A Luvvie
Expired
There’s chippapersfull
of portraits in grim
imposturing of, oh, this
national treasure,
a true legend and your tolling bell ends
gawping in awe, wail and gnash,
and maybe there's a bit of cash
and grab in it, fingering those foreskins
at her panoply of
stupid hats,
like that wizard’s
with a crooked spire
sitting on top like
her chimney stack
sucks up hungry
flames of hidden fires
from stone grates
far below.
As expired as your
lemon marmalade,
that impulse buy from
IKEA
on a library
daytrip to pay your fines,
for books you
thought you’d never read,
‘Harry Snot and
the Sisters Sacked’,
‘Nancy McPee Shuts
her Trap’
or something
equally topical like that
and wasn’t she in
that shitty piece of crap
about Abba? You
know, where for a finale
the bastards come
back on to do an encore?
But we’re begging
you, please, no more,
and don’t let that
trapdoor
smack you on the way through the floor
and that sorting
hat can fuck off, too.
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