Howard Firkin
for Chris Wallace-Crabbe
As worker states collapse, the socialist
repairs to Racecourse Road and buys Big Macs
because the wife’s tired and the kids insist
they’re starving and it gets them off our backs.
Who can we turn to when the fries are down?
All hells of mine are clean and lit with fluro’s;
the damned are stuffed with soggy, sugared pap
by smiling imps. What’s so amusing? Who knows…
They grin at spilt shakes, kids’ chuck, each mishap—
disciples of the world’s least funny clown.
If Poetry disturbs proceedings here
it’s only for a take-away, to nod
in sympathy and wish hell happy new year,
before returning rapidly to God.
repairs to Racecourse Road and buys Big Macs
because the wife’s tired and the kids insist
they’re starving and it gets them off our backs.
Who can we turn to when the fries are down?
All hells of mine are clean and lit with fluro’s;
the damned are stuffed with soggy, sugared pap
by smiling imps. What’s so amusing? Who knows…
They grin at spilt shakes, kids’ chuck, each mishap—
disciples of the world’s least funny clown.
If Poetry disturbs proceedings here
it’s only for a take-away, to nod
in sympathy and wish hell happy new year,
before returning rapidly to God.
