TWENTY TWO

Blood red
Fuel from the fuselage
Is spilling on my feet,
I see a face with some fire,
Shimmering through the heat haze;
He touches a torch
To his surroundings,
And is fried without a sound.

I see a monochromed dictator
Taking dictionaries round,
He slips and falls,
And breaks his monocle;
Banging his head as blood spills on the ground.

I see ten people with a nest egg,
Held up towards a man,
He rushes them, books at his side,
They side step and throw the egg,
It cracks on him and turns him pearly white.

I see a black sheep lambing
People by the pair,
Eventually there’s nigh on ten,
They gather round, produce an egg,
And the mother goes on producing people elsewhere.

I see a slaughter house assistant,
Slicing gizzards on his shift,
He does these dirty doings everyday,
He sees a pregnant woolly sheep in labour,
Decides they need all the help they can get and leaves.

I see a woman waking up
And baking all day long glass ware,
She pushes husband abattoir man
Out of the house,
Who takes his cut throat razor and his snap.

I see a man cooked like an egg;
He’s scrambled, hard boiled or poached whole,
And the sadistic victim of his own malice,
Whilst setting fire, his goals conspired,
And marked the man with avarice.

Before he went
He saw a woman sleeping in her bed,
He shoved her in the head and said
Get up and make some cups today.

For everything done
Comes back to you
In a circle as vicious as vice,
Sometimes it’s sweet,
And sickly so,
Sometimes it’s not so nice.