Ally Pally

 Ally Pally

 

So, we’re deep in someone’s crosshairs now -

some maniac lit the light, blew touchpaper,

removed the head, but kept the rest for later

to poke around in the sacrificial goat’s entrails,

read the tea leaves, throw the bones,

send the fireworks rocketing across the sky -

how far you ask? Well, I’d say how high.

Like how they built London’s people’s palace

to scrape clouds, sandpaper cumulonimbus

or Captain Birdseye scrapped with Findus

over whose fingers actually had more fresh fish

when really neither were fit for any dish

to serve to any King on any royal slice of bread.

This roaring success, torched after 16 days,

was mostly bankrupt until fat men who played

darts, shot arrows right through them and stayed

while your average scumbag, getting pissed,

chants stand up, stand up; boring, boring table,

as sportsmen lob missiles at them if they’re able

and they broadcast this slop to a sickened world.

I’m getting messages from some several girls,

of life and times behind me now, they say you ok?

Ah yes, I remember we did the hokey-cokey

some years from now, it’s either too late

to care, too late to wave, too late to say I’m here,

because I put that world behind me, dear.

Me? I just scream with boredom, frustration -

not your knock-off Ludo with the no cheating dice,

I’m watching them stockpiling water, buying rice,

preparing for an oncoming storm that'll never come

and seething here under the racing sun.

Ah, Alison – she’s an answer looking for a question.

Well, let me send you a few suggestions.