St Theresa sat
on Trump’s stiff knee,
to him she was
a limey Queen,
but in her head she’s
‘This dame’s my idea
of a woman I’d bone!’
Perhaps the future’s
they both agree
to cause less trouble.
off they go,
but he’ll dump her soon
not your rivals,
as Parkinson’s Law
stands, as it applies:
Nothing to do with
more about huge
A law equally applied
to the world’s leaders,
with their hidden desire
for sinister pleasures.
Putin has studied
this arcane resolve,
he’s running America
through Trump’s arsehole.
Dad turned into a dog just before
the US-presidential election,
the world was changing so much
that anything, anything was possible,
like Dad becoming a cross-breed,
like Dad then shitting on our lawn,
(Dad never, ever, did that before).
He turned into a beautiful mongrel,
possibly part-Labrador, part-Poodle: ‘Stupid, with good looks,’ was all Mum said.
But what do we do about it?
I spent a few days hugging him,
trying not to catch his sad eyes.
What could I do? I am only sixteen.
Mum was rubbish, she told no one,
not even Gramps, who knows everything.
We were confused, in our own little world.
Perhaps the re-count would happen,
and prove that Russians fixed the election,
and Dad would become Dad again?
Not likely, according to the feeds I grazed upon: Yes, I do RSS. I AM a child of the internet, we don’t all just do Insta-snap.
I sat at the window, the grass grew high outside,
Dad’s peeing on it made no difference:
Mum got a cute lawn boy in,
who complained about Dad’s shits. Try scooping them up each morning!
On the seventh day I bought a lead for Dad,
Mum was still in denial, so I took him out:
Opposite our house are the best woods ever,
once you have crossed the dangerous road,
the one Dad forever moaned about.
But now he strained at his lead,
desperate to cross, no matter what.
He responded well to my commands,
which I had looked up on Google.
He ran off, like a furious sprinter:
Dad had never run anywhere before.
I watched him spin on the loose dry leaves,
chasing the wind-blown ones,
and then he disappeared, forever.
Don looked upon
his neighbour’s fruit,
should he admit
he’d like to grip
her brace of ripe
and weighty pears,
whilst her husband
the best bet is,
let go of her fruits,
and go straight for her t*ts?