Truffles

 

Truffles

 

A swaggering, overbearing,

tin-plated dictator

with delusions of godhood,

see you later

Truffles - viewing figures

scraping the barnacles

off Bill’s bottom,

with banal lo-fi hi-jinks -

don’t kid yourself, pal, the Devil’s bored

gets to thinking up yours,

Pantheon of Discord -

I’m locking the piano’s lid, you fraud:

back, back – the time of the Osirans

is long past

because this time round

the scripts were trash,

here’s a horrid thing

hear the song I sing

of Mr Ring a Ding Ding

no one’s watching –

there’s a tavern in the town (in the town),

where horrid hacks hung around

shipping slash fiction,

Spock/Kirk, 60 years too late,

seven writing fake Blakes –

ideas that were well past

their sell-by date like –

here's one, Ron, Oo I could crush a grape,

servicing black gay mates

rocking kilts down the disco –

because, Doctor, they let you go

butchered butchers’ hooks

and took delight

in setting alight

some other hard-working chap’s farts

because the past has been bottled

and labelled with art.