Beasts.
you’ve maybe endured, as I have,
one of those many galling TV
Shows
topping up banal BBC
schedules,
and, listen, here’s how it
always goes.
There’s this one beast,
cropping grass
or some such, that starts, stiffens, stirs
at a lurking predator it
probably heard:
like Sir Charles Dicky-Bow-Attenbro,
his brother, Bert, or that
other one
they used to trot out back
along,
flatfoot, with a privet
bush beard
covering his spitting, receding chin,
a third rate comedian
used to spoof
before he retired himself to
Premier Inn.
Anyway, this beast I
mentioned is up
and off, legging it through
the shrub,
the rest of its troupe, following suit,
chucking up dust with
scarpering hoof.
By happy chance, at Sainsburys today,
you'll come across much the same,
whispers from someone, they’re
away
to ‘get there early’, the cars in herds
blocking access and
thoroughfares.
Inside it's just as
bad or worse,
being stuck behind stuffed trolleys
is like being stuck behind your hearse,
all bitten off swearing,
muted curses,
fighting over the last of
the turkeys,
fisted front-crawl through the checkout.
And in their eyes,
flickering doubt
as if they know it
shouldn’t be like this,
there’s nothing cracking about Christmas.
Not that anyone would ever
admit it,
through stitched on smiles,
gritted teeth
and forced pleasantries,
but Jesus Christ,
there’s something wrong
with
Who cares? Certainly not
the shithead
in his Landcruiser, who’s
just spread
himself across lanes of
oncoming cars
to carve himself up a
parking space
with arrogant smirk upon
his face.
You gave him the finger and
he reacts,
jumps out, off quick,
making tracks,
joins his merry throng
caroling within,
to gobble down meat and
think on sin.
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