Sunday, 3 April 2011


Spades frightened you. Spades,
By which, of course, Piggles,
I dont mean Nubians,
But spades with blades,
Spades with which to dig
Crap holes in the sand.
I can take them. But not you!
George, a saint, bless her!, came by to say Hi!
Stout legs in ammunition shorts,
Butch, but no butcher of piglings,
Dragons maybe,
Swinging her khaki spade.
No saint I know like Captain George
For calling a spade an entrenching-tool!
She was on her way to the desert,
For a Cappadocian crap.
Boy! Did you panic! You vomited with fear,
Hope you don’t mind
My mentioning your vomit.
Your Mummy had not taught you
To keep your muesli behind your Nubian snout.
You were not yet ready for spades.
You were only just learning
What a bloody-awful, wretched, woebegone, comfortless,
Forlorn, godforsaken, miserable
And, in your case,
Quite literally sickening
World this is.

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