Muscles

 

Muscles

 

In England, outlook’s bleak,

black rats thriving on streets

amongst black bags of claggy trash,

in a noble bid to extort more cash

from councils. Can’t pay going rates,

gathering taxes with the sort of rakes

you’ve seen croupiers use in casinos

in rose tinted 60s spy films.

 

Did he see it coming? Took flight?

Heathrow’s carpetbaggers out on strike:

where’s James when you need him,

scorpions on those aching limbs?

 

He wasn’t born with slippery feet,

a husband and wife who never speak,

except in terms of economics,

and words that butter no parsnips.

 

Her muscles debilitate, knees are weak,

so perhaps he’ll work forever,

purchase one of those neat wheelchairs

with a motor when the hills are steep.

 

In a country far from basking rats,

on every corner, your stray cats

who are more than friendly for all that;

the pay comes tax free.

 

She comes to him, in the gym,

wearing a miniskirt and a grin,

all tight ass and five foot two,

speaking these words: Yes, dear,

you should keep fit, keep coming here,

my advice, try weights, build muscles.

 

With a bum that bustles

she’s gone, makes porridge, slices mango

from lands where the heavy fruit grows,

branches groan, plentiful, free

and thinks he’ll have them both for tea.