Monday, 25 September 2017

Trap no. 6

Start the firing pistolet, kids,
It’s time to rub those last bin lids.
Together we stretch,
For the basic, is less for more than it 
Once wore.
Applications for ointments
For coping sores,
The cats stopped swinging
Long ago, see,
The room we see grows no larger,
On bended knee.
As we’re asked to kowtow round corners,
It cuts, like the tightest of collars,
Round this crumbling coliseum,
We prepare the mechanical rabbit, that
We have to chase for aid,
Us parade Queens and Kings,
On the high street
To see what the pawn shop brings.
It’s the badhead debt collector’s jubilee,
And we go pogo, ‘cos
It’s got nothing to do with your
Forked-tongue berk elite,
You know,
Or the bloggers,
Or the clowns,
The clowns,
The clowns,
The clowns…

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