A Mess of the Blues
Did you wonder at all the fuss, the brewed hoodoo?
Coning off the M1 up to Daventry from mass hysterics,
waving weeping flags of lipstick red, white and blue
crowd control, hard boiling their eyes at passing cortege,
fearful they’d catapult your casket to rest in state
with other strewn litter by the picnic area and lake,
then chuck up a plaster statue as befits a faded flake.
Or a water fountain, faulty-valved, crusted with dust
so that when the floodgates open, only merest trickle
dribbles onto television documentaries, heavily made up,
black mascara cabbage white lids fluttered, you fickle
thing, downcast and wobbling grin, could break up
at any moment; for there were three in this marriage,
bloody silly bitches, who, when not panorama pouting,
hugged trees, land-scraped carbuncles, rode carriages,
flounced on stage unscripted, stuck private members
into unpaid bills, robbing the poor to fuck the rich.
No dear, not three - millions cubed bought into it,
those self-same shitsticks who, when bothered, pitch
up at polling stations, we’ll show them, make our mark.
Matt thick blues, these squawking parrots still grieve.
It’s pelters out there, but seldom sodding felt or seen
how the other half of us aren’t borrowers or thieves
beggars their sworn belief in horses for courses;
tuning in nightly, watching suave Doctor Cockpizzle jab
his needle in some dying casual immigrant casualty’s
arse on the History channel where it’s always drab
Germans, goose-stepping in time to a song for Europe.
Look now, your blonde tart, faking it as Prime Minister,
bawling tears, shredding EU flags over your coffin,
turbo charged pissing into your fountain, a finisher,
will certainly get it done but pulls it out before you come.
Still bleating that you took kindness to foreign places,
mined love not war, bathed yourself in rainbow hues,
while fastening those lemming smiles to plastic faces,
sleepwalking in death towards a mess of the blues.