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Monday, 28 November 2011


This is another poem attributed to my creation Hamish Sheaney, possibly spoofing the rural notions of a poet with a similiar name.......

Between his purple lips, a piece of straw,
chewed and sucked, a mulch of tasty-tangs,
in his molars, remnants of a cabbage dinner,
green specks against his yellowed-enamel fangs.

His scrumpy-filmed tongue laps saliva,
ready for the next gob-spit on the dirt,
he aims for a dragonfly sunbathing
and zaps it with a hiss of deadly spurt.

His lunch is cheese and scallions in a bap,
strong pickles and a string of sausage links,
two jugs of rocket-fuel, four-star hooch
and an afternoon collapsed in forty-winks.

He rouses from his nap and yawns with gusto,
belching out a cloud of rancid breath,
all animals overpowered by halitosis
stagger round on the brink-edge-ledge of death.

Between his purple lips, a piece of straw
wilts from the rank aftershock of every breath he’ll draw.

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