Of course, we are not all self serving parasites,

whose job it is to frighten, to terrify,

to hold firm the country’s birch

in one sturdy hand

and press down the face

into the dirt,

the intoxicating germ driven bog, and make

those less fortunate, the unlucky, the desperate

and the betrayed suffer for the potent,

some might suggest rotten,

up to their eye balls in the defecation

and smeared toilet roll wipes

whims of their so called masters.

We all get too suffer this fate eventually,

Looking in the cold dead of Chingford Iain,

the flash of damn once thought hot

by friends but cold calculating mistress to the needs

of the party whore; we all serve as birch tree

fodder, the snap of the ruler

as it smacks you again, and again, and again…

Ian D. Hall 2017