At the end of the garden,
In the outhouse bog,
Red-gold rays of the retreating sun
Crawl through the cracked and weathered window frame.
This old man will countenance no waste
On 3-ply, 2-ply or aloa-vera infused.
Rough-ripped squares of daily mail on a driven nail
Are all that he will use.
I begin my reparations,
But the bigotry to all nations,
Contained within the ink I think,
Begins to pass,
Into my arse.
No they’re bloody livid.
Foreign bowels coming over here,
Taking our houses,
taking our jobs,
mugging my granny.
No, It’s bloody screaming venom and vitriol.
Islamic fundamentalists Livers over here,
Eating our children,
Blowing up vicars,
Subverting our Great British hedgehogs.
Then with autonomic vented spleen,
I reflect upon the size of screen,
Nailed to palatial social housing walls,
Viewed by undeserving fools.
Jobless iron-sided shirkers,
Recidivist, unemployed non-workers,
Immigrants and asylum seekers,
Chillin’ in their pants and sneakers.
All unlike me, I begin to shun.
My God, what’s gone up my bum?
Kevin Stubbs – September 2015