Zak Mould

by grimbeau



Still farting around

unsettled, fidgety,

detached, remote?

Then go take Dump!

Tick the Box!

Sign out!


Hazy murk soon spreads,

dampens the daylight,

giant hogweed encroach

harbouring malicious intent


You to blister, to paralyse,

to analyse stragglers,

scantily clad day-trippers,

pale gormless nudists,

innocent blithe minors,

demented wayward majors.


Normality is resumed at last.

The regular service

The bland repast.

A strict diet of worms and woodlice.

The occasional festive

peppering of capers.

Stuffed Olives if you’re lucky.


So, go Squawk

Scrabble and squabble

for scraps cooped up in your hovel.

Grovel for a drop to drink

acknowledging your unworthiness

with ingratitude and contempt.

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