One Stick on the Sick

 

One Stick on the Sick

 

Shrug - nothing’s to be done,

as inevitable as setting suns

bring dusks of sooty sack

cast in iron lung law, no turning back

now, we’re gripped by the throat.

While you’ll riot, snatch and grab,

moving like tractors hauling flab,

claiming immigrants cling to boats,

while you’re struggling to stay afloat.

You cut purse hypochondriacs,

thumb Wikipedia for disease you lack

if ever you had learnt to read:

like parachuting dandelion seeds

that fall in weed between the cracks.

Others do that work deemed crap,

so never think you’re doing that,

while you have learnt to adapt, writhe,

take root in filth and thrive,

ropes on lawns like spreading snakes,

suck the good earth, take and take,

resist the cutters and survive.

And we find you tarnish every town,

hobbling pavements up and down

in blight, mouths open, hands out,

talking trash with gobs that shout

loud, however trite, however lame,

whatever floats on Dead Sea brains.

Occasionally you forget. Use stick

to point and blame those lots of shit

where your little dogs turned tricks,

but careful you are not observed,

repeat the whispers often heard

of how the fraud are like bats that flit,

to out the one sticks on the sick.