A Blossom of Influence

 

A Blossom of Influence

 

The cherry blossom’s spiked

in Chelsea and Kensington

and so have showers of like-hungry shite

that come to influence it.

 

You wonder where these fuckers come from

or buried their brains

when every year’s the same -

out with the phones, grinning inane

at themselves - then complain

 

when your actual residents paint it black

roll out barbed wire, upturn thumb tacks,

cover drives in broken glass

in the empty hope they might bag

one of these preening peacock airheads.

 

Hot on their heels, your Sky reporter,

BBC, GB News, they’re all alike,

with clueless comment, cliched views

seen lurking about this quarter

filming trails, filming the masses,

shoving microphone and camera

up each other's smart arses,

then, cue fluff - a John Hartson fill

looking pitiful, dispensably miserable -

a juggler of sow’s ears, darning needles,

cheap accessories, baubles, threads

thinks we’re better-off dead:

 

I’m afraid it’s all in vain,

too far down the road to ruin;

around about us, bleeding, strewn,

all those trashed cherry blossomed trees -

your scabies-rash of influencers

transmitting social disease.