I grease the moribund owl
And its tadger eyes winkywank
at me in the moonlight of cheese
and the dark spurting dusk of my golfing lust

I am a gabardine gimp, a vivid
Genital stoat who hungers
And pleasures itself against
Small Oirish monitor lizards called Peter

“You are the half-cut Visigoth Mrs Mother”
Yelled the scotch egg doctor
As he rooted through the stools of gauche mice
In the expectation of a good lunch

The urine of a marmoset shall pass
Through the eye of your needle Uncle Miriam
And desist from your tintinabulations Timothy
And bumbaste the lamb of god in Auntie’s oven.