Angsty poetry #2: What can I call my poem?

A friend (Rob) mentioned yesterday that my most recent posts all seem to be work related. The fact that all I'm really doing at the moment is work, probably has an awful lot to do with it.

Yep, all work and no play makes bigfatrobot a dull blog. So, as a remedy, of sorts, it's angsty poetry time ...

What can I call my poem?

My poorly stitched slacks
Now lie on the ground
Torn and legless

My slovenly manufactured shirt
Has fallen off me
Like a cheap male stripper’s faux Navy uniform

I am not cursed with good looks
I am blessed with ugliness
Which provides a good mask for my inner dullness

I am on the dole
That is why I cannot afford a good Chardonnay

I’m hungry
I ate my poem
But I’m still hugry

This poem will not satisfy my stomach’s needs
Because it is cooked on cheap paper and sautéed with cheap ink

They say cigarettes quench hunger
But I have eaten ten of them now
And I’m still hungry

What can I call my poem?