Write ninety poems in ninety days, the magistrate said
and hit himself over the head with hammer made of plastic.
The poet did
but went and spoiled it all by writing a flash story while sitting in a pub
that sells escape from longwinded reality
when not donating money to political parties.
Cruelly they put an electronic tagging bracelet on the poet
who now sits in his tiny flat in a sink estate
and write about nature he has only seen on telly.