, surreptitiously simmering,
while evasively engineering excuses.
I wistfully wonder why I’m weighed down with worry.
Is my fatalistic form-filling phobia forever?
I should fight my forebodings, flagellate my faults.
True to form, I forlornly fear I will fail.
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