You take it out and show me,
and we roll violently around on the green
Sunday evenings when the rest of the Village
are home planning to kill their wives.
You have a temper, like my lactose intolerance,
my peanut allergy combined.
Bad tummy in the night
I thought I was going to lose
the bean chilli with chocolate and walnuts
you made me, leave my laddering, laddering,
behind on the bathroom floor.
You are Cliff Richard, only crueller.
Totally bald now and the top of my head’s
so cold! Let me climb back in your letter box and show you
the things I learned at art school.
It gets dark out here and the street is full of loonies,
all of whom remind me of you.
Without you I whine a lot,
whine a lot, find
the ceiling comes clattering down
covers me in fine white dust,
even when I’m outside,
wailing in your scullery air vent.
You are crueller even
than Sir Edward Heath
to leave me out here singing like this.
Yours the only face I want to see
when I tear off your gimp mask
and show the moves
I learned at the interpretive dance class
you made me take.
I’ve come home.
And it’s fucking cold out here.
Let me in your bathroom window.
Let me grab it, almost
yank it right off and put it
in a toasted rye bread sandwich.
You made me leave my laddering, laddering,
behind on the cruel bathroom floor
and, in the circumstances,
the least you could do
is not leave me here with my howling head
wedged in your bastard cat flap.
KEVIN HIGGINS is The Bogmans Cannon satirist-in-residence