Filthy Muck by Limpit Smike
I try but cannot understand
why dirty men have sweaty hands
and filthy pants on cheesy nobs
and rotten feet in mouldy socks
and fatty blobs and saucy globs
down jeans they can't be arsed to wash
They squish their scent on doors and floors
I have to disinfect, of course
It makes me retch and then explode
when filthy beasts come up my road.
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| Mucky man. (Andy Brain) |
L: Wargh! Oh! What on Earth are you doing there?
B: There was no answer at the door so we thought we'd try the window.
L: Withdraw your head, I'm composing.
B: Busy, eh?
L: Yes I am as a matter of fact, and so should you be. I've got three poems to finish by lunchtime.
B: A triptych?
L: Bless you.
B: No - are they related thematically?
L: Of course not - that'd be far too hard.
B: A sentiment many of our readers could sympathise with. So would you like to describe -
L: (Writing whilst talking) Look you may have time for poking your bits about, but I don't, okay. I have some bloody fantastic verse to lay down onto this paper -
B: With a rather nice pen.
L: Yes, it's one of my new ones from Sun Life, I applied for a thousand insurance quotes and they sent me a thousand pens. Anyway this is a special book of poems that's going to Uri Geller.
L: No - a composition. You fool.
 |
| Empty bogroll. (Andy Brain) |
L: You might think that. I might think that. Uri as yet does not know he thinks that. Maybe in some crevice of his magical mindset -
B: So not a commission then.
L: Let's just say, when he receives my meisterwerk sheathed in an exquisite lavender envelope, he'll know he's dealing with a quality artist. Quality will out. Uri screams quality.
B: Can we have a taster?
L: No. Of course you can't. Now bugger off. How many times?
B: Okay. (Leans back out) We'll have to go through your bins then.
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