A Man Makes His Way Amongst Muck

There are places where I’ve left traces of dinners I haven’t eaten;

Kitchens where rats have been cooked after being soundly                        beaten

And served to soldiers in the guise of Chicken Bhuna Balti –

One chap remarked, to his lady friend, “Jeez, this don’t half taste             salty!”

And through this filth, gnawing on the end

Of a heel of a couple – he says she’s “just a friend” –

I take delight in spitting out the dirt

And – as she slides her hand suggestively round his bottom – I               rip off his shirt

And take it to the charity shop – they’ll clean it for free

And then I can buy it back for next to nothing so it belongs to me!

I don’t rape cats or sever the throats

Of the badgers and moles and weasels and stoats

But I do eat chickens before they’ve been cooked,

Which is why, no thanks to my lawyer, I’ve been booked

To appear at the Azzizes – it’s just down the road –

And plead to guilty to something, of no fixed abode.