For Tash, Murray, Gogs and Mr Rabbit.
Bell Place, Stockbridge, Edinburgh, Scotland, July 1998
Dodgy was playing, ‘It’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,’ in the kitchen, and the tallest Cardinal I have ever met, raised his hand above us. Tash turned the cards; smoking, I wrote a note to Murray and Gogs.
Beyond the day to day rigours of futile life,
their souls are searching for the one
who is right.
In the darkness of the blackest night,
they hunt and prowl and
seek things that are out of sight.
Around every corner,
unsuspecting they lurk.
They are not cautious,
mostly drunk and bezerk.
With cocks like steel, they prowl.
At unsuspecting bunnies they growl,
poke and prod.
No one is safe from their dynamite rod.
These bunnies are naive, yet wet.
Do they know what they are about to get?
Erect and eager, they need to shunt,
their rock hard penis, in her moist, warm c*nt.
Post coital. They need to leave.
Get up and go and let her grieve.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it was the grog.
I thought it was you but in fact you’re a dog.”