Sunday, 6 September 2009

Three Poems about Mad Cows' Disease

Her eyes swivelled
a dinner lady's,
Whose loose false teeth
boldly declared U.D.I.,
And jettisoned atrociously,
Like a depth charge,
Into an unsuspecting
boiling vat of industrial sink estate school custard.

She exclaimed,
Shaking with the almighty shock,
Of an elderly nun,
Confessing to experiencing her first,
And might the blameless sister add,
Hopefully last!,
Non induced,
And completely unwelcome,
Multiple orgasm of three,
(Or was it four?).

Why have you written,
Three poems about,
Mad Cows' Disease?"

People around us shuffled uneasily,
And turned to each other like daleks,
The barman dived below the bar,
And the D.J. jumped into
one of those erotic dancer cages,
The gyrating Romanian dancer shrieked.

I circled my right arm,
Gathering in the appalled throng,
Swaying with the lascivious dread,
Of a lap dancer,
At a footballer's stag night.

"I've written three poems,
About mad cows',

Her eyebrows levitated,
Like a raised Tower Bridge,
The loved-up dalek dolls,
Sashayed ever closer,
With the studied coyness,
Of the Bollywood-style temple maid.

I waved my empty glass,
The crouched being hiding by the steam washer,
"Don't you think you've had enough sir?",
I shrugged,
And drained the last of my milk stout,
Wiping my left purple sleeve across my lips,
"I've written three poems,
About mad cows' disease,
I have yet to write my fourth."